The Highlander’s Angel

by Lee, Caroline

  “Aye,” she croaked. “ ’Twas my pleasure.”

  There was a moment there, when she thought he might reach up, might wrap his free arm around her, might pull her closer to him.

  Pleasure.

  She closed her eyes, whispering a silent prayer, not sure if she was begging for it, or not.

  After one heartbeat, two heartbeats, a score of heartbeats…he was the one to step away, not touching her any further.

  And she felt cold without him.

  As he strode for the target, he called over his shoulder. “And accuracy?”

  She thought he sounded hoarse, but she was too busy staring intently at the loch and trying to get her body under control.

  “Accuracy?” she repeated, her voice a little higher than usual.

  “Ye are accurate, I assume?” When she finally turned, he was pulling his arrows and examining them for damage, before dropping them into his quiver once more. “With this technique and others?”

  Archery.

  “Um…aye.” She shook her head, trying to get her mind back on their contest. “I’m accurate, but no’ at a distance.” She shrugged, willing to admit that about herself. “I’ll no’ fire on a battlefield, against a distant charge, because my bow isnae as big as a warrior’s.”

  When he glanced up at her, she saw interest in his gaze. “ ’Tis logical. The Queen didnae hire ye for yer battlefield skills. As I recall, most of yer targets are closer threats.”

  Hire.

  “The Queen didnae hire me, but aye, what ye say is true.”

  Shrugging, he moved toward her, the bracken slowing him not a bit. Here was a man who was used to the woods, and who knew how to live among the trees.

  Like Cam.

  She swallowed, hating the reminder.

  “I suppose Liam was the one who recruited me,” Ross said nonchalantly, and she didn’t correct him. “But now I ken no’ to challenge ye to a contest of accuracy.”

  “Why no’?” She frowned.

  When he leaned down just slightly, a smirk on his lips as he met her gaze, she knew she wouldn’t like the response.

  “Because I’ll win.”

  Rolling her eyes, she slapped one palm against the solid muscle of his upper arm. “Only because ye must be able to draw from here to Cardoss!”

  She’d meant it as a companionable taunt, but when he lifted one hand and placed it on her shoulder, her throat went dry.

  “Ye are nae a weakling, Court,” he said softly. “Donae disparage yer skill.”

  “I have nae need to,” she said in a hoarse voice, before swallowing and continuing, “no’ when ye do it so well.”

  Instead of defending himself—or apologizing—Ross threw back his head and laughed. The sun caught the deep bronze of his throat, and if she hadn’t been completely mesmerized by him before, she certainly was now.

  Still chuckling, he shook his head, then squeezed her shoulder, before dropping his hand. That little gesture sent a warmth through her which had naught to do with his nearness, and everything to do with the way he made her feel.

  Accepted. As if they belonged together.

  Nay.

  Nay, he was a Fraser, and his loyalties were split.

  She was loyal only to the Queen and the Angels, and that was all she could ever be.

  Best to change the topic. “What’s yer next challenge?”

  Grinning in that easy way of his, he beckoned her away from the trees. “I’ve mastered yer skill—”

  Her incredulous snort interrupted him. “Mastered? Nay, ye’ve barely completed it.”

  “Fair.” He chuckled. “Although if anyone asks, I’ll claim I’m a master.”

  “Ye’re arrogant, is what ye are.”

  He whirled, his free hand clutching the swath of tartan which crossed in front of his chest. “Was that another joke? Ye’re teasing me?” When she did naught more than glare at him, he waggled his brows at her. “Next, ye’ll shock me by smiling, I suppose.”

  And, saints preserve her, but she almost did.

  “Get on with it, Fraser,” she growled instead, propping her right fist on her hip.

  “Aye, milady,” he retorted, with a solemn vow.

  Before she could reprimand him for calling her such a ridiculous title, he’d straightened, his eyes still twinkling, and held out his bow.

  “Are ye watching?”

  As if she could do aught else besides watch him, standing there with the sunlight dappling his shoulders, and his entire stance at ease.

