Kneeling on the floor would throw off the enemy’s aim, if someone were firing back at her, and allow her relative ease in scouting.
She nocked her first arrow, her gaze going to the men in the center of the clearing. She didn’t have a clear shot at Andrew, but she did have a view of the man—one of Andrew’s lieutenants—rushing toward Ross’s unprotected back with his sword raised.
Unprotected?
Nay.
Her arrow took him in his temple, and he went down without a sound.
Without him in the way, she could see his compatriot, who shifted his weight from side to side, his beady eyes intent on the battle before him. She nocked and drew another arrow, her gaze latched onto him.
Suddenly he darted forward, obviously sensing an opening. Court didn’t give him the opportunity, and he fell with her arrow in his chest, screaming on his way down to the ground.
That drew the attention of the man with the bow, and Honor as well.
The dog lunged forward again, his snarls mixing with the sounds of Andrew’s blade clashing against Ross’s, as he tugged futilely against Morgan’s hold. She wanted to shout to the beast, to tell him to stay where he was. If he were to attack Andrew now, he’d be as likely to be harmed as a help.
Besides, the archer was the more immediate threat.
He’d been standing on the sidelines, his arrow drawn, as he waited for an opportunity to help Andrew. He was a young man, too young for her to recognize, and it was clear he considered the bow his primary weapon, the same as she did.
Was he as good as she was?
They’d soon find out. He swung his aim from the battle to sweep for the new threat, but Court was hidden well enough he didn’t immediately see her.
The man darted away from the fight, likely deciding Andrew could handle himself, and made for the table where they’d supped last night. As she drew another arrow, he ducked behind Andrew’s large chair, and she lost the shot.
But there was another threat now, a fourth man rushed toward the combatants.
By all the Saints, these men were treacherous! They would stab an honorable man in his back?
Criminals, lass.
No honor among the Red Hand, she remembered, as she loosed the arrow which took this man in his chest.
The other archer had been waiting for her shot apparently. Before the other man even hit the ground, the hidden archer had spotted her and fired his own arrow. It drilled into the door above her head, pushing open the door and stealing some of her cover.
She cursed under her breath as she pulled three arrows from her quiver and backed into the shadows.
From her new position, she could still fire, but would he be able to see her?
Another arrow whizzed though the opening, answering her question. She didn’t flinch, but nocked and pulled all three of her shots, one after the other.
None hit the archer, but the barrage caused him to duck for cover once more.
There’d been a sixth henchman. Where was he?
Time to let Honor do what he needed to do.
With the archer down for a moment, she shifted her aim to Morgan. The wiry man had never been a favorite of hers, but they had a history. Could she kill him?
Mayhap she didn’t need to.
As Morgan yanked hard on Honor’s rope once more, biting into the beast’s neck and cursing at him, she loosed her arrow. It hit exactly where she’d intended; right above his wrist, skewering one forearm to the other and causing him to drop the rope entirely.
His scream was cut off when Honor whirled and lunged for him, teeth barred.
Court didn’t see what happened next, because another arrow whistled past her face, uncomfortably close. Diving for the right side of the doorjamb, she prayed it was enough protection, while also cursing her choice.
From this position, she’d be forced to reveal most of her body when she leaned out to take a shot. It wasn’t ideal, not when the archer knew where she was, and knew she was right-handed.
Well, she knew where he was, and she had a new skill, didn’t she?
Ross and Andrew were still clashing, although both seemed to be tiring. It was hard to imagine Ross wearying, but Andrew—despite his age—was even larger, and he’d been Ross’s trainer, hadn’t he? They were evenly matched, and from where she knelt, she could see blood on both of their chests.
Best end this soon.
She was an Angel. No one would harm her man, not while she still breathed.
Her left palm was sweaty when she passed an arrow to that hand and took the bow grip in her right. This wasn’t a comfortable position, not in the way her usual grip was. Mellie teased her she’d rather sleep with her bow than a man, and it’d been true, before she’d been partnered with Ross. But what her fellow Angel meant was that Court was most comfortable with a bow in her hand.
