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

by Caroline Lee

  He sank to his knees, hearing Mellie scream his name, and knowing he’d failed her.

  The stranger—the man she’d once threatened with a knife to his throat, the man who’d admitted to searching for Courtney—had cut down the last of the bandits.

  Had one of them really called him Cam?

  Was it possible this was the man Court considered a brother?

  Mayhap there’d be a time when Mellie could ask him, could think about asking him, but not now. Not now, as she watched Lachlan’s knees give out, then his body crumble to the cobblestones.

  She screamed his name and dove toward him, desperate to catch him.

  They ended up slumped together in the center of the square, their blades embedded in enemy bodies, and blood and gore all around them. His upper body was sprawled across hers, his head on her shoulder.

  “Lachlan?” Her voice quavered as she shook him. “Lachlan!”

  Blessed Mother of Christ, let him be safe!

  There was so much blood, and Mellie could barely breathe as she did her best to turn him over in her arms so she could examine his wound.

  Then the stranger—Cam?—was there, helping her.

  “No’ so mighty now, eh?” he muttered, his hands strong—but gentle—as he lifted and turned Lachlan, resting him back in her arms. “To think someone like ye could damn near break my jaw.”

  Dimly, through her devastation, Mellie wondered if he was looking for an apology, but the man simply sat back on his heels and exhaled.

  “Och,” he tsked softly, shaking his head as he prodded at Lachlan’s shoulder. “We should get ye to a healer.”

  “I’ll be…aright,” came Lachlan’s labored response.

  He was weak and hurt and had just gone through hell for her, but the sound of his voice was so sweet to hear, Mellie’s breath burst out in a relieved sob. “Thank the saints!”

  The stranger sank back on his heels. “Ye’re a stubborn one, aye?” He still wore the leather trewes and green tunic she’d seen him in all those weeks ago, but now it was blood-spattered. Blood-splatters he’d gained when he’d come to their rescue.

  Mellie shook her head, sucking in great gulps of air, as she tried to calm herself. “He will be aright, aye. We owe ye thanks, stranger.”

  The man was still staring down at Lachlan, a frown on his face. “He’ll still need a healer.”

  “I’m taking him to the palace, to the Queen’s healer.” Mellie lifted her head, searching for someone—anyone!—who could help her carry him. “The guards will be here soon enough, I ken it.”

  The palace was a stone’s throw away, after all, and they must’ve heard the fight.

  “The Queen’s healer?” The blond man finally met her eyes, one brow raised doubtfully. “For a Fraser?”

  He knew of the Crown’s recent doubt of the Frasers’ loyalty? Mellie found herself bristling, ready to defend the man she loved, but she needn’t have bothered.

  “No’ a Fraser, man,” Lachlan growled, and when she glanced down at him, he was glaring at the stranger with a fierce curiosity. “The Fraser.”

  If he’d expected humbling, Lachlan would’ve been surprised.

  Instead of apologizing for defaming a Highland laird, for insinuating he wasn’t worth the Queen’s regard, the blond man went white. Went white, then scrambled to his feet.

  “Ye’re Lachlan Fraser?” he rasped, staring down at them.

  Before Lachlan could speak, Mellie tightened her hold on him. “Aye, and what of it? Ye’ve earned a powerful ally today.”

  “Lachlan Fraser…?” the man repeated in a mumble, his gray eyes still wide, as he shook his head and stumbled backward. “I cannae… I have t’…”

  And then, without another word, he turned and fled.

  “What in damnation?” Lachlan muttered.

  But Mellie pushed all thoughts of their unlikely savior and his odd behavior from her mind and focused on the man in her arms.

  “It matters no’, my love!”

  She shifted her grip, until Lachlan was looking up at her. In the distance, she could hear the shouts of the guards and knew help had finally arrived. Smiling, she tried to ignore the tears freely flowing from her eyes.

  “It matters no’, because I will get ye to the healer, Lachlan. Ye cannae die on me.”

  Even in his weakened state, Lachlan scoffed, his hand finding her hip. “I willnae die, Mellie. No’ now, no’ when I’ve found ye again. Why did ye run?”

