The Highlander’s Angel

by Lee, Caroline

  To my vast irritation, there’s not a lot of info on Elizabeth after her return to Bannockburn, but Michael Penman does a pretty good job making educated guesses about her life in Robert the Bruce, the history of Bruce’s reign after Bannockburn. We know that Elizabeth was pregnant very soon after her return, and a few more times up until 1323. The Princesses Margaret and Maud were born during these years, although we don’t know exactly when.

  The point is, we don’t know a whole lot about Elizabeth’s life (we don’t even know when her daughters were born, for goodness’s sake!), so I figure that gives me leave to make up a bunch of stuff, right? You read all about Elizabeth’s wit and intelligence in The Bruce’s Angel, and I love the idea of her surrounding herself with loyal friends and capable women.

  After all, surely a lady who survived eight long years as an English prisoner understood that women could be just as badass as warriors!

  Before I mention the rest of those badass warriors, I need to give a shout-out to the Frasers of Lovat. This is the clan that, in the 14th Century, surrounded a good part of Loch Ness (with the Grants alongside). The Comyns were indeed nearby, but fealties were a tricky subject.

  There were many in Scotland who believed that John Comyn (called “Red” to differentiate him from the six other dudes named John Comyn) had a stronger claim to the Scottish throne than Robert Bruce, since he was the nephew of a previous king. Of course, once Red Comyn was dead (by Robert’s hand, more or less), and his son—another John—fell at Bannockburn (fighting for the English!), his supporters had little choice but to turn to Robert, who did win Scottish independence as promised.

  But there were plots against his rule, such as the Soules Conspiracy in 1320, when William de Soules gathered enough noble support to challenge Robert’s claim to the throne. That conspiracy was foiled, and the conspirators either executed or imprisoned.

  Of course, the assassination attempt in this story is complete fiction, but it’s in the spirit of the Soules Conspiracy. After Robert’s younger brother Edward was killed in Ireland, the Crown lost the King’s only male heir (Edward left behind a bastard son Alexander by his betrothed Isabel, and you can bet she’ll appear in later stories!), weakening Scotland’s future. With Robert and his possible heirs out of the way, the throne would be open to the strongest contender.

  But who could that be? And what do the Frasers of Lovat have to do with anything?

  If you’re ready to find out (and ready for some more hot, fast-paced Highland adventures), then check out the second book in the Highland Angels:

  The Laird’s Angel features Melisandre and the man she’s certain is a traitor to the Crown: Laird Lachlan Fraser! Read on for an excerpt!

  The Laird’s Angel excerpt

  Ready to discover why Mellie is betrothed? And to the Angels’ prime suspect, nonetheless? Fine out in The Laird’s Angel!

  * * *

  “My thanks.”

  The man met his eyes, and even in the dim light, Lachlan saw something flash in them, although he couldn’t tell their color. Alarm, mayhap, to go with the way the man sucked in a breath as his nostrils flared?

  The cutpurse’s leader turned, giving Lachlan his shoulder, his attention focused on the wall beside him, as if he couldn’t stand to look at Lachlan.

  “Ye’re a Fraser,” the man bit out.

  That much was likely obvious from the plaid Lachlan wore. “Aye, and who is the Red Hand?” It was likely rude to push for answers when the man had just saved his purse and Simone’s ribbon, but Lachlan wasn’t exactly feeling polite. “And why are ye watching the palace?”

  When the man swallowed, Lachlan could see the muscles flexing in his jaw, as if he wasn’t sure how to answer. Or was trying to keep his lies straight.

  Finally, without looking at him, the newcomer spoke tightly. “I am looking for…a woman. In the palace.”

  Lachlan’s gaze traveled over the man’s simple garb. He was clearly no nobleman, and the woman he was looking for could not be a lady.

  “Well, I have come from the palace, as yer men told ye. I might be able to help ye, as ye’ve helped me.”

  The man closed his eyes briefly, then let out a slow breath. As he turned, Lachlan saw movement behind him, in the shadows against one of the buildings. Something rose from a stack of crates and refuse, but before he could see it clearly, the blond man faced him once more, his shoulders back and his gaze direct.

