by Caroline Lee
He saw Mellie stumble often, and he kept eyeing the bruise forming on her shoulder. The bruise, and the old scar he’d seen beside it.
The scar which looked suspiciously like an arrow pock.
He decided that was a story for another time, if she’d even tell it, and pushed it to the back of his mind.
Thanks to the storm, the summer afternoon was chilly, and he could feel Simone shivering. And although Mellie stared stoically ahead, he could feel her shaking as well under his arm.
Because of the cold?
Or was she in shock?
Thankfully, Owen saw him coming and hollered to the other men. It was his commander himself who scooped Mellie up when she stumbled for the last time.
And although Lachlan had his hands full with Simone, a part of him felt a flash of irritation to see Mellie draped in his best friend’s hold.
Why?
Was he…jealous?
Why no’?
She’s my betrothed, is she no’?
After yesterday, after that aborted seduction, Lachlan would’ve said she was only here on the Queen’s orders. Only here to test his loyalty.
But that was before she’d risked her life to save his daughter. Before he found Mellie carefully cradling Simone as if she cared a great deal for the lass.
Cupping the back of his daughter’s head, he buried his face in her damp hair once more and inhaled gratefully, thanking God for sending Mellie to An Torr. Whatever reason she was here, Simone would be dead without her.
When they reached the keep, and his people realized what they were seeing, a gradual cheer rose. He knew they were all cheering for the safe return of his daughter, thinking he’d saved her, but soon enough, he’d set them straight on who Simone’s savior really was.
For now though…
He took the stairs up to the top floor as quickly as he could, bellowing for a hot bath to be delivered to the nursery and Mellie’s room, along with nourishing soup for both of them.
He skidded to a stop in the hall and turned to the lady’s chambers, where Mellie was staying. “Brigit!” That was the maid’s name, wasn’t it?
The young woman pulled the door open, and he noticed she appeared as if she’d been crying. “Aye, milord? Ye’ve found Mellie?”
“I didnae even ken yer mistress was missing, lass.” One more thing to address…later. With a dismissive sound, he jerked his head toward Owen, who was coming up the stairs carrying Mellie. “Warm her and help her bathe, Brigit, then make sure she eats her supper. She’s likely exhausted.”
Mellie made a weak noise, but he didn’t stick around to listen to her protests. Instead, he shifted his hold on Simone and continued to the nursery, where Ella made a fuss over her “lost lamb.”
With his hands clasped behind his back, Lachlan stood at the edge of the room and watched the bevy of servants fuss over Simone, bathing her and washing her hair, before sitting her in front of a roaring fire—warm enough to dry Lachlan’s shirt and kilt in no time—and brushing out her hair as Ella spooned soup into her.
He felt damn near useless, but he couldn’t make himself leave either. He kept his eyes locked on his daughter, as if she might disappear on him again, while intently eying her features and thanking the Almighty every other heartbeat.
She’s safe. She’s safe.
Tomorrow, he’d have a long talk with her about her safety, and probably create a dozen more of those rules she so despised, but he would keep her safe.
“Enough!” he finally barked, noticing Simone’s eyelids grow heavy. “Out with ye!”
As the remaining maids curtsied and filed past, he made sure to thank each of them. More than one blushed at his praise and hurried out the door. Soon, only Ella remained.
Lachlan stepped forward to scoop his daughter off the floor, reveling in the feel of her, safe in his arms. “To bed with ye, lassie,” he murmured, crossing the room.
As he tucked her in, she took hold of his hand. “I’m sorry, Da,” she said in a small voice.
“Ach, dinnae fash,” he said, as he placed a kiss on her forehead. “We’ll make some new rules, but none of us kenned how quick that storm would come up. Ye’re safe now.”
Simone tugged at his hand until he sank down beside her on the bed. “Mellie really did save me, ye ken. She was so strong, and kenned exactly what to do.”