  Her breath burst out of her on a happy sob. “I love ye, Lachlan Fraser, and I’ll explain everything, I swear it.”

  “Ye love me?”

  His voice was sounding weaker, and she tightened her hold on him, willing the guards to arrive faster, so she could get him to the Queen’s healer.

  “I do! I love ye, Lachlan, and I will keep nae more secrets from ye.”

  “ ’Tis a nice vow,” he whispered, his eyes closing, “for I love ye, and I’m dearly tired of no’ kenning what the hell is going on.”

  I love ye.

  She was smiling when she lowered her lips to his, her tears splashing against his cheeks.

  But he didn’t respond, and she knew the vow might’ve come too late.

  Chapter 13

  He woke to see Mellie’s anxious face hovering over him, and Lachlan didn’t think he’d ever seen a more beautiful sight.

  “Hello, love,” he murmured. “Have ye called a healer?”

  His shoulder felt as if it was on fire.

  Her worried expression eased into a soft smile as she sank down beside him.

  Was he on a bed?

  Lachlan glanced around, and realized the reason the surroundings looked vaguely familiar, was because he was back in his old chambers in the palace, the one he’d been assigned on his last trip.

  “The healer has come and gone, my love,” Mellie said in a soft voice, her hand resting on his upper arm. “He stitched ye up easily and says ye’re to rest.”

  Twisting his neck on the pillows, Lachlan followed her gaze to the thick bandage wrapped around his shoulder, then across his chest.

  Frowning slightly, he repeated, “Come and gone?” as he flexed his arm, ignoring the burn from under the bandage, in light of the knowledge his muscles still worked.

  “Aye,” she said impishly, and when he looked back up at her, a wry grin tugged at her lips. “Ye fainted, then slept through the healer’s work.”

  Fainted?

  With a growl, Lachlan flexed his injured arm and snagged her around her middle, pulling her atop him. Her fingers splayed across his chest as she landed, and he wasted no time in lifting his chin just enough to give her a hard and fast kiss.

  When he dropped his head to the pillows once more, he glared at her. “If ye tell anyone I fainted, ye’ll get much worse from me, lass.”

  With a smirk, she patted his bare chest. “I think I’ll take my chances, milord.”

  Chances.

  Why did that word cause a sudden tightening in his chest?

  What was he afraid of…?

  “Gillepatric!” Tightening his hold on her, he bolted upright.

  His advisor had paid to have Mellie killed! As long as the man was still free, Mellie was in danger, and he couldn’t take that chance.

  Against his chest, Mellie exhaled. “He’s dead, Lachlan.”

  What?

  Lachlan relaxed his hold just enough, so she was able to push away and look into his eyes, her palm still splayed across his bare skin.

  “I donae ken the details, but Gillepatric is dead. When the guards brought ye here, Court met me, and I told her about the threat yer advisor posed. She returned while the healer was working on ye to tell me Gillepatric had been stabbed in his chambers. He was lying across his bed.”

  Lachlan tried to make sense of her explanation. “Yer friend killed him for ye?”

  And why didn’t that shock him?

  Was it because he was getting used to Mellie’s surprises?

  Shaking her
head, Mellie pushed away and sat up, then began rummaging around for something on the bedside table. “Nay. She prefers her bow. Court said his clothing was askew, as if he had been in the middle of an…an assignation, if ye will, and a long dagger was planted into his heart. Court and the guards are searching for his killer now.”

  Lachlan frowned and allowed himself to fall back against the pillows once more.

  Gillepatric was dead, paying for his sins…but who had killed him?

  And why?

  To protect Mellie?

  Or for a more sinister reason?

  “Why would he have paid to have ye killed?” Lachlan muttered to Mellie’s back, as she walked to the other side of the room, then disappearing into a small alcove. “That cutpurse said ye were the one they’d been given a purse to see dead.”

  The thought of what might’ve happened had he not gotten there in time still made him shudder.

  He forced himself to consider all the possible theories he could think of. “Could it be something as simple as Gillepatric didnae approve of my marriage? Or did he no’ want me to marry at all? And by all the saints in Heaven, who killed him?”

