The Highlander’s Angel

by Lee, Caroline

  He tugged her closer, pressing her palms against his chest with his own hands. He knew she could feel his strong heartbeat, and wondered if she understood what it meant.

  “Now ye’re an Angel, Court.”

  My Angel.

  She held his gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes. He let her, hoping she’d see the truth of how much he cared for her.

  Mayhap she did, because her lovely brown eyes widened slightly, and she opened her mouth to respond.

  But hers wasn’t the voice he heard.

  “The chief will see ye now.”

  Morgan had returned.

  Chapter 8

  Court felt …hollow.

  She’d confessed everything, told Ross everything about her past…and he’d kissed her?

  Nay, that hadn’t been a kiss. When his lips had touched her brand, he was telling her he accepted her and everything she’d told him about her past.

  That had been a benediction.

  And as they followed Morgan through the trees, leading their horses, with Honor bounding along beside them, Ross took her hand. He held her hand, and that, more than anything, healed her.

  She’d emptied herself, and now the knowledge of his support, his caring, was filling her again. A sense of surety followed the warmth up her arm from his touch, settling in her chest, where it chased the hollowness away.

  And she knew the truth: Somewhere between that night long ago, and his benediction today, she’d fallen in love with Ross Fraser.

  And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that fact.

  Falling in love with him would divide her loyalties, which she shouldn’t allow. Couldn’t allow, as Cam had taught her years before.

  But when she felt Ross squeeze her hand, she knew she couldn’t dither over her feelings, not when an important mission such as this was at hand. They were deep in the territory of the Red Hand, and for better or worse, they’d soon find out what they needed to know.

  And she’d have to face Cam again.

  “Are ye ready?” Ross murmured under his breath, as Honor moved ahead of them.

  Staring at Morgan’s back, moving ever farther from safety, Court admitted the truth. “Nay.”

  Ross’s chuckle wasn’t a pleasant one. “Better get ready.”

  “Aye,” she breathed, and their destination appeared before them.

  The camp of the Red Hand shifted, as she’d told him, but some things stayed the same. There were always watchtowers in the highest trees, and tents along the outskirts of the glen. If it was a good spot, and well-hidden, Cam had sometimes allowed structures to be built, and it looked as if the tradition still continued.

  She remembered this spot. Mayhap they’d camped here when she was younger. Two of the waddle and daub homes looked to be from her first stay here, but another two were newer builds. One was larger, with a higher roof.

  Did Cam, as the leader, sleep there? He’d never been one for ceremony, but she could think of no one else who would merit such an honor.

  No one, that is, until she saw the man striding toward her.

  She breathed a cursed under her breath.

  Andrew of Lovat was still a large man, with a beard she used to think could hide a badger. His ham-like hands were spread to either side, and his smile seemed genuine.

  “English! Ye’ve returned to us! I doubted wee Morgan’s eyesight, but here ye are!”

  Beside her, Ross made a strangled noise as she pulled away from him and stepped into Andrew’s arms. The larger man—huge man, truth be told—nearly lifted her from the ground, and she fought the need to lash out in order to protect herself.

  He was Cam’s second-in-command; it wouldnae do them any good to anger him.

  “There ye go, English, ‘tis good to have ye back!” He released her and stepped back, his heavy hands settling on her shoulders as he examined her. “Ye’re looking none the worse. I heard about yer stint in the gaol.”

  Unable to hide her wince, she gave thanks for having already confessed to Ross. Andrew’s examination made her uncomfortable, but the man always had. It wasn’t just his size, it was the way he looked at her, as if he was judging her, wondering if he could take her.

  As he’d taken so many of the other women in camp over the years.

  Her closeness with Cam had always prevented him from forcing her into anything, but he never missed the chance to touch her, as he was doing now.

  Ye’re stronger now, she reminded herself.

  Shrugging off his hands, she stepped back and met his eyes, chin up. “Aye, I survived, and now I have business with the chief.”

  When he smiled, she could almost see his teeth amid the big black beard. “Ye’re looking at him.”

