Unbidden, a thought rose from a place deep within her heart: What would he think if he saw me as I truly am?
Nay. Nay, she wouldn’t allow that.
Couldn’t allow that.
She was an Angel, and he was her assignment.
She would not fail.
* * *
Three days. Three long, godforsaken days.
He and his men could’ve left Scone and been back at An Torr in half this time, but because of that blasted coach and wagon his betrothed required to drag her ungodly amount of fripperies, they were taking forever to return home.
The stops at the inns were bad enough—where Melisandre and her lady’s maid sequestered themselves in their room without speaking to anyone—but the travel in between was tortuously slow.
At this rate, it will take a full sennight to reach Simone.
But on the fourth day of travel, Lachlan finally felt some of the tension in his chest ease when he recognized the land. He was close to his loch now, and by all the saints, he would take the time to enjoy it.
So he directed the party to detour toward the cliffs, where he knew the view would be best. Without stopping to see if the others would follow, he urged his horse up the path, eager for a glimpse of home.
When he cantered over the rise, Loch Ness spread out before him, and he threw himself out of the saddle and strode toward the sight.
God’s Blood, but he’d missed this!
He stood, legs braced against the tug of the breeze, and inhaled deeply, feeling the band around his chest loosen.
Aye, it was possible the Queen and her court suspected him guilty of treason.
Aye, he’d been saddled with an unwanted, pampered noblewoman as a wife.
Aye, his life was about to get so much worse.
But here, breathing in the scents of Loch Ness, feeling the afternoon sun beating on his shoulders, he was free. He was at peace.
He was almost home.
The saints alone know how long he stood there, soaking up the peace. But when he turned to leave, he was surprised to see his future wife standing some distance away, her hands on her hips.
It was the stance of a woman who was comfortable with her body. One who knew how much power she wielded. One who could make a man do her bidding with just a look.
But she wasn’t looking at him, nay. She was looking at his loch.
And Lachlan could swear she was smiling.
Was it possible she appreciated the view as much as he did?
God’s Blood, when she smiled like that, she became the wench in the alleyway.
Just who was this woman he was to marry?
It took a few moments to pick his way along the rocks to her side, his horse trailing behind. When he reached her, she was wearing the same careful indifferent mask he’d seen in the throne room, and again he wondered at her true self.
Was she truly the cold noblewoman she portrayed herself to be?
Or the lusty wench of his dreams?
He cleared his throat. “ ’Tis lovely, is it no’?”
When she turned to face him, her hands now folded demurely before her, her brows were drawn in. “Why are ye suddenly being kind to me?”
He was taken aback. “What do ye mean?”
“Ye’ve avoided me for days, and now ye want to make polite conversation?”
Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he frowned at her. “Ye’re the one avoiding me, milady. Ye retire to yer room each night, instead of joining us for meals in the common room. No’ only did ye miss the chance to get to ken me, ye’ve been quite rude.”
“Rude?” She lifted one perfect brow. “Never mind, I retract my claim of yer sudden kindness.”
The quip was so unexpected, Lachlan couldn’t hide his snort of surprise. “When ye say things like that, ye remind me of the wench I met in that alleyway.”
A flicker not unlike fear flashed through her eyes, before turning back to the loch. “I donae ken what ye’re speaking of.”
His eyes widened.
She was going to pretend the fight in the alleyway never happened?
She’d held a knife to a man’s throat to save Lachlan, which had never happened before.
And now she would claim not to know what he meant?
Reaching out, he touched her elbow. “Do ye still carry the dagger strapped to yer leg?”
Would he have the chance to find out?
She jerked away, but didn’t look at him. “Donae touch me!”
Hmm.
“Look, milady…Melisandre”—Lachlan sighed and turned away, scrubbing his hand across his face. At least the headache had left him—“neither of us wanted this betrothal, I ken it. But mayhap ‘tis time to make peace with the person the Crown said we must marry?”
It was the closest he would come to asking for a peace with her.
She wrapped one arm around her middle, her back to him, as she stared out over the loch. Her shoulders were straight, but he watched her lift one hand, and wondered if she was chewing on her fingernail. It might’ve been erotic, but all he could think was that the gesture made her appear vulnerable.
She took a breath and dropped her hand, then lifted her chin. Without looking at him, she asked, “Who is Simone?”
Saints above, but she was an enigma, with the way her brain worked. “What?”
When she turned, her expression was haughty. “When the Queen told ye of yer duty, ye mentioned Simone in yer protest. Who is she?”
Lachlan’s hand dropped to the pouch on his belt, where he still carried the lovely blue ribbon he’d purchased for his favorite lass.
One of Melisandre’s brows rose in haughty challenge. “I’ll no’ allow ye to keep another woman, Fraser. Ye’ll have to cast off yer leman.”
Favorite lass?
Nay, Simone was his only lass.
Seeing this woman—this lady—curl her lip as she made her demands was like taking a dunk in the cold loch. She was obviously the same as nearly all the other women he’d ever known: spiteful and cold and jealous. He may be forced to marry her, but he’d not allow another woman like Alice into his heart.
