The Laird's Angel: a medieval fake engagement romance (The Highland Angels Book 2)

by Caroline Lee

  Thankfully, Mellie hadn’t appeared to notice.

  “Do ye need me?” she asked again.

  Offering a little bow, Owen smiled at her. “Need ye, gentle lady? My laird is positively desperate for ye.”

  “Go away, Owen,” Lachlan growled.

  His best friend sent a little smirk his way, before waving to them both on his way out the door. When Mellie turned back to the desk, one brow raised in question, Lachlan thrust out the scroll.

  “Here,” he blurted. “This came for ye.”

  Was it his imagination, or did she hesitate before she stepped forward?

  “Ye didnae open it?”

  When she reached for the letter, Lachlan’s fingers instinctively closed around it, forcing her to tug and meet his gaze.

  “Should I have?” he asked in a low voice.

  She swallowed, and he was distracted by the slight flush which rose up her cheeks.

  “Nay. ‘Tis likely only news from the royal court. May I?”

  Her answer was somehow too perfect.

  He released the letter and watched as she opened and scanned it. It shouldn’t surprise him someone as intelligent as Mellie could read, but he was surprised by the surge of pride he felt when he realized his wife would be so accomplished.

  If she did become his wife.

  As she read, one of her hands crept upward, until her fingernail was lodged firmly between her teeth. It was an odd, endearing little habit he’d noticed when she was uncomfortable.

  What was she uneasy about now?

  But despite her nail-biting, she lifted her gaze to his with a tight smile and passed the letter to him. “See? Naught but gossip from a good friend.”

  With a carefully neutral expression, Lachlan took the letter and read it.

  My dearest friend,

  We miss you here at Scone, but trust you are well. Without any word from you yet, we of course assume the worst, despite knowing you are likely safe. We ladies have so many faults, do we not? Perhaps the worst is our tendency to worry over those angels in our lives.

  Courtney and Ross have returned safe, their journey successful. Ross has decided to remain here, as I believe the two of them have reached an understanding. I know you will join me in rolling your eyes at how long it took them to realize their love.

  Our dear Charlotte has been delivered of a baby boy, only a few days after Courtney’s return. You will note, of course, that my counting calculations were correct. Her Majesty insisted on being present, and the two princesses have left off cooing over Alex, to fuss over wee Roger. The bairn is as fierce a warrior as his father, and is blessed with his mother’s looks. We hope to see you soon, so you can meet him.

  I have more news to share, but it can wait until warmer times.

  Anxiously awaiting news of An Torr.

  Your very closest friend,

  Lady Rosalind

  Lachlan was frowning by the time he finished reading, then went back and re-read it. Such a simple missive, but the parchment it was printed on was longer, as if this Rosalind had intended to write more, but had run out of things to say.

  What had she meant, when referring to warmer times?

  It was high summer already; how much warmer did she expect it to get?

  The point of the letter seemed to just be giving Mellie grief for not writing sooner. Well, that could be arranged.

  He handed the letter back across the desk. “Would ye like some parchment to reply?”

  “Thank ye,” she replied, in a strangely subdued voice and avoiding looking at him as she rolled her friend’s letter, “but I brought my own.”

  “The Ross in the letter. Fraser? My friend, who used to guard the Queen?”

  Mellie’s gaze flicked up to meet his just briefly, then away as she stepped backward. “A—aye. Mayhap ‘twas why ye did no’ see him afore we left for An Torr?”

  “Where did he go with this Courtney?” The letter had been vague on that point, clearly referencing something Mellie already knew. “What was the point of their journey?”

  “I donae ken, milord,” she said, almost to the door. “If ye don’ mind, I’d like to re-read it afore composing my reply?”

  Why in damnation was she acting so nervous around him?

  He nodded gruffly, his thoughts on the letter. “Aye. And I’ll have a messenger deliver it, if ye’d like?”

  “Mayhap.” She offered him a curtsey, which appeared nervous and far too formal. “Excuse me, milord,” she said, then darted out of the room.

