From here, Court couldn’t tell if the man seemed at ease or not, but he was an oddity, and oddities bore watching.
There was a slight disturbance as Mellie changed direction to head toward the servant, and that was the confirmation Court needed. She locked her left elbow, the leather across her palm cushioning the bow grip as she tugged back on the bowstring, without lifting the weapon.
Nay, instead, she began to move around the edges of the room, keeping the servant in her view, looking for a clear shot. There were too many people in the way, and although she was taller than many of them, she couldn’t guarantee a shot.
And with the Queen’s life possibly in danger, she needed a guarantee.
The Queen!
Court sucked in a breath when she realized the truth; she didn’t need to keep the stranger in her aim; she needed the Queen.
If an attack was coming, it would be at Her Majesty, so Court just needed a clear shot at the dais and Elizabeth.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have it.
Changing directions, she moved back toward Ross Fraser, who was even now understanding the change in the room. Because her attention was on the servant, she sensed, more than saw, the one-time-bodyguard straighten away from the wall. The soft noise he made called his beast to attention, and they both stepped toward the crowd.
Was he intending to support the Fraser, or the Queen?
And then, she wasn’t thinking at all, because the servant—or the man masquerading as a servant—had burst into motion.
In one swift move, he upended his load of full cups into the laps of the three women Court had been studying earlier, then slammed one of the Frasers in the face with the tray. Amid the panicked shrieks, he drew a knife from his sleeve, twisted out of the reach of one of the guards, and lunged for the dais.
And Court knew she couldn’t stop him.
As soon as he’d begun his attack, the crowd had burst into motion; some trying to get away, and some trying to help. It meant whatever advantage a ranged weapon might’ve had, had been eliminated by the lack of clear shot.
She had mere moments to act, but knew she was useless.
Still, that didn’t keep her from raising her bow, tucking the nocked arrow against her ear even as she raced toward Ross, who was doing his best to clear a path toward the dais. She was tall, but he was larger, and it was smart to follow him.
Follow?
Nay, not follow.
“Ross!” she screamed, as she approached.
He twisted, his drawn sword narrowly missing a panicked servant who was fleeing the scene. The one-time-bodyguard’s eyes were tight with determination, but when he saw her running his way, heartbeats away, he understood.
He bent his legs to provide a perch, moments before one of Court’s booted feet landed above his knee. She launched herself, using him as a step, and he grabbed her around her waist, anchoring her in place, even as she loosed her arrow.
The smooth shaft caught the assassin in the side of his neck, and he went down a mere arm’s length from the now-standing queen.
Ross didn’t release her, but lowered his shoulder and used his bulk and his blade to charge toward the dais, even as Court tried in vain to pull another arrow from her quiver.
Still, by the time they reached the would-be assassin, the beast called Honor stood with its paws on either side of the man, one shoulder in its mouth as it shook the body and growled.
As Ross allowed her to slide to her own feet once more, Court shuddered. Not at Ross’s nearness, she told herself, but at the knowledge his fearsome beast could’ve easily torn her head off earlier, rather than simply drooling on her.
“Honor,” Ross snapped, “stand down.”
The dog was well-trained at least. With a final shake, the beast dropped the man to the floor.
There were others there, surely, but Court ignored them all as she dropped to her knees beside the assassin. She hadn’t missed; the fletching had broken off in the dog’s attack, but the shaft was embedded in the man’s neck, and blood was pumping out too fast to be staunched.
He would die soon, and they needed to know why. Who had sent him?
She rolled him over onto his back, and then Ross was there beside her. He was the one who reached for the man’s tunic and lifted him upright. The assassin’s head lolled to one side, and his eyes fluttered.
Was he breathing?
She hoped so, at least until she got the answers she needed.
“Who sent ye?” Court growled at him. “Who is yer master?”
The man ignored her. Instead, his waning attention focused on Ross, who was still holding him up. The assassin’s hand shook as he lifted it to his own throat, soaked in his life’s blood. It seemed a deliberate movement, and Court’s eyes narrowed as she watched for a threat.
Instead, the man blinked once. “Fraser,” he whispered, blood bubbling from his lips.
Fraser?
Was he acknowledging Ross, whom he’d locked eyes on?
Or was he answering her question about who’d sent him?
And then the assassin switched his weakening gaze to her. Knowing he had her attention, he blew out a wet breath and lifted his hand toward Ross’s chest.
Without looking at the other man again, the assassin pressed one bloody handprint to the center of Ross’s chest. The red mark was clear against the expanse of white linen.
A horrible certainty filled Court’s chest, even as she turned her attention back to the assassin. “Nay,” she choked. “No’ him.”
The man didn’t answer. With a weak shudder, the last of the man’s life and blood flowed from him, and Ross was soon holding naught more than a corpse.
The corpse of a would-be royal assassin, who’d just marked Ross with a sign from Court’s past.
Shite.
Chapter 2
Ross hadn’t had time to change his bloodstained clothes.
The Queen’s guard had cleared the throne room so quickly, and the regal woman had stepped off the dais and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“I am pleased to see you again, Ross Fraser, but not under these circumstances,” she’d said to him, with a fond nod following her words.
