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

by Caroline Lee

  She shrugged, then dipped the cloth back in the water once more.

  “ ’Tis possible they were lying. Rosa later pointed out I may have given them reason to tell me falsehoods. I’d complimented yer looks, ye see, and told them I only had interest in loyal Highlanders.”

  An inkling of a suspicion rose in Lachlan’s mind, and he crossed his arms—ignoring the pull on his wound—and raised a brow at her. “And where were ye when ye made these claims?”

  A flush began above her breasts and pinked her neck and cheeks. “In Aboyne. But I suspect ye mean something else. I was on the man’s lap,” she confessed, without looking at him.

  Lachlan’s breath burst out of him on a half-laugh, half-groan. “Of course the man would tell ye of my guilt, Mellie, if he thought he had a chance with ye! He’d claim the moon was made of cheese, if he thought it would make a beautiful woman like ye smile at him.”

  Her smile was a bit rueful when she finally looked at him. “Aye, ‘tis what Rosa said.”

  Rolling his eyes, Lachlan planted his palms on the mattress once more, bracing his weight. “So yer first two pieces of evidence against me are faulty. Why else did ye think me guilty? Ye nae longer do, aye?”

  Her head jerked up and around so fast, her braid swung free of her shoulder. “I ken ye are innocent, Lachlan. But when I was sent to An Torr…” With a sigh, she tossed the cloth back into the bowl and began to tug her clothing back into position. “The letter I received had more information in it, and Court filled me in on the rest while the healer worked on ye.”

  While he was unconscious. No’ fainted.

  She held his gaze while she laced herself back up. “Court and Ross went to Kintyre immediately following the assassination attempt, which ye know. There, they found the Red Hand and discovered the group was behind the attack. But it wasn’t being led by Cam, Court’s auld friend. The leader was yer uncle, Andrew Fraser of Lovat.”

  With a curse, Lachlan shoved himself to his feet, the move sudden enough to cause him to teeter. But he found his balance before she could lunge for him, and held up his hand to stop her.

  “Uncle Andrew is alive, after all these years?” A thought began nibbling at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t concentrate long enough to focus on it, to figure out why Andrew being alive was so important. “And he was behind the assassination?”

  Had his uncle inherited his father’s seditious beliefs?

  When Mellie shrugged, it did interesting things to those big breasts, up until she tucked everything back into her bodice and continued lacing. “Court and Ross killed him, apparently. He claimed the Frasers were behind the attempt because they wanted a Comyn on the throne.”

  “That’s…” He shook his head. “The Red Comyn? The Bruce’s only competitor for the throne— He has been dead for years. And his only son died at Bannockburn, did he no’?”

  “Aye.” Mellie finished, then reached for her braid and untied the end. “So Andrew’s claim makes little sense, but ‘tis damned incriminating.”

  His eyes followed her fingers as they ran through her thick golden curls, then deftly began to re-braid them. “To me, ye mean. The Fraser laird.”

  She nodded briskly. “Ye see why I had to come back, Lachlan?” When he met her gaze, her eyes had a sadness to them. “I had to tell them ye were innocent. In person. I had to leave.”

  So she’d left. She’d left to return to Scone, to exonerate him.

  With another muttered curse, he launched himself forward, stumbling toward the wooden chair placed beside the hearth. He wasn’t going to greet the Queen lying in bed, and the way his muscles—and lungs—burned, only served to remind him he was still alive.

  And also distracted him from the pain in his heart.

  He reached the chair just as Mellie did, and she wrapped her hands around his arm to help him lower himself. But when he was settled and she made to straighten and step away, he grabbed her hand and tugged her into his lap.

  And instead of fighting him, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  With his face pressed against her neatly braided hair—how in the hell did she manage to smell so sweet after all those days on the road?—he murmured, “I cannae lose ye, Mellie. Marry me. Be my wife, and a mother to Simone.”

  But when she stiffened, he knew he’d not get his wish. And the hope he hadn’t even realized he’d been harboring, slowly faded from his chest.

  “I cannae, Lachlan,” she said, as she pushed away from him, meeting his gaze with mere inches separating them. “I’m only betrothed to ye because the Queen commanded it. ‘Twas merely a mission.”