  Lachlan sank back into his chair.

  By all the saints in Heaven!

  What just happened?

  As Mellie hurried to the chambers she’d been given, she clutched Rosa’s letter in her fist. It was only when she reached her door, she realized she’d crushed the poor parchment in order to control the shaking of her hand.

  Damnation. That willnae be good for the message.

  Not the message Lachlan just read. The other one.

  Because as innocuous as Rosa’s letter appeared, Mellie couldn’t escape what her friend was actually telling her: Report.

  The comment about worrying over an angel was a clear rebuke for not sending her report sooner. Rosa—especially now that Charlotte was abed—was likely going near-mad with concern over what Mellie had found at An Torr.

  Trying to force herself to breathe normally, she darted into her room and stepped over to the open window.

  Bon Dieu, why had this letter affected her so deeply?

  Because she wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Could she respond?

  Or did she need to return to Scone, to explain her feelings and failings?

  “Milady?”

  Mellie turned to see Brigit pushing the door closed behind her.

  The younger woman seemed unusually serious. “Ye’ve had word from Scone? May I read yer letter?”

  Frowning slightly, Mellie held the parchment out, pleased her hands were no longer shaking.

  Brigit could read?

  There was apparently quite a lot about her new maid Mellie didn’t know.

  Brigit’s lips moved as she read, and when she was finished, she looked up with a grin. “Saints be praised Lady Charlotte is well! And Court and Ross have finally discovered their feelings for one another!”

  Despite her intentions to remain focused, Mellie’s brow went up.

  Not only did her maid read, but she knew about Court and Ross’s pasts?

  Well, Brigit was excellent at collecting gossip, was she not?

  “Aye,” Mellie finally agreed, carefully choosing her words. “I believe Ross wasn’t considered an ideal mate previously, but if he’s been accepted as the Queen’s guard once again, he must have passed Court’s test.”

  It was a delicate way of hinting that Ross Fraser had been a prime suspect in the Queen’s assassination attempt.

  As was his former laird, Lachlan.

  Her maid hummed thoughtfully, then handed the parchment back to Mellie. “So ye’ll be needing yer writing implements, milady? To respond?”

  She did, but first…

  Holding the letter in front of her, Mellie lifted her other hand to her lips and chewed on a nail.

  There was more to the letter, she was sure of it.

  More news to share, but it can wait until warmer times.

  Warmer times.

  It was Rosa’s way of hinting at how to reveal her secret message, the one she didn’t want falling into Fraser hands.

  When Brigit leaned over her shoulder, Mellie started and whirled. Her maid was looking down at the parchment, particularly the empty space at the bottom, and clucked her tongue.

  “Lady Rosalind must’ve kenned ye wouldnae have easy access to oak galls.”

  It was so similar to Mellie’s line of thought, she jerked her head up, piercing her maid with a suspicious stare. “What?”

  Brigit reached over Mellie’s arm and tapped the empty space with her fingernail. “Oak galls, to activate th
e vitriol. I ken Lady Rosalind is brilliant, but even she couldnae expect ye to have it on hand here in An Torr.”

  Mellie could only blink incredulously.

  The younger woman was correct; one of Rosa’s favorite ways of sending secret messages was to dissolve vitriol in water and write using that clear formula. The receiver could soak a sponge in water and oak galls, wipe it over the message, and create a primitive sort of ink.

  But here at An Torr, Mellie couldn’t just ask for oak galls, not without raising suspicion, and Rosa would’ve known that. Which left—

  “Milk,” Brigit said, then glanced up at Mellie and nodded knowingly. “I’ll get a candle. ‘Tis what she meant by warmer times, aye?”

  Mellie could do little more than nod mutely.

  Sainte Vierge!

  Just who was this little maid of hers?

  Brigit scurried back over, a hand cupped around the lit taper in her hand. Carefully, she placed it on the table, then stepped back, looking between it and the parchment in Mellie’s hand with excitement.

  Mellie’s stomach knotted with more indecision.