He’d only managed to scramble halfway to his feet—the proper way to address one’s monarch, after all—when Elizabeth had turned away. “To my solar. Now.”
And that was how Ross found himself standing with his back to the stone wall of the Queen’s more intimate solar, wondering if mayhap he should’ve stopped to remove the bloody shirt, and if mayhap the Queen’s order hadn’t applied to him.
But he’d been the one holding the body of the assassin, so he’d taken it upon himself to attend this impromptu meeting.
Sitting at her desk, the Queen appeared to be unruffled, but someone who’d spent hours at her side could see the tightness around her eyes, and also in the way she held her shoulders. On her right, stood Charlotte Bruce, the Queen’s long-time friend, and the one in command of her Angels, the women Queen Elizabeth trusted for top-secret missions.
Charlotte had once taken up pirating, and her attack on the Queen’s birlinn had been Ross’s introduction to the notorious Black Banner, whom he hoped to never have to meet again.
Now, Charlotte was ponderously pregnant, and held her stomach with one hand, while gesturing angrily to the Queen with the other, irritated by the lack of security.
“Where in damnation were yer guards, Elizabeth?” she thundered. “My Angels and—and the others are damn good at what we do, but ye need eyes on ye every moment.”
“Every moment?” The Queen’s regal brows rose sarcastically. “You expect me to be watched every moment?”
Charlotte glowered. “Ye ken my meaning. This morn’s meeting was an important one. Where were yer best guards?”
“Sleeping, I imagine. You would know better than I would, seeing as how Liam led them last night during the formal celebration.” Elizabeth’s English-cultured tone rang true to her upbringing by one of
the English King’s most powerful allies, and reminded everyone in the room she could be a formidable enemy.
Charlotte flushed and grumbled something under her breath, and for the first time, Ross realized he hadn’t seen Liam Bruce—Charlotte’s husband—or the others he’d once served with.
Finn, and the twins Tearlach and Murtaugh, would likely be part of Liam’s elite guard these days, wouldn’t they?
Not for the first time, Ross felt a twinge of regret for leaving when he had. They’d made a good team, the five of them, but his clan had needed him more. When Hamish had died suddenly, thrusting the ill-prepared third son of the traitorous Michael Fraser into the position of laird, Ross had seen it as his duty to return in order to guide his childhood friend through the transition.
Today, Lachlan Fraser was well-settled into his power and position, and Ross could begin to think about his own future once again.
If he asked, would the Queen allow him to return as her bodyguard?
Or had he lost that opportunity by putting his clan first?
On the Queen’s left, one of her Angels, the spies she sent off on strange missions she never spoke of, bent forward to whisper something to Elizabeth. Although their assignments were always given in private, he knew the Lady Rosalind by sight.
The golden-haired Angel on her other side was dressed as a whore, and the sight made Ross’s lips twitch ironically. Mellie Lamond was a lusty wench, to be sure—although he himself had never sampled her favors—and had likely thought the disguise a merry one.
But it was the third Angel in the room who kept drawing his eyes.
Courtney.
As far as he knew, she had no last name, but that hadn’t stopped him from flirting with her years before. Of course, she hadn’t flirted back—the woman was as serious as the day was long—but that only made winning a smile from her extra rewarding.
He’d never done it, even if he had won her to his bed one evening. They’d come together with a fiery intensity, which had kept him panting long after she’d collected her clothing and slipped out.
To this day, the memory of that one night—a night following an ale-infused celebration—kept his bollocks tight and wanting.
Too bad she wanted naught to do with him now, or ever again.
She stepped forward, one hand on her hip, and her other wrapped around her ever-present bow.
“She wasnae alone, Charlotte,” Courtney reminded them all.
“Aye!” The pregnant woman threw her hand into the air, as she turned her frown to the Angels. “And thank God ye arrived in time, Lady Ranged-Weapon.”
Court flushed at the nickname, but Ross couldn’t tell if it was from pride, or shame. The tall woman clenched her jaw and turned to the Queen. “She’s right, Yer Majesty. We only just made it, and had we no’—”
The Queen pressed her palms against the wood of the desk and cut Courtney off. “I understand, but I approved of the mission which took you out of the palace. What did you find out about the Fraser?”
The change of subject had Ross straightening away from the wall, although he thought he hid his surprised inhalation.
The Fraser?
The Angels had been investigating Lachlan?
Why?
It was the way Court’s eyes cut to him, her hesitation, which made it clear that Ross’s guess had been right. They had been investigating Lachlan!
But it was Mellie who cleared her throat. “The Grant warrior I spoke with confirmed yer suspicions, Yer Majesty.” Her gaze also flicked toward Ross, then back again. “The Fraser is following in his da’s footsteps.”
Frowning, the Queen steepled her fingers on the desk. “He supports Comyn’s claim?”
Mellie shrugged. “He is no’ loyal to ye.”
Ross knew he had no permission to speak; he hadn’t truly been invited, after all. But he could no more keep quiet than stop breathing.
“What’s this?” he growled, stepping forward. “Lachlan Fraser is a good man, a loyal one.”
