But to her surprise, Court realized she didn’t really care, and settled back against her saddle, her legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. Honor stretched out beside her, and her fingers dug deep into the fur under his ears, her heart lightened even more by the contented little woofs the shaggy hound made, as she watched the western clouds turn orange, then red and purple.
She was at peace, and that was a rare feeling for her while on a mission.
She was used to being the one who the others relied on. The one who knew the road, who understood the forest and the beasts therein. The one who hunted for dinner, or assigned watches. Oh, at court she was a hopeless mess and took her cue from Mellie. And when it came to letters and puzzles, Rosalind was definitely their leader. But out here, in the wild, Courtney was in command.
It was nice to not have to be for once.
And wasn’t that an interesting observation?
“Ye’re a well-trained pup, are ye no’?” It still felt a bit foolish to be speaking to the dog, but it was better than wallowing in her own thoughts. “Yer master trained ye well.”
Honor’s only response was a low rumble, as he flopped to one side to allow her better access. A small chuckle—one which would surprise many who knew her—escaped her lips.
“Aye, a good dog.” She leaned left, until she was practically reclining on the beast, both hands occupied with petting him. “And yer master is a good man, I think.”
When the dog woofed, it seemed as if he agreed.
“I ken he had naught to do with that assassin. He’s a man who values honor, aye?”
The beast lifted his head to pierce her with two beady black eyes, as if hearing his name had put him on the alert.
“Nay, pup. I’m no’ speaking of ye. Although”—she shrugged slightly—“mayhap I am. A man who raised a beast such as ye, who put so many hours into training ye, has to be a dedicated man. Mayhap even one I could like.”
One ye do like, lass.
Aye, Ross Fraser was certainly easy to look at, but he was easy to be around as well.
She liked him.
And that was a problem.
“Yer master kens all about loyalty, dog, that much is obvious. He’s loyal to his laird, the way ye are loyal to him. But is he also loyal to the Queen? Which is more important to him?” she mused, as she scratched the dog. “He cannae stretch his loyalties too thin.”
When the beast made a noise, one which sounded doubtful, she chuckled again.
“ ’Tis impossible to be loyal to too many people, Honor. I learned that long ago.”
Cam had taught her that. He’d taught her his loyalty to his band of men—to his ideal—was more important than loyalty to her and whatever relationship they might’ve had. When he’d sent her away, it was for the good of the gang, not for what had been best for her.
“ ’Tis why I am loyal only to the Queen, and to my team,” she said quietly, her head bent near his massively shaggy one. “I owe Queen Elizabeth my life, and I’ll never do aught to put that loyalty in jeopardy. No matter how good a man yer master is.”
Twisting his large head around once more, Honor pierced her with a stare she was sure was supposed to convey doubt.
She released a noise somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, and dropped her forehead to his fur. By all the saints, here she sat, believing a dog could have some kind of opinion about her words!
“Ye can switch loyalties so easily, beast?”
The voice—his voice—had Court thrusting herself upright, her cheeks red with embarrassment, wondering how much of her one-sided conversation he’d overheard.
But Ross wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he was picking his way around the last of the tall trees, his bow in one hand, and his other wrapped around the necks of three birds.
And he was speaking to Honor.
The dog bounced to his feet, his massive tail nigh whacking her in the face, as he waved it happily at seeing his master’s return.
Court batted fur from her mouth as she stood. “I think it’s obvious—phew!—which of us he likes more.”
Switching loyalties.
Impossible.
Ross sent her a crooked grin and crossed to the laid and waiting firewood. He looked it over, then turned back to her, holding up the birds, and said, “I brought dinner.”
Grateful for a change in subject, she held out her hand. “I’ll prepare them.”
He shook his head. “Ye don’ always need to do everything yerself. I’ll help.”
So, together, they plucked and prepared the pheasants, tossing the remains far downstream. Out of habit, Court culled the best feathers for fletching, only to remember she had no reason to keep them.
Ross guessed. “Ye get yer arrows from the armory now?”
“Aye.” She tossed the feathers into the water to follow the rest. “I believe the Queen orders them made special for me. But ‘tis hard to forget a time when I had to make them myself.”
Squatting beside her near the stream, Ross picked up one of the shafts he’d used to take down one of the pheasants. “I picked these up in the armory before we left, but I’ve made a few in my time as well.”
When he offered her the arrow, she instinctively reached for it, and the side of her hand brushed along his. Even through her glove, she felt it—felt him—and tried not to shudder at the contact.
Instead, she focused on the arrow in her hand, turning it over and hefting its weight.
“ ’Tis heavier than mine,” she stated, and as she knew it would be. Sighting down the shaft, she nodded in approval. “Longer. ‘Tis well-made. The chief armorer kens his business.”
She kept her tone professional, and when she dropped the arrow back in his open palm, Court made sure no part of her touched him.
“I noticed yer weapons were smaller,” he offered.