  The younger woman was right again; Rosa had likely written her message in raw milk, which, when activated by a hot flame, charred a darker shade and allowed the words to be read. It was a simple method, but almost foolproof.

  Apparently, even palace maids knew of it.

  Mellie lifted her chin, and said imperiously, “Ye are dismissed, Brigit.”

  But rather than be offended, the younger woman nodded cheekily. “I’ll give ye a few minutes privacy. Better burn it when ye’re done,” she offered on her way out, as if Mellie wouldn’t have done that anyhow.

  How in the name of all the saints did Brigit know so much of the ways of the Queen’s Angels?

  Mellie shook her head, dismissing her questions as unanswerable as soon as the door closed behind Brigit.

  She had work to do.

  With shaking hands, she held the parchment near the flame, terrified of getting too close. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm, then tried again.

  The trick was to focus on one patch of the parchment at a time, holding it above, but not too close to the heat. Slowly, the flame revealed letters, then full words began to emerge.

  C + R killed RH leader—Andrew Fraser.

  Says Fs are behind attempt, still supporting the Comyns for crown.

  L is guilty.

  Get out of there.

  Mellie had to swallow down the bile, which threatened to creep up her throat, and force herself to focus on her task. The letter written in invisible ink—now revealed—would damn her as a spy at An Torr.

  She couldn’t allow herself to react to her friend’s report until the evidence was destroyed. The flames licked too close to the parchment, and she allowed it, waiting for one corner to catch and spread.

  Only when she had to drop it to the table to finish burning, only when the whole horrible letter had been consumed and turned to ash, only when she brushed those ashes out the window…only then did she allow herself to sink into the window seat and process what Rosa had written.

  Court and Ross killed the Red Hand leader.

  Andrew Fraser?

  Lachlan’s uncle—the one who’d disappeared so long ago, when he’d gone searching for his youngest nephew—had been named Andrew. But no one at An Torr had heard from him in years, according to Brigit’s gossip, and what Lachlan had said that first night.

  How could the Frasers be behind the assassination—according to Rosa—if Lachlan had no contact with that uncle?

  Or was Lachlan just a very, very good liar?

  Nay! He’s a good man!

  And a good man would not collaborate with traitors.

  He was not guilty, no matter what Rosa and the Angels believed.

  And there was no way she could explain that in a report.

  “Are ye done yet?”

  Mellie jumped and twisted toward the door. Brigit’s head poked around the frame, a cheeky grin in place. As she saw her mistress scowling at her, she straightened and stepped into the room, holding a small jug.

  “I thought ye might like to reply in kind.” She held up the jug and waggled it as she crossed the room. “So I popped down to the kitchens and told them ye had a hankering for milk.”

  Bon Dieu, just who was this maid of hers?

  Mellie shook her head, knowing the mystery of Brigit’s sudden understanding of espionage would have to wait.

  One problem at a time.

  “I’ll no’ be replying.”

  Brigit stopped short, her brows nearly flying to her hairline. “No’? I can find a messenger for ye, if secrecy’s what concerns ye. ‘Tis why I was sent along with ye, after all.”

  Sent along?

  Mellie shook her head. “I cannae reply by letter. I’m going back to Scone to report in person. Ye’ll have to follow later with the luggage.”

  The little maid placed the jug on the table, one hand on her hip, and cocked her head as she studied Mellie. “Why? What do ye need to say, which cannae be said in a letter?”

  Mellie lifted her chin, sure she was doing the right thing, but also unwilling to share too much of her mission with the maid, no matter how much the younger woman seemed to know. “The Queen believes certain things about Lachlan. I must answer those suspicions.”

  “Ye think he is a good man?”

  The maid’s question, so close to Mellie’s own thoughts, was a surprise. Instinctively, she nodded. “I do.”

  The younger woman pursed her lips. “I don’ pretend to ken yer history, or why ye were sent here, and I didnae ken ye well at court, but even I can see how happy ye are. How happy ye are with him. Ye’d give that up—give up yer happiness—for the Queen?”