  She reeled back. “Where is Cam?”

  “Cam, eh?” The big man crossed his arms, one hand stroking his beard thoughtfully, as his gaze flicked between her and Ross, and then the two horses. Judging their worth, most likely. “Cam left the Red Hand to me.”

  Cam left?

  “Is he dead?” she choked out.

  “Dead? Nay!” His booming laughter sounded forced. “He went after ye, stupid lass. But ye’re back where ye belong, and ye’ve brought yer man with ye, I see.”

  Went after ye went after ye went after ye

  Such a simple statement, to have taken up her entire world so quickly.

  Cam had gone after her?

  He’d actually given up his leadership to find her?

  Why?

  She wanted clarification, and would get it, just as soon as she could think straight again.

  What had Andrew last said?

  Oh, something about her man.

  Was Ross her man? She’d once wanted him to be, but now, she wasn’t sure of anything.

  “This is Ross,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Andrew of Lovat.”

  “A Fraser, eh?” Andrew boomed, eyeing her companion. “I ken ye.”

  For the first time, Ross spoke, his voice hard. “Aye, Ross Fraser. I’d say ‘tis good to see ye again, milord, but somehow I doubt that.”

  * * *

  He hadn’t heard what the man had said to Court to make her go so pale, but Ross wasn’t willing to put anything past Andrew Fraser.

  The man looked exactly the same as Ross remembered: Big, hairy and loud. And the finest warrior Ross had ever known.

  As the younger brother to Michael, the Fraser laird, Andrew had always been noisy with his disagreements. No one was really sure where he’d stood on the topic of the Comyns and the Bruces—unlike Michael, who’d made no secret of his hatred for King Robert—but he’d chafed under Michael’s leadership.

  Before his death, Michael Fraser’s heavy hand had chased off his youngest son, and Michael’s brother Andrew had followed not long after, to “look for the lad.” As far as Ross knew, no Fraser had ever heard a single thing about the man or his whereabouts again.

  Did Andrew even know his brother and two nephews were dead?

  Thank God Andrew hadn’t challenged Lachlan for the lairdship two years before, because Ross wasn’t confident his friend could’ve won.

  Even now, Andrew Fraser was stroking his beard and eyeing him in a way which told Ross he wasn’t going to like the outcome.

  Finally, the man dropped his hand and smiled, although it appeared false to Ross.

  “Ross Fraser, by the saints! I recall when ye were nae bigger than my knee, begging after me to teach ye to wield a sword!”

  Pointed barbs?

  Aye, Ross could play at that game as well. “And I recall when ye and the other auld men taught me about honor and loyalty and righteousness.”

  This time his laugh seemed genuine, as Andrew mimed thrusting a blade into his own chest. “Ooh, a hit! Yer tongue has grown sharp, lad!”

  Ross’s hand tightened around the grip of his sword, hating this feeling of uncertainty. “I’ve had practice.”

  Andrew continued to chuckle, even as he gave them both his back—a signal of trust—and gestured
for them to follow him. “Morgan, care for their horses. We’re just sitting down to sup, and ye—and that massive shaggy beast of yers—will be my honored guests tonight!”

  Ross exchanged a glance with Court as they fell into step behind the man. She still seemed to be reeling from the knowledge he knew Andrew, and he longed to be able to take her aside and discuss everything they’d just learned.

  But with no privacy, they each did as Andrew commanded.

  Dinner was as raucous an affair as Ross might’ve imagined a bandit gang could manage. The meat was fresh—poached, no doubt—and the ale strong. There was no bread, since they were without a baker, but the food was still filling and well-seasoned.

  Ross sat beside Court, and both of them played their parts. She stood for toasts, and even gave a few of her own, “To the glory of the Red Hand,” while he laughed uproariously at all the ribald jokes and teasing thrown their way.

  Apparently, led by Andrew of Lovat’s jokes, the gang believed the two of them to be a couple, and Ross was in no mood to disabuse them of the notion.