Though this didn’t feel right.
Still, she trusted Ross and trusted his teaching.
Taking a deep breath, she nocked and pulled the arrow with her left hand, the way Ross had taught her. Without her glove now, she could feel the bowstring’s tension, as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. Without the glove, she could fire this way just as well as she could her usual way.
God willing.
She exhaled and stilled, waiting for her shot. Only her left eye showed around the doorjamb, and she knew the archer wouldn’t be looking for her in this position.
Sure enough, he exposed himself.
Apparently lacking the ability to fire from either hand, the Red Hand archer had to swing his entire body up and around when he broke cover, and she was waiting for him.
Her arrow, loosed by her left hand and shot with her left eye, took him in his throat.
Threat eliminated.
Honor chose that moment to let out a series of fierce barks as he turned from what was left of Morgan, the dog’s teeth dripping red. The noise must’ve startled Ross, because he suddenly staggered backward.
She cursed under her breath, readying another arrow to fire at Andrew. She knew Ross wouldn’t appreciate her killing his opponent, not when they were faced fairly and with honor.
But he could be irritated at her after.
When they ended this alive.
Pulling back the string, she narrowed her eyes, her attention on Andrew.
And that’s when the sixth man, the last Red Hand lieutenant, charged.
* * *
Ross took no joy in this fight.
Aye, the man had threatened Court, and aye, he was evil to speak of assassination so blithely.
But Andrew Fraser was still a kinsman, one Ross had fought beside and quaffed beside many a time, and it would hurt to kill the man.
That said, Andrew might be older, but he was by no means weak. He’d been a formidable opponent when he was training Ross and the other Fraser warriors, and since becoming a criminal mastermind, he’d apparently only pushed himself harder.
He was strong and fast and skilled.
But Ross was stronger and faster, and more motivated.
He could tell they were each tiring, their blows not as strong as they once were. Although he still felt confident in his ability to end the battle, Ross could admit it needed to end sooner, rather than later.
Court needed protection.
At least, that’s what he thought, until he saw the second man fall from the corner of his eye. It took only a moment’s glance to understand, and he didn’t bother hiding his grin.
Court didn’t need his protection.
“What are ye grinning about, ye fool?” Andrew growled, his breath coming in heaves now, as he thrust his sword toward Ross’s gut.
Ross blocked and twisted, using the momentum to drag his blade along the older man’s, until Andrew leapt back with a curse, managing to keep all of his fingers intact.
Ross grunted. “Ye thought me in charge of this mission?” He scoffed, going on the offensive. “Ye’ll die today, Andrew, for yer threats against the Queen, and aga
inst Court.”
Andrew got his sword up in time to block Ross, and the two men met nose-to-nose in a contest of strength. Ross grinned mockingly at his opponent.
“And since ye’ll die, there’s nae harm in telling ye ‘tis Courtney who leads this mission. She is here to avenge the Queen, and I’m happy to help.”
Andrew spat out a curse, then jerked his knee up, a dishonorable—though effective—move, which forced Ross to twist to the side to take the blow on his hip.
Although their lock had been broken, he taunted his opponent with a tsking sound. “Court would be even angrier if she saw ye do that. She likes my bits.”
“She’ll like mine,” the other man growled, raising his sword once more, “when I kill ye and take her like the whore she is.”
Ross was facing the clearing, and he might’ve taken Andrew’s bait and howled with rage, except that was the moment when the Red Hand archer took an arrow to his throat and toppled over, gurgling on his own blood.
He couldn’t afford to turn around, to congratulate Court on that shot, but Ross didn’t bother hiding his grin once more.
“She’s nae a whore,” he announced almost cheerfully, knowing Court would be able to handle herself in any circumstance, “but she is mine.”