  “Nay!” he snapped, then lowered his voice as he tightened his hold on her, pulling her heart against his. “This is no’ merely a mission, Mellie. We are no’ a mission.”

  Instead of fighting him—and he was prepared for a fight—she smiled sadly and nodded. “Ye are right. I love ye.”

  “But?”

  “But my place is with the Angels, Lachlan. I made a vow. Nae matter how much I want ye, nae matter how amazed I am that ye could still want me—”

  He silenced her with a kiss.

  A kiss which showed her exactly how much he wanted her, how much he needed her.

  How much she mattered to him.

  And when he pulled away, they were both breathing heavily.

  He dropped his forehead to hers. “I’ve told ye, my angel…I love ye,” he whispered. “Ye are the most caring woman I’ve ever kenned, and I would be lucky to call ye my wife. But…”

  She straightened just enough to meet his eyes, her own swimming with unexpected tears. “But what?” she whispered.

  “But I understand yer vow,” he admitted with a sigh. God help him, but he understood. “I cannae ask ye to give up yer honor to satisfy my desires.”

  No matter how desperately he wanted a future with her.

  When she let out a choked gasp and pressed her lips to his once more—her tears wetting his cheeks, as he captured her sobs with his mouth—he wasn’t sure that had been the answer she’d been hoping for.

  But what else could he say?

  He’d heard her secrets, had accepted them, and knew this was bigger than just the love the two of them had for one another. The Queen—mayhap the entire Crown, even the nation!—was in danger, and Mellie had vowed to end the threat.

  As a loyal Highlander, Lachlan was duty-bound to help.

  But even when this was done, when the Frasers were exonerated, and the guilty party punished, even then she would not be free to love him.

  And he suspected the tightness in his chest upon realizing that had nothing to do with his wound.

  Chapter 14

  Curled up on Lachlan’s lap, Mellie felt as if her heart were breaking.

  Even after hearing her confession, hearing the truth of why she’d pretended to be his betrothed, he still wanted her. He’d asked her to marry him, not because the Queen had commanded it, but because he wanted to be married to her.

  And Mellie thought she might choke on her sorrow when she had to say no.

  She owed the Queen her loyalty and her service, no matter how badly she yearned to share a future with Lachlan. And with Simone.

  Dear God, Simone!

  Had her bairn lived, she’d be the same age as Simone was now, and it was impossible not to mourn the loss of her child all over again, as she bid goodbye to the possibility of a future as Simone’s mother.

  ‘Tis worth it, she reminded herself. It would be worth the loss and the pain if, by remaining an Angel, she was able to save Lachlan. If she could convince the Queen he was innocent, she’d not only save his honor, but likely his life.

  Her head was tucked under Lachlan’s chin, his pulse strong against her lips where they pressed into his neck.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered against his skin, and when his arms tightened briefly around her, she knew he’d heard her hopelessness.

  When the door to the room burst open, Mellie jerked upright, bumping i
nto his chin. Ignoring his quiet curse, she turned, expecting to find the Queen.

  But it was Lady Isla Fraser who threw herself into the room with a wail, flying across the chamber to where the two of them were curled together on the chair, much faster than Mellie would’ve expected.

  They ended with the distraught woman atop them as she threw her arms around Lachlan’s neck, her wailing and tears making it difficult to understand what she was saying.

  Mellie exchanged a surprised—and amused?—glance with Lachlan, before awkwardly extricating herself from between mother and son.

  She slid to her feet as Lachlan patted his mother’s back, trying to cradle her with his injured arm. The woman didn’t seem to notice; she was too intent on her carrying on, her tears soaking his bandages.

  “Mother,” he began in a soothing voice, and when that didn’t get her attention, he tried again, but more firmly. “Mother. I am alive and will heal. ‘Tis Melisandre who deserves yer fussing. The cutthroats were after her.”

  “Nay!” Isla wailed, tightening her hold on his neck, as if afraid he would pull her away. “Ye are my son, my boy! Naught is ever supposed to happen to ye, no’ while I live! And ye were wounded!” she ended, with a howling sob.