  If they thought Court was his, then no man would bother her, least of all Andrew Fraser, who was still tossing her speculative glances when her attention was elsewhere.

  To Ross’s surprise, there were more than a few women in camp as well. Some were dressed as whores, some in men’s trewes as Court was, and there was even one woman in a nun’s habit, who sat at a table with scrolls spread around her and ignored the company.

  The Red Hand was a well-run organization, for certes.

  But were they guilty of assassination against the Queen?

  Thrice, Ross began to steer conversation in that direction, and thrice, Court would nudge him with her knee to shut him up. Once, he glared at her, and Andrew made a ribald suggestion, which was met with laughter and taunts.

  To Ross’s surprise, Court met the suggestion by standing up and quaffing the rest of her ale—if he hadn’t known better, he would say her swaying was a result of too much to begin with, rather than skillful playacting—and tossed her flagon behind her. Then she placed her hand on his shoulder and smiled.

  Smiling like a woman who is sure of her place in the world, and her man beside her.

  Drunk or no, Ross wrapped his arm around her waist, and with a possessive growl, tugged her into his lap.

  This kiss might’ve been for show, but it rivaled yesterday’s, and caused a cheer to go up among the gathered men.

  Court stayed on his lap, playing the lover admirably. He fed her hazelnuts, and she played with the hair at the base of his neck. He decided he could understand why a man might choose a lawless life like this, if it brought such freedom.

  Nay, it was Courtney who made him feel this way.

  The two of them sat together long into the evening, long after the meal was over, listening to Andrew and his lieutenants talk business. Her head lolled against his shoulder, looking for all the world like a comfortable wench, but he knew she was just as alert as he was and was listening for clues.

  Even if the Red Hand wasn’t guilty of treason, they were criminals. And Court and Ross were determined to return to Scone with as much understanding of their methods as possible.

  As if sensing their intent, Andrew made sure no one spoke of aught too serious, cutting off his subordinates when any of them began a topic he deemed unsuitable for current company. Instead, they talked about scores and prizes and the amount of money they’d taken that season, amid much laughter and taunting.

  To Ross’s ears, it was their way of showing the two of them how powerful the Red Hand was. He just smiled drunkenly and pulled Court closer to him, hoping he looked content among these lowlifes. If they thought she was returning to them, and had brought “her man” with her, he would play the part in order to get what they came for.

  Andrew Fraser was the leader of the Red Hand, and Ross almost scoffed to think it. How had such a great man fallen so far?

  Or had he?

  As Ross watched, the lieutenants began to wander off into the darkness, and a young woman with her large breasts on display leaned over Andrew’s shoulder.

  “Are ye ready for sleep, milord?” she teased, then squealed as he tugged her into his lap.

  Mayhap Andrew didn’t see this as a fall.

  Mayhap being the leader of an organization like this one—money and prizes and freedom and willing wenches—was worth giving up his honor as a Fraser.

  But if Andrew—a Fraser—was here, without honor, what did that say about Ross’s clan and his loyalties?

  God’s Blood, it was a quandary, and one which didn’t look to be capable of being solved anytime soon, judging from the way the wench was giggling as Andrew nibbled at her cleavage.

  Court shifted on his lap, and although he knew she was just as alert as he was, just as determined to understand what was going on, Ross couldn’t help the way his body reacted.

  Mayhap it was the randy display going on across the table, or mayhap it was the memory of that kiss they’d shared, but his cock stirred.

  Her hold on his neck tightened.

  Had she felt the evidence of his arousal?

  When her lips brushed against the skin at the base of his neck, he swallowed his groan. Apparently she had felt him stir, and hadn’t minded in the least.

  Or was this only for show as well?

  Abruptly, Andrew straightened, causing the wench in his lap to gasp and clutch at him to keep from spilling to the ground.

  “Ye see, Ross?” He nodded to Court, who pretended to ignore the larger man, even though her lips had stilled against Ross’s skin. “ ’Tis why Cam sent her away.”