He pictured the wee boat amid the storm-tossed waters, struggling to make headway toward the shore. He remembered the feel of Mellie’s blistered hand in his, and the look of exhaustion on her face.
Had she been warmed yet?
Fed?
Was she sleeping now?
Suddenly, the urge to check on her was as overpowering as the need to watch over his daughter. He leaned down and placed another kiss on her nose.
“Sleep now, my precious. I’m going to go see to Mellie.”
Simone’s eyes were already closed.
“Love ye, Da,” she whispered sleepily.
He squeezed her hand.
“And I love ye, more than ye’ll ever ken,” he whispered in return.
Turning, he nodded to Ella, a silent command not to let the lassie out of her sight. She must’ve understood, because she sank into a chair with a weary sigh, and not for the first time, Lachlan wondered about finding a new, younger nursemaid to keep up with his hellion of a daughter.
Or a wife.
Glancing once more at Simone, he saw she was fast asleep, so he allowed himself to release her hand and stand. Leaving her was difficult, but there was something in him—some visceral urge—which told him he needed to see Mellie.
He needed to make sure she was safe as well.
When he reached her chamber, he knocked softly on the door, but received no response.
Was Brigit not sitting with her mistress?
Frowning, he pushed open the door, and was surprised to see the chamber dark. The hearth was cold—a fire hadn’t even been laid—and the shutters were closed.
Where in damnation was that woman?
“Mellie?” he called in a low voice, wondering if he should go down to look for her in the great hall.
But a noise from the bed pulled him in that direction.
There was a mound under the coverlet, one Lachlan had thought was a pile of pillows. As he got closer, however, he could see the truth: it was Mellie, huddled on her side, with only the top of her head visible.
Lachlan dropped to one knee beside the bed.
“Mellie?” he inquired again, then pulled back the coverlet. Under that was another, and under that, a Fraser plaid, wrapped around the shoulders of…
God’s Blood, she looked pitiful.
Mellie was huddled on her side, her shoulders tucked up around her ears, her arms wrapped around her knees, and she was shivering. Not the teeth-chattering kind of shiver, but the bone-deep shiver, where it feels as if you’ll never get warm again.
Her eyes were closed.
He was moving, before he even realized his intentions.
His boots were easy enough to pull off, and his clothing had dried over the hour he’d stood in Simone’s room. Doing his best not to jostle the bed too much, he pushed back the coverlets and crawled in beside her, taking her in his arms and throwing one thigh over her legs.
From the way she stiffened slightly, he knew she was awake, but she made no sound and still kept her eyes closed. It took a little wriggling, but he managed to get his right arm under the pillow, so her head was resting on his shoulder, and he was able to spread his hand across her back in order to give her as much of his heat as possible.
It took several long moments before he felt her relax, and even longer still until her shivering ceased. He ran his free hand up and down her arm, hoping to warm her further. The leg which was thrown over hers seemed to be putting off enough heat, but God Almighty, she felt so soft underneath him.
Her legs and hands were trapped under his thigh, and each soft little sigh she made tested his control. If she so much as
twitched her fingers, she’d be able to feel how hard his cock was.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he thought of the fury of a summer storm. He thought of bathing in the frigid loch in the spring. He thought of his terror when he saw the overturned rowboat.
Not a single thing seemed to soften his desire.
God’s Blood!
She was the most incredible, intriguing, curious woman he’d ever met. She’d rowed through a Highland storm to save his daughter, and had held a knife to a man’s throat to save Lachlan himself. She’d gone down on her knees to try to get what she wanted from him.
She was sensual and gorgeous and strong and confusing as hell.
And she was here, in his arms, in a bed.
“Why are ye here?”
The whisper startled him. When he opened his eyes, he found her staring at him, their faces only inches apart.
“Ye were cold,” he offered. “Why did Brigit abandon ye like this?”
She hadn’t moved, and didn’t so much as blink now. “I told her I was aright and ordered her to leave, over her protests.”