  Still patting her back awkwardly, Lachlan met Mellie’s eyes over his mother’s head, and raised a brow, as if to ask what he should do. Mellie’s lips twitched, before she managed to school her features into a mask of concern.

  Clearly the poor woman was near delusional with fear. Had she heard what had happened to her dear friend Gillepatric? Mayhap that news was what had set her over the edge.

  “Come, milady,” she said gently, reaching for the older woman. She wrapped her arm around Isla’s shoulders and tugged her away from Lachlan, but the woman refused to let go of her son. “Let me help ye here to this bench, Isla.”

  Eventually, Mellie managed to move the older woman to the bench opposite the chair, but Lachlan had to go with them, because Isla’s hold on him was tight. The two of them ended up beside one another, with his uninjured hand in both of his mother’s, and her head on his shoulder as she cried quietly.

  “I’m so sorry, my lad,” she kept repeating, as Lachlan did his best to comfort her. “ ’Tis a horrible thing to happen, so scary!”

  “Mother,” Lachlan tried again, “I will be well. The attack was no’ meant for me, but—”

  “Attack!” the woman interrupted with another wail, “Oh, by all the saints in Heaven, nay!” And she dissolved into another bout of weeping.

  God forgive her, but Mellie was almost relieved when the door opened once more and Liam Bruce stepped into the room.

  The Queen’s bodyguard was still strong and intimidating, despite the gray at his temples, and he settled against the wall with his hand on the hilt of his sword, then nodded to someone in the hall.

  Queen Elizabeth swept into the room, looking as regal as ever, followed closely by Rosa. When she saw her dear friend, Mellie couldn’t help the whimper of joy which burst from her lips, and the two flew across the room to embrace.

  Rosa’s dark hair was pulled back in braids, and she was slight enough that Mellie near enveloped her when she hugged her friend again. But as usual, the younger woman’s reserve wasn’t evident around her fellow Angel.

  “I’ve missed ye so, Mellie,” she whispered against Mellie’s shoulder. “I’ve been so worried for ye!”

  Mellie tugged her toward the hearth, so they’d have a bit of privacy. “Lachlan saved me, Rosa! He was magnificent, ye should’ve seen him! He came riding into the square like some sort of—”

  “No’ today,” Rosa scolded quietly, “I only just found out about the attack. I meant the last fortnight, kenning naught of yer situation at An Torr and what ye’d found.”

  The reprimand sobered Mellie, and when Rosa took her hands, she had trouble meeting her friend’s eyes. “I am sorry, Rosa. I…I wasnae sure what to write, at first…”

  Her friend squeezed her hands. “And now, dear one?”

  “I…ken the truth.”

  Rosa nodded to the Queen, who was watching the two of them. “Then speak it, Mellie. Dicere verum.”

  Half the time, Mellie had no idea what the Latin phrases her friend sometimes spouted meant, but this one was clear. Speak the truth? Aye, she would.

  Lifting her head, she met the Queen’s gaze and took a deep breath.

  But before she could speak, one of Elizabeth’s hands raised imperiously to halt her. “Courtney has shared with us both the details of the attack, as you shared them with her. Most importantly, that Gillepatric Fraser paid cutpurses to kill you, but is in fact now dead himself.”

  When Mellie nodded, albeit hesitantly, the Queen’s gaze flicked to Lachlan, who was now watching them over his mother’s head, although Mellie wasn’t sure if he could hear what was being said.

  “We can assume Gillepatric Fraser was working under orders from someone else. Someone who has since murdered him,” Elizabeth stated.

  And Mellie understood what she was saying.

  Taking a deep breath, Mellie knew everything—Lachlan’s very life!—rested on her next words.

  “No’ Laird Lachlan Fraser, Yer Majesty.”

  When Elizabeth turned to her, one regal brow raised, Mellie reached for the Queen’s—her friend’s—hands. “Lachlan is innocent, Elizabeth. I swear it on my own life.” She squeezed the other woman’s hands in emphasis. “He is a good man.”

  Elizabeth’s sharp eyes bore into Mellie’s. “Do you know of another suspect? Before his death, Andrew Fraser claimed the Frasers of Lovat were behind the assassination. And a Fraser advisor has been implicated in this last attack. It would make sense to lay the blame at the feet of the Fraser laird.”