  It was Lachlan’s turn to frown. God’s Blood, but the man seemed…familiar, somehow.

  “Her name is Courtney,” the man said. “I’ve tracked her this far, but her trail ends in the palace—”

  His words were cut off by the blade which materialized at his throat.

  Behind him, a shape rose up, and a voice hissed, “Ye’ll never get yer filthy claws into her again, ye Red Hand scum!”

  The man had frozen, eyes wide. But between one heartbeat and the next, his shoulders relaxed, his chin dropped, and Lachlan knew his plan. Knew it because it’d what Lachlan himself would do in that situation. Knew it because his Uncle Andrew had taught him how to fight back with a blade at his throat, and this man was prepared to do the same; lower his shoulder, kick back, and duck to the side, while grabbing and yanking the assailant.

  And he would’ve succeeded, because Lachlan would’ve succeeded.

  But in that moment, Lachlan knew he couldn’t allow it. Because he’d finally seen the figure holding the blade clearly, and knew he couldn’t allow this man to harm a woman.

  So before the stranger could step into his attack, Lachlan darted forward, his hand reaching for the front of the man’s tunic, and slammed his fist into his jaw.

  He’d tried to direct the force away from the woman, but the stranger’s head snapped back and knocked against her cheekbone, causing her to flinch away. Luckily, she had the presence of mind to pull the blade—a long, wicked looking dirk—away from the stranger’s throat, rather than spilling more blood on these filthy cobblestones.

  To Lachlan’s surprise, she made no more than a hiss of pain at the blow, and the stranger was knocked cold before he could utter a sound. The entire encounter took less than a few seconds, and was completely silent.

  Allowing the deadweight of the stranger to slip from his hand and slump senseless on the ground, Lachlan stepped toward his unlikely savior. The woman, who was currently staring, horrified, at the body on the ground, also looked familiar. What in damnation was wrong with him, that he was seeing familiar faces everywhere he turned today?

  As he stepped forward, she stumbled back, the blade gripped tightly in her hand, as she turned wide eyes to him. Recognition slammed into him. She’d been there, yesterday, in the throne room! Some sort of servant, surely, dressed as she’d been in a too-tight kirtle and drab gown. Today she wore gray, which had allowed her to blend into the shadows, but her dress was equally humble.

  Lachlan stretched out a hand to her, patting the air in a soothing gesture. “Shh,” he murmured. “’Tis aright. He cannae hurt ye now.”

  “Hurt me?” The woman shook her head. “He’s unconscious! Do ye have any idea how much force it takes to knock a man cold like that? He’ll likely have brain damage or—God above, I’m rambling.”

  ‘Twas likely hysteria. Lachlan tried a charming grin. “And do ye care? If he’s damaged?”

  The woman blew out a breath, which cased her breasts to do all sorts of interesting things, and shook her head. “’Twould’ve been nice to question him about the Red Hand, but ye’re safe, and that’s what matters.”

  “I’m safe?” Lachlan blurted, pausing mid-step.

  “Aye, and ye’re welcome for saving ye.”

  Slowly, he lowered his boot and peered at her. Was it possible the woman wasn’t having hysterics? God Above knew between Simone’s tantrums and Mother’s antics, he was used to women’s theatrics. But this woman didn’t seem concerned about the violence she’d just witnessed.

  On the contrary; as he watched, she bent over and y
anked up her skirts, revealing a pair of boots and smooth stockings—the silk was at odds with the course wool of her gown—and a leather sheath. With a smooth, practiced motion, she tucked the long dirk back into the leather, and fluffed her skirts back over it, straightening so quickly Lachlan wondered if he’d imagined it all.

  But nay, there she stood without a dirk, her hands folded in front of her and smiling up at him in a sort of patronizing way.

  “Aye,” she said slowly, as if he were hard of understanding. “Ye are safe. Now, be about yer business.” She unclasped her hands long enough to make a little shooing motion. “Forget ye saw me.”

  Forget? Lachlan snorted, his lips curving upward. Forget this angel in front of him?