“Are ye?”
“Once she left, I guess…” Finally her gaze shifted, locking on his chin, instead of his eyes. “I didnae realize how cold I actually was.”
He rubbed at her arm again, the linen of her leine feeling entirely too thin under his touch. “Did ye eat? Did ye have a warm bath?”
She didn’t respond, and her silence spoke volumes.
“Ah, lass.” He gathered her close again, not even caring if she could feel the thickness of his cock pressed against her leg. “What ye did today…” He shook his head. “Ye leave me in awe.”
“Because I rowed a boat?” Her voice was muffled against his chest.
He chuckled. “Because of yer strength and bravery. Did the healer, at least, see to ye?”
In response, she wriggled, putting some distance between them, so she could pull her hands out from under his thigh and straighten her legs. He loosened his hold, knowing they’d both be more comfortable that way.
“Here.” She held up her hands, her palms bandaged with linen. “Brigit is more than capable, and I told her no’ to bother the healer. The blisters will fade in a few days.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow as he examined her dressings. Then, satisfied, he asked nonchalantly, “And yer shoulder?”
She’d rolled onto her back and unconsciously lifted one wrapped hand to her right shoulder, where Simone had told him the boat’s bench had come crashing down on her.
“ ’Tis naught, as I said. A scrape was causing the wee bit of blood, and the bruising will go down. I’ve had worse.”
The last part slipped out, judging from her slight wince, so he knew she hadn’t meant to tell him that.
Knife-wielding, seduction, rowboat-flipper, and now Lachlan could add “combat injured” to her list of accomplishments.
Since she’d given him the opening, he decided to press her.
“Like an arrow wound?”
Before she could deny it, he leaned over her and brushed her hand out of the way, so he could touch her right shoulder himself.
“I saw it through the rip in yer kirtle.” He could feel the bandage under her leine, and was pleased Brigit had cared for her mistress’s wounds at least.
Her eyes flicked toward his, then fixed on the bed curtain above them. He could see her mind furiously whirling.
Was she trying to come up with some lie to explain the old wound?
“Mellie?”
She swallowed. “ ’Twasnae life-threatening. Just a graze.”
A graze with an arrow wasn’t to be dismissed. And it wasn’t the sort of mark he thought he’d find on his betrothed.
“Who are ye, Mellie?” he whispered.
She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into a languid smile, as she rolled onto her side to face him.
“Who do ye want me to be?” she asked in a husky voice, as she lifted her hand to his cheek.
But he intercepted it, holding her gently, so as not to hurt her palms any further. All he knew was, after the progress they’d made—and they must be making progress, because he was far more confused than he’d been when she’d arrived—he couldn’t stand to have her touch him like that again.
Like a practiced seductress. Like someone who was used to changing herself to suit others.
Who do ye want me to be?
He met her eyes and willed her to understand. “Yerself, Mellie.” Slowly, he drew her hand to his lips and kissed two of her fingertips. “I want ye to be yerself around me. Because ye can.”
Something flashed in her blue eyes—worry?—and she tried to pull away. He kissed a third fingertip and noted her shudder as she dropped her gaze to his lips.
“Who are ye, Mellie?” he whispered, willing her to tell him the truth.
But instead of answering him, she yanked hard on her hand, clutching it to her chest, as she fell back against the pillow and glared up at him.
“Who are ye, Lachlan Fraser?” she shot back.
He blinked in surprise.
He’d never hidden any part of himself from her, had he?
“What do ye wish to ken?”
Everything.
Yesterday—Sainte Vierge, had it only been yesterday her seduction had failed so spectacularly?—he’d told her he’d always speak the truth to her.
Could she trust him?
Aye, she could.
She wanted to know everything about him, but couldn’t ask it, not lying here in a strange bed, staring up at him as he loomed over her on one elbow. She had to narrow her questions to what mattered.