  She nodded.

  He shifted his quiver so it hung behind him, dangling down over that fine arse of his. It was unconventional, and wouldn’t work atop a horse, but she settled back on her heels to watch.

  Turning for the trees once more, he inhaled. Then, faster than she could blink, he’d pulled an arrow from the quiver behind him and sent it sailing for the distant target.

  Naught unusual there. Court opened her mouth to say as such, when he surprised her.

  In one smooth movement, he tossed his bow from his left hand and caught it in his right, his hand sliding easily into the grip below the rest, even as his left hand was pulling a new arrow from the quiver.

  This one found its mark as well.

  “By His wounds,” she muttered, stepping forward.

  He turned, his lips pulled into a smirk. “Impressive, aye? I learned that from Lachlan’s uncle, afore he left the clan. The man was a skilled warrior, aright.”

  “Ye just…switched hands? Are ye as accurate with yer left?”

  He shook his head, offering his bow, even as she reached for it. Propping hers against her leg and turning his over in her hands, she could see it was built to be used by either side.

  “Nay, my right eye is more accurate. I can hit targets farther on that side.” He shrugged. “But ‘tis a useful skill for a warrior to have; to be able to switch sides, especially atop a horse in battle.”

  “Ye can do this from horseback?” she asked incredulously.

  When he nodded, she shoved his bow back at him. “Show me.”

  So he did.

  Unfortunately, that meant dropping his own weapon to the ground, stepping behind Court and wrapping his arms around her, as he showed her how to reposition her entire body.

  Unfortunately?

  Nay, this wasn’t bad at all.

  The bulk of him rose behind her, cradling her. She couldn’t resist leaning back just slightly, pressing against his body, reveling in his strength.

  And as she stood there, she felt the thick hardness of his erection grow against the cleft of her arse.

  They both made a noise—was it a moan?—before she jerked forward once more.

  “The technique,” she reminded him, in a hoarse whisper.

  “Aye.” He cleared his throat. “Ye have to learn to brace yer right arm like so.”

  He showed her, and if neither had forgotten the warmth between them and their shared arousal…well, then, at least they both learned to ignore it.

  It was soon natural, to mirror her usual pose. But her bow hadn’t been built like his.

  “Let us try flipping the damned thing over.” She showed him. “The arrow rest isnae ideal, down there, but mayhap…”

  Together, they worked at the technique until she was comfortable aiming with her left eye. But her glove made it difficult to pull the string with the finesse she was used to. Without feeling the draw against her skin, it was impossible to know when to release with any accuracy.

  Finally, with a frustrated curse, Court stepped forward and slapped her bow against her thigh, as she glared down at her left hand.

  “With this damned glove on, I willnae be able to hit anything I’m aiming for.”

  He shrugged, bending to scoop up the loosed arrows. “Then remove the glove.”

  Nay.

  It was a part of her. It hid a part of her.

  She looked up to see him watching her. Not judging, not teasing, just…waiting. Waiting for her to simply
remove the glove.

  She shook her head.

  With another shrug, he spread his hands, arrows and all, as if to say the contest was closed.

  “Ye have admitted I’m more accurate over distances, and I have learned yer technique, if no’ mastered it.”

  He waited for her to roll her eyes, because he must have known she would.

  “But unless ye remove yer glove, ye’ll no’ learn my technique, which would make me the winner of our little contest.”

  Glaring, she snatched the arrows from his hand and shoved them back into her quiver as she stormed past him. “Fine! Ye win!”

  Before she could get more than a pace away, he stopped her with a hand on her forearm. Instinctively, she twisted in his grip, trying to throw off his hold, but his hand slipped to hers, and he tugged.

  He was stronger, and she ended up pressed against his chest.

  Exactly where she wanted to be.

  Exactly where she couldn’t be.

  With his free hand, he lifted her chin. “Ye didnae ask what the forfeit would be, Court,” he rumbled.