“Aye.” She stood, wiping her hands against her thighs. “I have no need for a larger bow or longer arrows, because I ken I cannae hit the same distance as ye.”
He pushed himself to his feet. “Ye don’ think ye can hit the same distance as me?”
Was he teasing her?
Court cocked her head to one side and raised a brow. “Have ye seen yer arms, Ross?”
Surprised, he glanced down at himself. “My arms? Aye?”
She rolled her eyes, even as she leaned in, as if imparting a secret. “They’re as big around as my head, man. Verra braw.”
He leaned in as well, until their noses were inches apart, conspirators teasing one another. “ ’Tis good of ye to notice.”
Before she could straighten, feeling flustered, he winked, and his green eyes danced with mischief. “Ye ken what I noticed?”
God love her, but she was mesmerized by the wicked light in those eyes.
“What?” she whispered.
“ ’Tis the first time ye called me Ross.”
“Nay!” She jerked upright and stepped back. “I— ‘Tis yer name!”
He hummed and stooped to grab the birds. “Aye,” he tossed over his shoulder, as he moved back toward the firewood, “but ‘tis the first time ye’ve used it...at least the first since we worked together in the throne room.”
By His wounds!
Court scrubbed a hand over her face in an attempt to hide the blush heating her face.
Was he remembering a time before, when she’d called him Ross in the heat of passion?
Or was it only her thinking about that time?
As he speared the pheasants on a stake, Court searched for something—anything—to take her mind off Ross and that twinkle in his eyes and those shoulders and—
Saints preserve her, but she was making a mess of this.
She decided her carefully laid fire would be her distraction, so she hunkered down in front of it, striking her knife against the flint stone she always carried.
But since her mind was a traitor and refused to focus on anything but the man standing across from her—especially where hi
s thigh disappeared under his plaid, and since when had knees become so sexy?—the spark took a while to catch, but when it did, she forced herself to focus on blowing gently and steadily, until the kindling caught.
Lifting herself up, she sat back on her haunches and nodded in satisfaction.
There. At least her distraction wasn’t going to ruin the meal—
Oh, Blessed Virgin!
Now he was crouching on the other side of the small fire.
Crouching, which meant, from her position, she got more than an eyeful of his muscled thighs, and when the plaid fell away from his leg, she could make out the dark shadow between his—
Focus, lass!
She growled at her own distraction and forced herself to pay attention to the fire.
And only the fire.
The flames flickered at the larger branches Honor had dragged back, and Court suddenly became transfixed with the dancing light. The way the fire caressed the thick bark, without penetrating, without consuming…was nigh prophetic.
But leave the branch in there long enough, and even the toughest of intentions will succumb to the heat of desire.
Desire?
What in damnation was wrong with her?
She couldn’t think with him this close, not with those thighs so near her head.
Scowling now, she reached for one of the smaller branches, picking it up by the end not yet kissed by the flames—burned! Not yet burned by the flames!—and holding it under its larger brethren, until the flames licked at her fingers. She tossed that one down and adjusted another twig, then another, which didn’t truly need any help, but it was something to do to keep from thinking about him.
“If ye’ll spread the flames out, we’ll be able to roast all three birds at once. One for each of us, and one for Honor.”
She heard the dog respond to his name, but kept her attention on the fire.
At least, she sure was trying to. It was impossible when he crouched—
The flames reached the end of the twig she was holding and flickered against her fingertips. With a hiss of pain, she dropped the piece of wood into the small roaring blaze.
“Court!”
His shout startled her nigh as much as the pain, but not nearly as much as when he lunged around the fire to grab her right hand and turn it over in his.
“Is it bad?” he asked, as he turned her hand this way and that, examining her fingers gently in his larger, though gentle, hold.
She stood, frozen.
When was the last time someone had cradled her hand so carefully, so full of concern?
The Queen had rescued her, aye, but that had been in the Queen’s—in Scotland’s—best interest. And Charlotte and the other Angels didn’t take care of Court. They cared for her, aye of course, in the same way she did for them.
But they’d never taken care of her.
Cam though...
Cam had been the last man to hold her this way, to make sure her hurts were tended to. She’d been eight when she’d broken her arm, and still remembered him examining the wound the same way Ross did her fingers now, with gentleness and concern.
The memory of the pain—or mayhap the memory itself—brought tears to her eyes.
Unfortunately, Ross chose that moment to look up, and his expression immediately changed from concern, to outright fear.
“God’s Blood, Court!”
“Nay, nay, ‘tis naught,” she said, pulling her hand from his. “A minor singe ‘tis all.”
He was shaking his head. “ ’Tis no’ naught,” he muttered, then lunged forward and grabbed her uninjured hand and began tugging her toward the stream.
Numbly, she stumbled after him, and when he sank to his knees and plunged her throbbing fingers into the cold water, they both sighed in unison.
They knelt there, in nearly the same position as earlier, but neither spoke. She supposed he was worried about her burn—too minor to even mention, really—and she was…
Well, she was content, and that was a little alarming.