  If anything, he’d likely store this vision in his memory and pull it out when he was alone with his hand. Now that he could see her clearly, the danger past, he felt himself stir at the sight. She was exactly the sort of woman he’d always fancied, as far from Alice’s pale slender form as possible.

  This woman, his savior, had thick curls, a color somewhere between gold and red, pulled back in a braid that was fighting a losing battle against the curled tendrils which flew around her forehead and ears. Her skin seemed sun-kissed, her eyes two pure blue pools above a pert nose and full lips. And her body…Lachlan took a moment to allow his gaze to drift lower, appreciating what he saw. She was curvy in all the right places, the sort of hips a man might appreciate for hours. And her breasts—

  She cleared her throat. “My eyes are up here.”

  Chagrined, but not quite knowing why, his gaze snapped up to hers again, to realize she was blushing. God’s Blood, he’d made her uncomfortable? “I’m sorry, lass. What were ye saying?”

  She frowned. “I was telling ye to move along, to forget this happened. Go back to the palace where ye belong, Fraser.”

  She knew him? “I don’ belong in that palace any more than—than—” He shook his head, unable to come up with an analogy. “I donae belong there, and I’ll be leaving as soon as possible.”

  One golden brow rose. “Ye’re leaving?”

  “Aye.” Why was he explaining himself to a serving wench? “I’ve done what I needed to do here in Scone.” Before yesterday’s excitement, he’d finished his oath of loyalty to the crown, and thought the Queen satisfied. Now he just needed to hear she thought him blameless for that fiasco yesterday, and he could return home in peace. “I’m only waiting on the Queen’s summons once more, to be finished.”

  “I see.”

  Although it was dark here in the alley, he saw her lips thin and her expression draw in, as if disapproving. She stepped back, out of his reach. When she spoke, her tone had gone icy.

  “Go on, then. Finish what you started, if you can.”

  With those baffling words, she turned and melted back into the shadows where she’d come from. He watched, his arms folded thoughtfully across his chest and his weight on one hip, as she slipped toward the other end of the alley, moving from shadow to shadow, her steps careful and measured, as if she were used to moving in secret.

  A bizarre skill for a serving wench.

  He was tempted to go after her, to track her back to her lair, to corner her, to demand answers. He wanted to press her against a wall, to feel those tits heaving against his chest as he used his lips to tease answers from her.

  Under his kilt, his cock stirred at the thought, and he growled in irritation. Aye, she was a fine-looking woman, but he had only to remember the sight of her with that dirk in her hand, the irritation he’d heard in her voice when she caught him staring at her body, to know she wouldn’t give up answers easily. Not the way he’d like, at least.

  She’d appeared like some sort of protector angel, intent on saving him, which was both galling and intriguing. If she served in the palace, mayhap he’d find a reason to stay in Scone longer?

  As if to chastise him, his headache chose that moment to return with a vengeance, a heavy pounding behind his eyes which made him wince.

  Nay. Nay, there were bold, golden-haired wenches at home. Mayhap none as curvy as her, but he’d close his eyes and remember her. Besides, home meant no more headaches. Home meant peaceful evenings by his loch, and moments spent curled up with Simone, and hunts in his woods.

  He didn’t belong here, and she did.

  With a sigh, he shook his head, wishing the headache away. It hadn’t bothered him when he’d been in danger, but now…

  “God’s Blood,” he muttered, and turned away from the alley and the unconscious man he couldn’t identify. “This isnae for me.”

  Home was calling.

  * * *

  Read the rest of Mellie and Lachlan’s story here!

  Other Books by Caroline Lee

  Steamy Scottish Historicals:

  The Sinclair Hound

  The MacKenzie Regent

  The Sutherland Devil

  The MacLeod Pirate

  Sensual Historical Westerns:

  Black Aces (3 books)

  Sunset Valley (3 books)

  Everland Ever After (10 books)

  The Sweet Chyenne Quartet (6 books)

  Sweet Contemporary Westerns

  Quinn Valley Ranch (5 books)

  River’s End Ranch (13 books)

  Click here to find a complete list of Caroline’s books.

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