  Her eyes locked on his lips, and she knew.

  “What…” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “What is the forfeit, Ross?” she whispered.

  “God’s Blood, but I love it when ye say my name,” he growled, right before his lips crashed down upon hers.

  One hand was pinned at her side by his grip, but she still had another arm and both legs free. She knew how to fight off a man’s advances. Charlotte had made sure all her Angels knew how to do that, from the very beginning.

  But this was Ross, and despite everything Court’s mind claimed, her body very much wanted this.

  Surging up on her toes, she pressed her chest against his, even as she wrapped her free arm around his neck, pulling him closer. He groaned against her lips, and she opened hers, drawing his tongue in to play with hers.

  Blessed Virgin!

  He was everything she’d remembered, and more. He tasted of Ross, and as long as she lived, she doubted she’d ever forget his flavor.

  His lips ravished hers, and she gave as good as she got, tugging and suckling, until he moaned again. That’s when one of his hands—the one resting on her shoulder—dropped to her upper arm, then to her chest.

  His palm cupped her breast through the wool of her tunic, and she pressed into his hold, even as her pelvis surged against his erection.

  When his lips left hers, she drew in a gasp of air, but forgot to breathe completely, as they moved to her jaw, then her neck.

  “Ross,” she moaned, dropping her head back to allow him better access. The heat at her center was becoming unbearable, and she ground the part of her which craved him so much against his cock. “Ross!”

  “Aye, lass,” he murmured against her skin. “Aye, my angel.”

  His fingers found her nipple through the tunic and shirt, pinching it the way he must’ve remembered she loved. His other hand cupped her arse, pulling her tighter against him, even as he thrust his own pelvis toward her.

  “Court, I—”

  She didn’t know what he was asking, but she gasped, “Yes!” as his fingers dug into the space between her buttocks, urging her to lift one leg and wrap it around his hip.

  She did, and they both moaned in unison at the way it brought her heat, her core, closer to his cock.

  A part of her mind was screaming at her to stop, to remember he was a Fraser, and loyal to a traitor. But her body—and her heart—wasn’t listening.

  This was Ross, and she’d given herself to him long ago.

  She was wrapped around him now, sharing his breath, and shuddering at the feel of his hands on her body.

  Court likely would’ve stripped nude right there on the shore of the loch, and damned the consequences, had his dog not chosen that very moment to barrel into them, knocking them into the dirt, with him atop them both.

  All she knew was, one moment she was upright, every inch of her skin alive for him…and the next, she was smooshed against him, unable to draw a breath, with a massive weight on her back.

  Next to her ear, Ross cursed, apparently understanding what had happened. He rolled, taking her with him, until her back was pressed against the ground, and his body was between her and the danger.

  “Honor! Off! Jesu Christo, get off, ye stupid beast!” One arm cradled her head, protecting her, and his other batted at the shaggy head even now trying to lick his ear. “Get off, Honor.”

  Courtney couldn’t help it; her body had jumped from desire to danger response so quickly, it had left her feeling drained, and now Ross was experiencing the same thing she had a sennight ago in Scone. Honor was standing atop him, doing his best to convince Ross to play, and the man’s disappointed curses were increasingly frantic.

  So, nay, she couldn’t help it when the humor of the situation bubbled up in her chest and escaped her lips, and Court began to laugh.

  Chapter 7

  They reached Kintyre the next day, and Ross was almost disappointed.

  Aye, he was ready for this mission to be complete, to have some answers they could return to Queen Elizabeth, but he was also enjoying himself.

  Something had changed yesterday afternoon by the loch. For his part, he knew exactly what it was; he’d finally—finally!—had the chance to taste her again.

  Kissing Court had been everything he’d remembered, the way she’d met him head-on like that, giving as good as she’d got.

  He’d been stiff and unfulfilled after, aye, and ready to strangle Honor, but it had been a relief to have her in his arms once more. He was more at ease now, more relaxed, even if his cock hadn’t seemed to soften a bit since then.