  Mellie distracted him from his musings when she moved back into his line of sight, holding a damp cloth and a bowl. Her smile seemed…hesitant almost, as she leaned forward once more and began to wipe his uninjured shoulder and arm.

  “I cannae answer these questions, Lachlan. But if we ever find our mysterious savior again, we might be able to ask him.”

  He frowned as he watched her clean the dust of the road from his skin, rinsing the cloth from the bowl of cool water she’d placed on the table beside him. “It sounded as if he didnae ken what—”

  When she reached for his neck, he jerked out of the way.

  Why in damnation did bathing matter now?

  “What are ye doing, lass?”

  She didn’t meet his eyes, but kept them on her hand as she dragged the cool cloth over his forehead and hairline. “Ye’re filthy—we’re both filthy—and the Queen will be here to see ye soon.”

  He pushed her hand away and struggled upright once more. “The Queen? By His Wounds, why would the Queen of bloody Scotland visit me, when I’m looking like this?” He gestured dismissively to his wounded shoulder. “What is going on here, Mellie?”

  Taking a deep breath, Mellie stared down at the wet cloth in her hands. “I have a secret, Lachlan. I promised I’d tell ye the truth.”

  Irritated now, Lachlan snatched the cloth from her hands.

  “Aye,” he snapped. “Ye also told me ye loved me. Should I doubt that?”

  “Never!” Her blue gaze was frantic when she twisted to meet his eyes, her hand reaching for him, almost pleadingly. “Never, Lachlan. I love ye, I do. I swear it. I love ye the way I never thought I could love—“

  “Aye,” he interrupted with a sigh, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. “And I love ye, Melisandre. I’ll make ye a deal; I’ll wash myself, if ye tell me what I need to ken.”

  Her eyes jumped between his, her gaze unsure, as if testing for his honesty.

  When he winked, she sighed and looked away, but not before he saw the corner of her lips pull up in a slight smile.

  “Verra well,” she said softly, standing again.

  Her back was to him, and she seemed to be staring down at her hands.

  “I told ye… I told ye the Queen gave me a place by her side, after my family wanted naught to do with me.”

  He remembered her tale, the way both her betrothed and her family had made her feel worthless after she lost her bairn, and his fingers squeezed into a fist, causing the cloth to drip water across his lap.

  Shaking his head, he forced himself to scrub at the days’ worth of road dust which clung to him and focus on her story.

  Mellie began to pace, and when he looked up, he saw she was chewing on one fingernail, in that adorable unsure way of hers.

  “What I didnae tell ye, couldnae tell ye…and mayhap shouldnae even now, although I love ye, and will damn the consequences, nae matter what—”

  “Mellie?” he interrupted, hoping to get her back on track, especially if he had a royal visit to prepare for.

  With a sigh, she turned to him, the shorter skirts of her traveling gown whirling around her, revealing boots beneath it.

  “I am no’ just the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, Lachlan. I am one of her Angels, one of her agents. The three of us—Court, Rosa and I—we are no’ just her eyes and ears, but her…problem solvers. The missions we undertake are to protect the Crown.”

  Missions?

  Lachlan paused, holding the cloth against the back of his neck and raising a brow at her. Missions sounded as if it entailed danger.

  Did that mayhap explain the arrow wound in her shoulder, and the other scars he’d seen on her body back at An Torr?

  He slowly began to clean his skin again, trying for nonchalance, when he asked, “What do ye do on these missions?”

  She shrugged, then lifted her arm to cup the opposite elbow, so she looked as if she were hugging herself. “Courtney was raised by the Red Hand, and I believe the man who rescued us might be the same man she considered a brother. He taught her how to use a bow, how to survive in the wild, so with all that knowledge, it made sense she be our leader.”

  “When we met in the alleyway, that man told me he was looking for her, did he no’?”

  Nodding, Mellie turned back to the window. “Aye, and I donae ken what she will do when I tell her of my suspicions. Rosa now…” She gave a little shake of her head. “Rosalind is a true lady, and more brilliant than anyone I’ve ever kenned. She reads four languages and can recall most everything she hears. She’s the Queen’s confidante, the one who can put it all together, when most of us donae see the pattern.”