His hand closed into a fist, and he growled low in his throat. Without a word, he turned and stalked away, leaving the haughty bitch to stare out over the loch.
* * *
Another day passed and it took everything in him not to ride ahead to reach An Torr as quickly as he could. He knew his precious Simone was close, and he would soon feel her arms around him in only a matter of hours.
But duty and responsibility stayed his impetuousness.
If he arrived at An Torr without her, only to then introduce her as his intended wife when she finally arrived on her own, his people would see his rudeness as a lack of respect. If he didn’t respect her, they wouldn’t either, and their future lives together as husband and wife would be miserable.
Their people—their peace—would suffer for it.
So nay, he didn’t ride ahead and leave her, even with the guards. He moderated his pace, gritted his teeth, and rode as far from that damned coach as he could, though still remaining within sight.
Unfortunately, that meant riding beside Gillepatric, who had already spent the last several hours lecturing on how to improve the Frasers’ lives, and every single suggestion sounded as if something Lachlan’s father would say.
Even though he held his tongue, answering only when Gillepatric asked an outright question he couldn’t avoid, the man just wouldn’t take the hint and leave Lachlan to his own misery.
Saints above, his headache was returning!
A spiteful wife, an advisor stuck in the past, and a sennight in the saddle. He was ready to be home.
And then, finally—finally—he was.
He couldn’t help the way he nudged his horse into a trot as An Torr came into sight. The great stone walls would never rival Castle Urquhart, across the loch, but this was home.
An Torr’s stone tower rose over the inner bailey, with the crene
lated walk providing unrivaled views of the loch and surrounding areas, and to the west, a cliff with a sheer drop to the water below could be found.
He hoped his men would ensure his betrothed arrived safely, and his people would forgive him if he arrived ten minutes before her, in his eagerness to see—
“Simone! Simone!” he called out, as soon as he reached the courtyard.
Swinging off his horse, he was glad to hand the reins off to the lad who came running, and quickly exchanged greetings with the men who flocked to welcome him home.
He shook hands and slapped backs, enthusiastic and sincere in his greetings, but longing and aching to be united with only one person at the moment.
His headache had dissipated as soon as he’d seen An Torr, and now he was home, he became filled with a perfect sort of certainty.
This is where he belonged, and he could make his future a good one, even if he had to be yoked to a woman not of his choosing.
For the sake of his people, he would find a way to make peace.
“Milord, ye’re safe!” the seneschal called from atop the keep’s steps. “We expected ye days ago!”
“Aye, Martin!” Lachlan chuckled as he made his way through the throngs. “I was…delayed.”
As if on cue, the royal coach rolled through the gate, and the crowd quieted to watch. Looking up at the old steward, Lachlan jerked his head in that direction.
“And there’s the reason now. I’ll explain later. Where’s Simone?”
Martin’s weathered face split into a grin. “She couldnae miss the commotion, milord. I’m sure she’s—”
“Da! Da!” a little voice screamed then, echoing through the keep. “Da’s home!”
Lachlan’s face split into a smile wide enough to hurt his cheeks as he opened his arms.
From the wide double doors atop the steps, a wee hellion—all tangles and freckles and knobby limbs—burst out of the keep.
“Da!” she screamed again, throwing herself off the steps and into his arms.
He snatched her out of mid-air, laughing aloud with her, as he spun her in a circle. Despite her skirts, she wrapped her legs around his middle and, linking her arms behind his neck, squealed with glee as he turned them.
Lachlan encircled his precious daughter within his arms, and burrowed his nose in her hair.
“Simone,” he whispered, when he finally came to a stop.
“I missed ye, Da,” she mumbled, her mouth pressed against his shoulder.
He couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “I missed ye too, wee hellion. I brought ye something.”
With a gasp, she straightened, still holding tight to him, but piercing him with sharp gray eyes. “Is it a baby sister?”
He jerked back, surprised. “What? Nay!”
“A mother then? Ye brought me a mother?”
His mouth dropped open.
Where in damnation had she gotten these ideas?
A ribbon—no matter how lovely—would pale in comparison, if she wanted a gift as grand as a mother.
But…he had brought home a wife, had he not?
His arms tightened around his precious lass.
Would his betrothed accept Simone?
It was unlikely a lady would accept another’s bastard, but he could not—would not—have a future without his daughter.
“Aye, lass,” he croaked. “Mayhap.”
It was then he noticed the silence, and turned, his daughter still in his arms.
She was standing there, the fingers of one hand covering her lips, and her blue eyes wide, staring at him and his daughter.
Lachlan knew shock when he saw it, but he wasn’t sure if her ailment was caused by joy, confusion, or horror.
Without loosening his hold on his daughter, he bowed slightly to her, which caused Simone to shriek with laughter and tighten her grip.
“Milady,” he managed.
Melisandre’s expression didn’t change, but now her eyes were locked only on Simone.
“Who is—” She cleared her throat and tried again, dropping her hand into her other, so both were gripped in front of her chest in an almost hopeful pose. “Who is this?”