  “Aye, ‘twould,” Mellie reluctantly agreed. “But only if that man were no’ Lachlan. I ken he is a good man, a loyal Scottish subject, who values his fealty to ye and King Robert. He would never give orders which would threaten that relationship, and thus his clan’s future. He’s a warrior, aye, but he values peace.”

  Queen Elizabeth eyed her for a long moment, then dropped her gaze to their clasped hands. “Do you love him?”

  Mellie’s response was immediate and certain. “I do. With all my heart. I never kenned ‘twas possible to feel this way about a man.”

  Although her gaze didn’t lift, the Queen’s lips twitched, mayhap in response to Mellie’s emphasis. It was known Elizabeth valued her friendships with her ladies—especially her Angels—as strongly as her relationship with her husband. And after five years of working with Charlotte, Court and Rosa, Mellie felt the same way.

  “High praise, indeed,” Elizabeth murmured, then settled into silence as she considered.

  In the stillness, Isla Fraser’s sniffling seemed even louder, but Mellie couldn’t drag her gaze away from the Queen’s thoughtful expression, and she prayed for Lachlan’s future.

  Rosa moved to stand beside Mellie, her light touch on her arm offering much-needed support.

  Finally, Elizabeth sighed and lifted her eyes to Mellie’s. “Is it possible Gillepatric was acting alone? That mayhap he was behind both attacks?”

  Relief slammed into Mellie so quickly, her knees went weak. It was only her hold on the Queen’s hands, and Rosa’s touch on her elbow, which kept her upright.

  Queen Elizabeth believed her!

  She believed that Lachlan was innocent!

  Sainte Vierge, he would be safe!

  She closed her eyes on a prayer of thanks, as Rosa hummed in consideration.

  “ ’Tis possible, Yer Majesty, but I am doubtful. It seems too convenient, considering he is now dead. Would he act thusly without orders?” Rosa asked.

  Mellie’s head jerked up. “Lachlan didnae order it; I ken that much.”

  “Someone else then?” Rosa murmured, her touch on Mellie’s arm dropping away, as she tilted her head back to stare up at the ceiling, the way she always did when she was deep in thought. “Andrew, mayhap? He was the a
uld laird’s brother, and likely had sway among the Frasers. Court’s account of his death does no’ actually preclude his leadership of the entire scheme.”

  Mellie exchanged glances with the Queen, and hated the hopeful look in Elizabeth’s eyes. Wincing, Mellie shrugged. “I cannae say, Rosa. I ken Andrew has been away from the Frasers for many years. He left nigh fifteen years ago, following his youngest nephew, who had left home for…personal reasons.”

  “Cameron,” Rosa acknowledged with another murmur, her mind clearly whirling behind her dark eyes. “If Andrew has no’ been home in that time, then ‘tis unlikely he’s had much contact with Gillepatric.”

  “We cannae ken that for certain,” Mellie interrupted, grasping desperately for logic. “ ’Tis possible Andrew concocted the entire scheme from wherever he’s been hiding. The Red Hand were responsible, after all, and Andrew—”

  As she said the man’s name again, another wail rose behind her, and all three women turned to see Isla throw herself against her son’s chest once more, her fist pounding his uninjured shoulder as she howled about her dear brother-in-law’s murder.

  Mellie met Lachlan’s eyes, his clear gray orbs showing only worry for his mother.

  Had she heard the rumors of Andrew’s death since her arrival in Scone?

  The poor woman!

  To first learn of her brother-in-law’s death, then have her son attacked and injured, and then to also lose a dear friend and advisor, all in one day…

  ‘Twas no wonder her mind was somewhat broken.

  Mellie’s heart swelled with pity, and she would’ve gone to help Lachlan with his mother, but she could not abandon the Queen right in the middle of a conversation.

  She begged him with her eyes to understand, and the little nod he gave her over his mother’s head told her he did.

  Everyone’s attention was caught when Liam stepped away from the wall, as he half-drew his sword from the scabbard at his hip.

  Elizabeth stiffened, just as Mellie heard the sound of running feet in the hall. Court burst into the room, her wild expression immediately transforming into relief once she saw everyone was together, and for the most part, alive and well.