Honor, sensitive to his master’s moods, even if he didn’t understand them, moved to stand beside him, his hackles raised as he searched for the danger.
Queen Elizabeth stared at Ross for a long moment, as if assessing his claim, then turned to Charlotte with a raised brow.
The pregnant woman shrugged. “Report.”
It was Court who spoke, telling of an investigation which took them to a tavern in Aboyne, to meet with a Grant warrior, who claimed to know about the new Fraser laird’s loyalties.
There, thanks to Mellie’s flirting—and more—the Grant told them Lachlan was following his father’s path of treachery and treason.
As she spoke, Ross felt his blood heating, and forced himself to breathe deeply.
Nay, nay! This wasn’t true. The Grant was lying.
He shook his head, knowing Lachlan was a good man, who was doing his best to keep his clan together, despite the mess the last two lairds had left it in.
Despite the fact he had never intended on becoming the laird.
Despite the fact he’d had no one to turn to for help, with his advisors all being relics of his father’s rule.
Had one of them championed this route?
Treason?
“Ye disagree, Ross?”
The Queen’s sharp tone cut through his whirling thoughts. He swallowed, not sure what to say.
Or if he even should say anything at all.
But Elizabeth was watching him, and he slowly shook his head. “Ye ken I left here to support Lachlan’s transition to lairdship, and he is a good man. I’ve heard naught to hint he is anything other than I ken him to be.”
Court blew out a noise of frustration and turned away. The Queen said naught, and just as Lady Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, the door burst open.
“Char!” The man who strode through wore the Bruce tartan, and Ross noticed there were a few gray hairs at his temples. “Why in damnation did ye no’ wake me? Yer Majesty.” The clipped acknowledgment was accompanied by a brief nod, before Liam Bruce wheeled on his wife once more. “Ye shouldnae be—”
“I shouldnae be commanded about, husband, nae matter my condition.”
“Ye’re pregnant, for God’s sake, woman!”
“Aye, and more than a few women have been pregnant in their lives and still managed to get things done!”
Liam threw his hands up in frustration and turned to the Queen, whose slight smile appeared nigh doting.
She raised a brow at the man who’d led her guard for many years. “You will get no support from me, cousin. I agree that a woman’s duty to her liege and her husband can co-exist.”
“I’ll no’ have her putting the babe in danger—”
“Oh, come off it, Liam.” Charlotte stepped up beside the irate man and laid her head on his shoulder, even as they wrapped their arms around one another. “My Angels took care of the danger, and neither Elizabeth nor I were harmed.”
Liam Bruce grumbled slightly, but placed a kiss on the top of his wife’s head. “And the babe?” he asked, in a teasing tone when he straightened.
“She’s aright. Strong and healthy and anxious to find out just what the hell happened today.”
With a nod, both husband and wife turned to Court, waiting her insights. It was then Liam noticed Ross standing in the middle of room.
“By the Devil! ‘Tis good to see ye, Ross!” He strode forward and offered his hand.
Ross grasped it in the old way, and for the first time in too long, felt rooted. Sure of one thing at least: Liam Bruce still considered him a friend.
“ ’Tis good to be back, Liam,” he confessed, “but I arrived at an inopportune time, I believe.”
He remembered the feeling of dread when he saw Honor knock the woman over, but when she’d come up with a knife, he’d known immediately who she was. There was only one woman who’d come up fighting like that, and he had been pleased to see her again.
As a matter of fact, and to his utmost surpr
ise, it was Court herself who defended him.
“Nay,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “ ’Twas most opportune.” She turned to Charlotte and quickly recounted the events which occurred in the throne room. She finished by saying, “If Ross hadnae been there to lift me, there was nae way to take the shot.”
Lift her?
That’s all she remembered of those brief heartbeats?
Ross remembered more.
He remembered the determination in her face as she rushed toward him, his name on her lips, and each of her steps deliberate. He remembered the way he’d known what she was about, and how he’d braced himself just right for her to use his height and her strength to catapult herself into the air. He remembered thinking he should hold her upright in case she needed another shot.
He remembered the feel of her chest pressed against his forehead, his face buried in the stomach of that drab gown. He remembered breathing in her scent; one heartbeat, two.
He remembered how perfectly they fit, how perfectly they worked together.
Lift her?
When Liam turned back to him, Ross shrugged. “Aye. I lifted her.”
‘Twas more than that, but if Court didn’t remember it that way, he wouldn’t admit he did either.
Liam grunted in approval and slapped his back. “Good man. Without yer quick thinking, the arrow wouldnae have stopped the assassin.”
“Aye, and who sent the assassin?” Rosalind asked. “What did he say?”
Court cleared her throat. “I asked him who sent him. He—” Her eyes darted to Ross’s once, then away. “He said only ‘Fraser.’ ”
Ross was about to defend his laird again, when Mellie did it for him, shaking her head. “He might’ve said that just because he recognized Ross. The man was looking at him when he said it, aye?”
Court nodded, albeit reluctantly.
Her willingness to condemn his laird, and the fear she might in some way be right, had Ross speaking up. “And what about that little exchange? Before he died, the man looked to ye.”
The Highlander’s Angel Page 3