At that moment, Honor barked loudly, and although Ross couldn’t see the cause, he watched Andrew jerk in surprise. Using that, he pretended to stumble backward, hoping Andrew would think him startled as well.
The ploy worked, and as he was “finding his feet”—his attention on Andrew from the corner of his eye—the older man leveled his sword.
Ross was turning to meet the attack when a new threat appeared, a man with a blade. Had they been farther apart, Ross would’ve let Court eliminate this threat, as she apparently had done the others, but there was no time to hesitate, and no space.
The Red Hand lieutenant’s dirk was inches from Ross’s chest, when he lowered his shoulder and shifted his attention—and his attack. His sword took the man in the gut, and with a heave and a roar—cursing all cowards who would attack a man’s back—Ross dragged the blade up through the man’s chest.
Even as he was pulling his sword free, he felt something brush the back of his neck, and knew he wouldn’t be able to turn in time. Andrew was behind him with a bared blade, and Ross had no defense.
Except, he did.
Time slowed to a crawl as he twisted, not even bothering to pray, as he hefted his sword in an unnecessary block.
Andrew stood behind him, his own blade leveled for an attack, and an arrow in his chest.
The older man stared wide-eyed at the fletching, which appeared to sprout from the center of his thick beard, then transferred his glare to the armory, where—God willing—Court was safe.
Releasing a groan, the leader of the Red Hand dropped his sword and stumbled backward, then fell to the ground
Ross wasted a moment to glance toward the armory, and when Court emerged from the shadows, he felt time speed up again.
Then her eyes left his and focused behind him, and Ross knew his fight wasn’t over yet.
But as he was turning, Honor barreled past him, the dog’s snout bloody, and his instincts on alert. The beast Ross had trained—the beast Lachlan had named Honor—had seen the same threat.
The dog landed on Andrew’s chest, his jaws lunging for the man’s throat. The older man had pulled a wicked-looking dirk, but the animal’s attack caused him to fall back again.
But it didn’t stop him from plunging the blade into the beast’s side.
Honor reared back with a howl, leaving more blood on Andrew’s throat, and Ross didn’t hesitate.
He stepped up beside the pair, lifted his blade, and plunged it through the throat of his fallen enemy.
Ye can threaten my queen. Ye can threaten my woman. But my dog? What kind of man does that?
He dropped to one knee beside Honor, and was pleased when the dog’s head lolled toward him, and his big tongue tried to lick Ross’s cheek. It didn’t quite reach, and the beast struggled upright to try again.
Chuckling, Ross pushed against his pet, his hands searching through the fur for the wound. When he found it, the dog whimpered, a pitiful sound, before trying to climb into Ross’s lap.
“How is he?”
Ross looked up and met Court’s worried gaze for a moment. She carried her bow, an arrow nocked and ready, and her back to the dog as she scanned the empty clearing.
Empty, that is, with the exception of the dead.
“He’s— Oof!” Ross chuckled as he pushed Honor back. “Lie still for a moment, wee beastie.” He tore a piece of his own plaid and pressed it against the dog’s side. “He’ll live. On this creature, ‘tis likely the dirk could sink up to its hilt and only encounter fur.”
She hummed in agreement, but didn’t cease her diligence. “There’s likely medical supplies in the armory, or we could search some of these other huts.”
Grunting, Ross heaved himself to his feet, the dog in his arms. “Actually, I’d prefer to just get out of here.”
That earned a quick smile from her. “Aye, a sound idea. I ken no’ if the rest of Andrew’s men are hiding, or are already off for the day, but someone is bound to object to our response to the Red Hand’s hospitality.”
“Another joke! Court, yer team willnae recognize ye when I return ye to Scone,” he teased, as they hurried for their horses.
She shot a glance his way. “I suspect ‘tis true, in more ways than one.”
I could be loyal to ye.
He was smiling when he placed Honor on the ground to saddle both their mounts.
Court stood guard and the dog stood by her side, his tongue hanging out, and his big head scanning for threats.