The cold water numbed her fingertips, and the feeling crept up her hand, until it reached her wrist, where his fingers were wrapped around her skin. The warmth there couldn’t be overcome by a little mountain stream.
But more than his touch, it was the knowledge he was tending her, caring for her, which seeped through her. The way she’d been at peace earlier, resting against Honor, was how she felt now.
And even as she allowed herself to relax, allowed her weight to slowly rest against Ross’s side, she knew she shouldn’t. She couldn’t afford to trust this man, because doing so would call her loyalty to the Angels into question.
Wouldn’t it?
Aye it would. Cam had taught her that.
But still, Ross’s thumb was drawing circles on the inside of her wrist, and that, more than the icy water, made her shiver.
She dropped her forehead to his shoulder and fought to hold back tears of uncertainty.
What in the world was she doing!
Chapter 5
Courtney didn’t say one blasted word to him the entire next day.
Ross tried not to be irritated by it, but it was hard. This was their fourth day together, and their mission was reaching a critical point. He knew from experience there was a moment in each journey, each mission, where things—no matter the hardships and adversity—began to blend, to become normal.
And that was a problem, because for a warrior, complacency meant failure.
But it was hard to stay constantly alert when the hours bled together. Especially when his only human companion wasn’t speaking to him.
And exactly why did that bother him so much?
They’d gone hours without speaking before. In fact, he’d noticed how well they got along, how easy it was to communicate with her, without speaking a single word. It seemed as if, preparing camp each night, they only had to glance at one another to understand the other’s intention or need for assistance.
They made a good team.
Partners, the Queen had called them. And Ross admitted he’d come to enjoy being Court’s partner.
Of course, his mind immediately jumped to the way she’d partnered with him once before, and how they’d joined together as equals then.
But now…?
Now he was seeing her in her element, and he very much liked what he saw.
He liked how capable and strong she was. He liked how she didn’t back down from a challenge—though her stubbornness against him did tend to frustrate him a bit. He liked she didn’t see the need to worry about what others thought, but did what she knew was best. He liked they saw eye-to-eye on so many things, and could work with each other without needing to speak.
Aye, he liked many things about her.
So why, when she wasn’t normally effusive, didn’t he like this silence?
Because this silence was different.
Before, when they rode and worked in silence, it was companionable, the choice of both of them. But since last night, something had changed. This silence was one-sided, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
When he’d held her hand in his, Ross had felt her pain and had done his best to help ease it…but he wanted more. He wanted to hold her again, wanted to feel her warmth.
Wanted her to want those same things from him.
He’d caught her talking to his dog. She’d allowed Honor the chance to know her real feelings, and he wondered if it because she knew the beast wouldn’t hurt her?
Why couldn’t she trust Ross in the same way?
He couldn’t believe she still thought he had any part in harming the Queen, even if she once entertained the ludicrous idea he was capable of such treachery.
Last night, she’d rested against him, had taken some of the strength he was offering her, but said naught.
Was that all he was to her?
Strength she could borrow when she needed?
He wanted to be more. He wanted to give of himself, not ju
st lend.
He wanted her to take him.
Wanted to take her.
Wanted her to want him.
By His Wounds, this is becoming confusing.
He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He was being pitiful, and was glad no one could hear his thoughts. Murtaugh or Tearlach would have mocked him, surely, and Lachlan would’ve pounded on his back and said something about knowing how to pleasure a woman. Of his friends, only Liam was married to a woman as strong as he, and thus, might understand Ross’s interest in Court.
There were plenty of beautiful, refined, flirtatious women in Scotland, and most of them were here in Scone. But Ross didn’t want a woman like that. He wanted one who’d meet him—and each challenge—head-on. He wanted strength and resilience and danger.
He wanted Court, God help him.
And if he couldn’t have her, then he at least wanted the chance to be at ease with her once more. He missed that.
Well, if she wouldn’t talk, he would.
“My mother died last spring.”
He could tell, by the way her head jerked up and swiveled toward him, he’d surprised her. Her expression went from contemplation, to confusion, in the blink of one of those dark brown eyes.
So he took advantage of having gained her attention and continued. “ ’Twas a short sickness, a blessing. She was always so hearty, ye ken?” He shook his head, thinking of the ways his mother had always fussed over him whenever he’d gone home for a visit. “She was a strong woman, always used to being in control, and when she couldnae be anymore…she simply left it in God’s hands. No’ much else she could do, ye ken?”
He could tell from Court’s frown she was trying to understand why he was telling her all this. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I’m…sorry for yer loss.”
At least she was speaking to him, even if the topic wasn’t a pleasant one.
“Ah, well, she lived a good long life, and was surrounded by her kin and grandbairns. Now she’s with her husband again in Heaven. What more could any of us ask for?”
She turned away and was once again facing the road ahead of them. But he could tell from the way she held herself—her shoulders back, and her weight on her left thigh—that she was still curious about his story.
The Highlander’s Angel Page 6