His loyalty to the throne?
That was why she was here, was it not?
The reason for this farce of a betrothal, the reason for her heartache and confusion and longing. She needed to discover if he was behind the assassination attempt.
What is it ye wish to ken?
“What happened to Simone’s mother?”
As soon as she’d blurted the words, she gasped, lifting one bandaged hand to her lips.
Bon Dieu, what had she done?
Lachlan, for his part, only looked slightly startled. Recovering far more quickly than she, he shrugged.
“I’m surprised ye donae ken already. From what I’ve heard, that maid of yers likes to gossip.”
How to take back her words?
“I shouldnae have—”
“Nay, ‘tis aright.” He offered her a smile—how had she never noticed how handsome he was when he smiled?—and settled his head on his palm once more.
When he rested his heavy hand against her belly, she realized he was preparing to tell her what she wanted to know.
She also realized she was suddenly very, very warm.
“I met Alice Stewart at the Bruce’s court. She was beautiful and refined and haughty. Every man there lusted after her, but my father convinced her da I’d make a sound husband. The betrothal contract was signed, and she came to An Torr.”
She counted in her head. “This would’ve been…seven years ago?”
“Aye.” His thumb began to draw little circles on the linen covering her belly. “Da was still alive then, of course. She, ah…” He huffed slightly, and she wondered if it was supposed to be a chuckle. “She and I saw no reason to wait for the vows. She was nae virgin, mind ye, and we had our fun together, since we were to be married soon enough anyway. Or so I thought.”
When he trailed off, she shifted under his hand. It felt so damn good to be lying here in bed with him, but she also needed to know more. “She became pregnant?”
“Aye.” When one side of his lips pulled up, it wasn’t quite a smile. “I was thrilled. She wasnae the kind of wife I would’ve picked, I’d come to realize, but a bairn…” This time his smile became genuine. “I’d always wanted to be a da, ye ken.”
“I didnae,” she whispered, transfixed by his smile.
“Aye, well…” His grin fell, and he shook his head, his gaze
focusing on his hand where it rested on her belly. “When Simone was born, Alice told me she had no need for a girl child. A daughter couldnae become laird, couldnae cement her status.”
A sour taste settled in the back of Mellie’s throat as she realized Simone’s tale from this afternoon had been right. The lassie’s mother had left because she hadn’t loved Simone enough.
“That’s…” She shook her head, unable to understand a mother who would abandon her child. One who didn’t realize how lucky she was to have one.
Still not meeting her eyes, Lachlan lifted one shoulder in a sort of shrug. “My father died soon after, and Hamish became laird. I think Alice and her father had concocted some sort of scheme to make me laird, assuming I would have an heir. When she realized it wouldnae work, when she realized I wouldnae be laird, she went back to her family.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She didnae even bother to wean the bairn. I had to scramble to find a wetnurse, and Hamish…” He shook his head.
“He disapproved?”
Finally, Lachlan looked up and caught her gaze. “He agreed with Alice. Said I was stupid to pine over a mere daughter, and stupid to let Alice go. But our broken betrothal didnae harm her, and she’s married to some poor bastard out in the Western Isles.”
Mellie shook her head. “And to think if she’d waited a few years, she would’ve gotten what she wanted; to be the wife of a laird.”
“Nay, she wanted to be the wife of a laird right away, and she got that with her husband. And I…” Slowly, the hand on her belly began to move with gentle caresses. “I realized I didnae want Alice. I didnae want a haughty, cold noblewoman. I want a strong woman, a caring one. A woman I can trust.”
Overwhelmed by the emotion she saw in his gray eyes and the sensations his touch was sending through her, Mellie shut her eyes.
A woman he could trust?
Sainte Vierge, help me.
He couldn’t trust her, but she was coming to trust him.
Lachlan hadn’t broken his first betrothal because Alice had given him a daughter. He loved Simone then, just as much as he did now.