  But Courtney…?

  She was different too. He wondered what that kiss had meant to her, but more than the kiss, it was the laughter which had changed her.

  Lying there in the dirt beside the loch, Honor standing on his back, Ross had surged up on his elbows to stare at her in disbelief.

  She’d been laughing.

  He could count on two hands the number of times he’d seen this stoic partner of his smile, never more than that, but there she was, laughing. And when she did laugh, she put all of herself into it.

  Her head had fallen back against the dirt, her lips—lips he’d been kissing moments before—stretched wide, and tears leaked from her eyes.

  He hadn’t even minded she was laughing at him.

  God’s Wounds, but she’d been a sight.

  But his dog’s playful attack had broken the mood of their desire. Ross would’ve gladly made love to her, even after he’d untangled himself from Honor’s paws, but she gave no indication she was still interested.

  She’d kept her distance, but every once in a while, she’d look his way and a small smile would flit across her lips, and that was enough.

  He’d taken a long, cold swim in that loch.

  And this morning, he’d woken up with her in his arms. They’d fallen asleep back-to-back, as was their custom since that night in the barn near Loch Fyne, but sometime during the night, he’d rolled over and fitted himself around her, and it felt right. Her arse nestled against him, his arm around her middle…they matched perfectly.

  They were a team.

  Partners.

  “There should be a sentry around here somewhere.”

  Her words, the first she’d spoken since they’d broken camp this morning, startled him. They’d reached the edge of a thick forest, and were now picking their way through. Even as she spoke, they stepped into shadows so deep, it seemed as if it were twilight, despite the sun shining high in the sky above the woven branches.

  He peered into the gloom on either side of the road they followed. “If he’s here, he’s doing a piss-poor job.”

  The noise she made might’ve been considered a chuckle from anyone else, but from her, it was likely a snort. “The Hand used to post a watch each day, here at the shadow-line. At this point, ‘tis too far back to the open road to run, and the
trees offer highwaymen protection.”

  His horse danced sideways toward hers, and he loosened his grip on the reins as she began a cautious forward pace. “One day, ye’ll tell me how ye ken so much of these bandits.”

  When she glanced at him, as if she didn’t understand, he raised a brow.

  “Ye identified the sign of the gang right away, Court. Ye’ve been leading us exactly to them for days. Ye cannae deny ye ken—”

  “I donae,” she snapped, then shook her head and took a breath. “I don’ deny it. But I don’ ken exactly where they are. This wood is wide, and they move about. The sentry—”

  “Aye?”

  She finished softly, saying, “He’ll ken. He’ll take us.”

  He was about to ask how they’d manage to find him, when she stood in her stirrups and pursed her lips. He thought she might whistle, the way he would call commands to Honor, who was even now padding silently beside them. But instead, she made a warbling noise which ended on a high sharp note. Then she turned her head in a different direction, and did it again.

  When she settled back in her saddle, he hummed. “For the sentry?”

  She didn’t need to reply, for at that moment, a wiry dark-haired man dropped from a tree about thirty feet in front of them. He’d been waiting—watching—and Court’s signal had alerted him.

  “How'd ye ken that call, lass?” he growled, his speech garbled.

  “Because ye taught it to me, Morgan.”

  The man straightened, which didn’t make him much taller, and squinted at the pair of them. “Well bless me! English, where ye been?”

  English.

  Ross remembered what she’d said about not knowing her people, her clan. She’d thought she had a family once, but had been proven wrong. And the way this Morgan person said the word English, made it seem as if it wasn’t a nice name.

  Even as Court lifted her chin, Ross was nudging his horse up beside her. To show support—but he wasn’t sure if he was proving it to her, or to the wiry little man.

  “I’ve been in Scone, where he sent me. And now I’m back.”

  “Aye, but fer what?” Morgan sauntered toward them, eyeing their horses and Ross’s sword. Was he judging a threat or adding up values, as a highwayman would? “Ye’ve come back with a lawman?”