  Mellie swallowed, feeling tears pricking at the back on her eyes. Years ago, when her own family had shunned her after the broken betrothal, Elizabeth had saved her by giving her a place to live and a purpose.

  Mellie would sacrifice anything—her future, her happiness—for the Queen.

  “I would,” she answered hoarsely. “Besides—”

  Her breath caught on an unexpected sob, and she shook her head, trying in vain to keep two fat tears from sliding from the corners of each eye.

  “Besides,” she managed to continue, “once he finds out who I am, he’ll ken I betrayed him.”

  She would just be one more woman who chose another over him.

  Brigit was silent for a long while, then took a deep breath. “Do ye love him?”

  “I do.”

  The words were out of Mellie’s lips before she even thought about it, but she knew it was true. The shock of that truth left her gasping, and her tears halting, as her eyes widened.

  “I do love him,” she whispered again in astonishment. “Mon Dieu, I love him!”

  Her maid hummed thoughtfully, then shrugged.

  “Well,” she said with a sigh, “that makes things more difficult, does it no’?”

  Mellie just shook her head, too astonished to reply.

  Somewhere over the last fortnight, in between seeing Lachlan lead his clan, love his daughter, and treat her with respect, Mellie had fallen in love with him.

  Dieu l’aide, but she loved Lachlan.

  What she was about to do might hurt him, might betray him, but she’d willingly give up a chance at future happiness if it saved his life.

  The Crown had to know he was innocent, and she’d sacrifice her chance at love for that.

  But she wouldn’t leave without showing him how much he’d come to mean to her.

  She lifted her chin once more, straightening her shoulders and meeting Brigit’s gaze. “Ready a bath for me. Have supper sent up here for both of us. We’re going to pack, as I will be leaving before dawn.”

  Brigit curtsied and grinned. “And the bath, milady?”

  Mellie took a deep breath and stood. “Tonight, I’m going to him.”

  Chapter 10

  The moon was rising
over the mountains.

  Lachlan lay in bed, his hands stacked behind his head, and gazed through the closer of the two sets of windows in the laird’s chambers. He’d never cared for this room when it had belonged to his parents, then his brother…but he had to admit the view was stunning.

  When he’d become laird, he’d been nigh overwhelmed with his new responsibilities, which was one of the reasons he’d requested his friend and kinsman, Ross, to return from Scone to aid him. Between Ross and Owen’s support—as well as the trick of listening to Gillepatric and doing the exact opposite of whatever the man recommended—Lachlan had not only preserved his clan’s future, but had gained their respect and love.

  He told himself that was enough.

  But more and more lately, visions of blue eyes teased him, promising him more.

  He was betrothed to the woman, but he doubted he really knew her yet.

  The soft knock at his door startled him, but wasn’t altogether unexpected. He glanced down at himself to make sure he was completely covered, knowing sometimes if Simone couldn’t sleep, she’d sneak out of the nursery and seek him out. He’d be damned if he was going to start wearing braies to sleep, so he always made sure his manly bits were tucked in.

  “Come in, sweetheart,” he called, wondering if she’d had a bad dream.

  But when the door opened, it wasn’t his daughter who stepped inside.

  Slowly, Lachlan sat up, the coverlet falling away from his chest.

  “Mellie?” he choked out in surprise.

  In the light from the candle she held, he could see her wide lips lift in a teasing grin. “Ye mean, ye didnae expect me? Ye were hoping for another ‘sweetheart’ then?”

  As she lifted the hem of her robe and kicked the door shut behind her, Lachlan shook his head. “I— I thought ye were Simone. What are ye doing here?”

  In response, she lifted the candle away from her body, allowing him to see more of her. Her golden hair had recently been washed and fell in curls around her shoulders. Her skin seemed to gleam, and her curves were…

  Well, her curves were barely contained in a silk robe, which looked as if it had been spun from moonbeams. It shimmered silver in the light coming through the window, and made the rest of her look as if she were some kind of fairy princess.