Lachlan inhaled deeply, his chin lifting with pride. He glanced down into eyes so much like his own, and allowed his pride to show when he met his betrothed’s gaze once more.
“This is Simone,” he said simply. “My daughter.”
And he knew, no matter who this woman was, he would find a way to make a peaceful future for them all.
Because he was home.
Chapter 4
For her first supper at An Torr, Mellie took great care in choosing her dress and her overall appearance. She knew she was playing a role here, and had been since the Queen’s surprise announcement, though she was honest enough to admit, on the long days on the road—twice as many as necessary, because of that damned coach!—she’d allowed her disguise to slip.
But tonight she’d be meeting Lachlan’s family and his people for the first time, and if she couldn’t make a good impression now, it would make her mission only that much harder.
So she pulled out that same red silk gown she’d worn for the audience with the Queen, and had Brigit arrange her hair in the appealing—but slightly scandalous—waves down her back. She’d always had thick and heavy hair, and while it was easiest to wear in a simple braid, Mellie knew men—Lachlan in particular—found it appealing when she wore it loose.
Lachlan?
When had she started thinking of him by his first name?
Mayhap that horrible, wonderful moment, when she’d stepped from the coach unassisted and had seen his face light up with pure joy, as he caught the little girl leaping into his arms.
Sainte Vierge!
Seeing the two of them together had done something to Mellie, squeezed something deep in her stomach she’d thought was long dead. The man’s unabashed love and affection had been simultaneously uplifting and horrifying, as Mellie had struggled to understand the implications.
Bon Dieu, but she wished Rosa were here, to think through all the twists and turns.
Scowling, Mellie brushed Brigit away and took a deep breath. “I am ready,” she whispered to her maid. Then, louder, to herself, “I am ready.”
I am an Angel, and I have a mission.
When she entered the great hall, Mellie was as charming and endearing as she could possibly be. She saw the appreciative looks the men cast her, and returned the hesitant smiles the women offered, with a confident and reassuring one of her own.
And despite knowing this was all part of a necessary manipulation, each smile, each welcome, made her steps lighter and her smile more genuine.
But it was Lachlan’s reaction which affected her most strangely of all.
When he saw her, his gray eyes brightened in appreciation and a slow smile curved his lips upward, as his gaze raked over her, lingering on her breasts.
She should’ve been crowing with success, having prepared and presented herself for just such a reaction. But instead, his frank appraisal made her stomach flip over and her throat feel tighter.
“My lady,” he said in a low voice, as he took her hand to help her up onto the dais beside him.
Mellie sucked in a breath, startled by the warmth which shot up her arm from the feel of her hand in his. His fingers tightened around hers—did he feel it too?—as he raised her hand to his lips.
Sainte Vierge!
And she’d thought it warm when he’d merely touched her?
The feel of his lips on her skin sent spikes of flames throughout her body, settling on her cheeks and deep inside her core.
Then, before she could fully understand her reaction, he turned to the gathered Frasers and lifted her hand in the air. With a booming voice and a pleasant smile, he addressed them.
“I am honored to present Lady Melisandre Lamond, whom Queen Elizabeth herself has arranged as my betrothed. Welcome and honor her as ye do me!”
A great roar of approval sprung fr
om the gathered clan members and servants, cheering for their laird and the future of their clan. Mellie smiled and waved, playing the part of the overwhelmed bride far easier than she’d expected.
But when cries of “Kiss! Kiss!” rang out, she tried to tug her hand from his.
Lachlan turned then, his expression serious, even as his eyes sparkled with something she couldn’t identify.
“Shall we, milady?”
“Nay, I—” Mellie was already shaking her head, before she remembered her reason for being there.
Her purpose.
The only way to learn this man’s secrets was to seduce him, aye?
Which was exactly what she was good at.
Nay, ‘tis what she was excellent at.
But Rosa’s words tickled at the back of her mind as well: Gain his trust, and his heart.
Could she do that?
“Melisandre?” he prompted, tugging her gently to him.
Confused, not just at her own reaction to him, but at the look in his eyes, Mellie darted forward, and before she could lose her courage, or he could guess what she had planned, she brushed her lips across his.
The roar of their audience grew, and she pulled away, just in time to see his stunned expression, before she blushed and lifted her hand to nibble on a fingernail. Catching herself, she gripped her hands together, knowing she couldn’t betray her nervousness.
“Well.” He cleared his throat, and she peeked up at him in time to see his smile grow again as he shook his head. “Well, never let it be said ye donae ken how to please my people, Melisandre.”
“Mellie,” she blurted, then winced and met his eyes. “I mean, my friends call me Mellie.”
His smile slowly faded, and his gray gaze skimmed her face, as if looking for the truth. “Are we friends then?” he asked quietly.
She was making a hash of things, was she not?
Mellie cleared her throat and raised her chin, forcing her hand away from her lips. “We are to be married.”
He was silent for a long moment, before he nodded. “Aye, we are. And ‘tis glad I am ye’ve made such an impression on the clan who will one day be yers. But for now…”
The Laird’s Angel Page 5