Together, they’d protected Ross today.
It was a heady feeling, to be loved by both of them.
Mayhap that was still on his mind as he encircled her with his arms from behind. She kept hold of her weapon, but relaxed against him.
“I was terrified for ye,” she whispered.
Was it easier to say the words without looking at one another?
Ross squeezed. “And I for ye. Ye, and this brave, foolish beast.”
She snorted softly. “He’s loyal to ye.”
“And to ye. He can be loyal to both, just as ye can be, Court.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then, “I’m sorry. For what we learned today. I ken ‘tis hard for ye to hear…”
“Aye, ‘tis so.” Ross inhaled, reveling in the knowledge they were both safe. “But I will survive. I have ye still, and my loyalty to the crown ‘twill be enough.”
It was true. If Lachlan Fraser was a traitor, then Ross would never again call him Laird. And sometime over the last sennight, that had ceased to matter as much.
He dropped a kiss to her neck. “Come on, partner. We have a report to deliver.”
Chapter 12
“ ’Tis a stupid pastime, Elizabeth,” came the growled complaint from inside the chamber.
Court and Ross exchanged a glance, pausing, with Court’s hand on the door.
“Mayhap, Charlotte, but useful at times.”
The Queen’s response was met with a snort, and Ross shrugged at Court in confusion. Courtney pushed the door open, and they stepped together, hand-in-hand, into the Queen’s solar.
Elizabeth sat on a padded bench, surrounded by her ladies, who gossiped and giggled while they worked. They were all bent over their embroidery, including a disgruntled-looking Charlotte, who appeared uncomfortable with her giant belly as she scowled at the thread she was holding.
Instinctively, Court scanned the gathered women, looking for her team. Mellie was missing, but Rosalind was sitting near the open window, holding one of her precious books at arms-length and frowning at the words.
Court had just a moment to wonder what she was reading that irritated her so, when Charlotte glanced up and noticed them.
“At last!” She tossed down her embroidery with m
ore than a little gusto and struggled to rise. “What news?”
“Charlotte!” snapped the Queen, a warning in her tone.
It was impossible to know if she was warning her friend not to exert herself, or warning them not to speak of secrets in front of her ladies, but either way, the leader of the Angels rolled her eyes as she sank back into her seat.
The Queen took her time in replacing her embroidery in a nearby basket, before lifting a regal hand. “You are all dismissed,” she commanded. “Isabel, my dear, I hope you’ll sit beside me at supper tonight?”
A beautiful young woman curtsied regally, a playful smile on her lips, as she murmured her appreciation for the favor. “I’ll stop in the nursery first, to ensure my Alex isnae annoying yer girls too much.”
“Thank ye, my friend.” The Queen’s sharp gaze drifted over her ladies as they departed. “Rosalind,” she called, “ye and Charlotte may stay.”
Holding her strung bow against her body, Court pulled Ross off to one side to allow the ladies the time to put away their projects and stream past. Some eyed the two of them—covered in mud from the road and wearing the same clothing they’d left in a fortnight before—with expressions ranging from derision to curiosity, and not for the first time, Court wondered which, if any of them, also worked for Charlotte.
Leaning down, Ross’s whisper tickled the hair above her ear. “ ’Tis glad I am we left Honor with the stablemaster, but I’ll wager the beast will have his supper afore us.”
Court didn’t take the time to look at him in acknowledgment, as her eyes were busy scanning the ladies leaving, but she offered a hum instead. “The stablemaster is a capable healer as well. The pup is all but healed, I wager, but he’ll enjoy some pampering.”
“Pup? The wee beastie has yer loyalty indeed.”
The thought—and the wording—tugged at Court’s lips. The three of them had ridden hard for the last few days, pushing their horses and themselves to reach the Queen. Honor had spent most of the time flopped over the saddle in front of Court, and she was happy to be able to scratch the beast’s ears, in appreciation for his bravery during the battle. They’d switched out horses twice, and at night…
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