  He felt her stiffen, and knew she was dying to ask, but couldn’t. But he could.

  And did.

  “Why?” he drawled, in his best impression of a tired drunkard.

  “Because the wee minx is a tease. She pranced around here like a queen, when she was naught more than a pair o’ tits.” He shook his head with a chuckle. “A fine pair o’ tits, I’ll admit, and one I would’ve enjoyed, had she stayed.” The man shrugged, as if it mattered naught. “Cam kenned I’d no’ be denied longer.”

  Ross knew she was holding her breath, and realized he’d stiffened in anger as well. Andrew had all but admitted he’d lusted after Courtney, who’d been little more than a girl, and would have taken her by force.

  ‘Tis why Cam sent her away.

  To protect her from Andrew.

  Had she heard that? Had she understood what it meant?

  Cam hadn’t chosen his loyalty to his men over her.

  He had chosen her safety over them.

  Andrew was peering at him, awaiting an answer.

  Damnation.

  What kind of answer could a man give to an admission like that?

  Ross did his best to shrug nonchalantly, then lifted his other hand to wrap around Court, holding her against him.

  Where she belonged.

  “Well, yer loss is my gain, milord.”

  The reminder of their shared kinship caused Andrew’s face to split into a grin once more. Or mayhap Ross had passed a test of some sort.

  Whatever the reason, the bigger man bounced to his feet, pulling the wench with him. “I’ll wish ye pleasant dreams then. Molly, lass, let’s to bed.”

  The wench giggled. “Sleepy, Andrew?”

  He grabbed at her arse. “Never!” When she took off at a trot, he followed, then called over his shoulder, “Ross, ye will find some privacy in the armory,” and pointed at the largest recently constructed building.

  It wasn’t until the two of them disappeared into one of the tents that Court exhaled and truly relaxed against him.

  Under his breath, with his arms still tight around her, he murmured, “Think ye can make it to the armory, my drunk love?”

  She snorted against his skin. “I’m no more drunk than ye, but enjoying myself immensely.”

  She was?

  Because, with her in this position, the way she was touch
ing him, Ross’s cock might be able to get harder, but he wasn’t sure how.

  “Ross?” she asked in a small voice, lifting her head off his shoulder. “Are ye interested in some privacy?”

  To talk?

  Or to “discuss” other, more intimate, topics?

  Either way…

  “Aye,” he managed.

  The two of them did an admirable impression of a drunken couple, staggering against one another and laughing on their way to the largest building. Well, he laughed and she chuckled, but only someone who’d never heard her real laugh would think it honest. Of course, he’d known her for many years before he’d heard her laugh, so mayhap that was a short list.

  Once inside, Ross closed the door and barred it, gesturing for her to light one of the pitch-soaked torches.

  The room had a high ceiling, with room for a loft overhead. The now-waning moon shone through high windows with no coverings, and the back half of the room was filled with spoils from the group’s raids; trunks and weapons, and even a few pieces of furniture such as the heavy table in the center of the room.

  There were also stores, obviously set aside for the coming winter, including a thick pile of furs. Sinking down onto the comfortable pile, Court watched him as he examined their space, with Honor dogging his heels.

  She was the one to break the silence.

  “Ye ken him? Andrew, I mean?” she asked in a low tone.

  Glancing toward the high windows, Ross doubted anyone could hear them, but kept his own voice quiet when he responded. “Aye. He’s Lachlan’s uncle, the one who went missing years ago.”

  He watched her sharp mind working behind her dark eyes. “He’s the one who taught ye the archery technique? Switching hands?”

  With a lopsided smile, he placed the torch in a holder on the wall. “Ye remember that? Aye, he taught me that technique, among others. I’ll show them to ye, now that ye removed that glove.”

  She lifted her left hand and turned it this way and that. “Seems odd to be without it.”

  “ ’Twas a part of ye, now ‘tis no’.” He crossed to her and pulled her to her feet, making sure his hold on her left hand tightened. “Ye need no’ hide who ye are, Court, neither good nor bad.”