  Slowly, Lachlan sat up and placed the cloth back in the bowl, deciding he was clean enough. His skin prickled as the air dried it, but he frowned thoughtfully at the woman he loved. She’d listed her teammate’s skills so far, but not her own.

  “And ye, Mellie?” he asked quietly.

  Her shoulders stiffened, but she did not turn.

  “I… I am the whore,” she whispered, though she lifted her chin, as if daring him to disapprove. “ ’Tis my job to seduce men, to get the information Rosa needs to understand the plots. I am good at—”

  With a growl, Lachlan grabbed the coverlet from his legs and threw it off, swinging his legs off the bed as soon as they were free. “Do no’ ever—”

  In a blink she was beside him, her hands on his shoulders, holding him down on the bed. “Ye cannae walk about yet, Lachlan. Ye’ll tear the stitches, and the Queen will be angry.”

  “And ye cannae expect me to sit here, while someone insults the woman I love!” Reaching up, he grabbed her hand from his injured shoulder and pressed his lips to her palm. “Ye are nae whore, Mellie.”

  She tried to tug her hand away, but he wouldn’t let it go. With a sigh, she gave up.

  “I was, Lachlan,” she whispered, staring into his eyes. “ ’Twas my job, what I was good at.”

  “Nay. Ye were—ye are—good with people, Mellie. Ye understand what motivates them, what they need, what they want. With some men, ye kenned what they wanted was ye.” And he refused to allow himself to be jealous over that, although the idea of her doubting her worth made him furious.

  Her past would not affect their future, he vowed.

  “But ‘tisnae just men, Mellie. I’ve seen ye with the servants, with my clan, with my daughter. With me. Ye care about others. That is yer talent. Ye care, and ye try to help, and ye give them what they want and need.”

  During his impassioned speech, her eyes had grown wider. Finally, she sank to the bed beside him, as if her knees had given out.

  “Do ye—ye really think that?” she asked him, her whisper full of hesitation.

  He pressed another kiss on her palm. “I ken it. ‘Tis the reason I love ye, Mellie, and I fell in love with ye without yer body being inv
olved. Although…” He had to be honest, so he admitted with a smirk, “ye have a verra fine body indeed.”

  Her tsk sounded irritated at his joke, but he saw the blush crawling up her cheeks, and smiled when she did.

  But she snatched the cloth and bowl from the table beside him as she stood, reminding him there was limited time to learn the truth before the Queen arrived.

  “Her Majesty betrothed me to ye, no’ to secure yer loyalty, as she told ye, but to give me an excuse to investigate ye,” Mellie confessed, crossing to a chest on the other side of the room and placing the bowl down. As he watched, she rinsed the cloth out a few times. “ ’Twas my job to determine if ye were behind the assassination attempt.”

  His feet were planted on the floor, his arse still on the bed, but he didn’t think he could move as he watched her make short work of unlacing the blue kirtle and slipping it off her shoulders.

  “Even ye suspected me of something so horrible?” he managed to grind out. He wasn’t surprised—there’d been much whispering and distrust in those days following the attack—but it still rankled.

  “Aye,” she said simply, meeting his eyes as she pulled her braid over one shoulder and reached for the wet cloth. “The assassin called out the name Fraser when he was asked who’d sent him, although Rosa argues he was only acknowledging yer kinsman, Ross, who was present. And the Grants we’d been sent to waylay the night before had all claimed ye—as the new laird—followed in yer father’s footsteps as a traitor to the Crown.”

  Lachlan was having trouble following her words as she dragged the wet cloth down her neck and across her shoulder. His eyes eagerly followed her hand as she tugged the shoulder of her leine out of the way and began to scrub the dark hollow between her breasts. She must’ve been as road-weary and dirty as he was, but all he wanted to do was pull her back into bed and follow the path of that cloth with his lips.

  Focus, lad!

  “Grants?” he repeated. Then he frowned, forcing his attention back on her words, and not the way she touched herself as she bathed. “The Grants have been our allies. Why would they claim that?”