The Laird’s Angel Page 7

  Simone was smiling, looking half in love already. “Mellie. Ye still went fishing?”

  Mellie shrugged, lifting her fingernail to her lips in a motion he was sure was unconscious. “I…I confess I wasnae as experienced as ye seem to be. I can row a boat with the best of the fishermen though.” A smile flitted across her face, as if remembering a specific instance. “But I went behind my da’s back more than a few times.”

  Simone gasped and snaked her arm around Lachlan’s neck for balance. “What did he do? Did he beat ye? My da says wicked men beat children, but I think he only says that so I don’ cry too much over my punishments.” She leaned in and lowered her voice, as if Lachlan wasn’t standing right there with her attached to him. “When he takes away my bedtime story, I’m awfully sorry I was naughty.”

  Nodding seriously, Mellie was clearly hiding a smile. “I can imagine. He’s a good father.”

  “Aye.” Simone settled back. “He loves me verra much, and I love him. Did yer da love ye?”

  If she’d thought she could avoid the topic, Mellie was mistaken. Still, she couldn’t hide the flash of sorrow which crossed her face, before she turned back to the wind-swept waves of the loch.

  “Mayhap no’ as much as yer da loves ye, lass,” she said with a sigh. “He’s a powerful laird and believed—” She cut off whatever she’d been about to reveal, and glanced back at them with a fake smile. “He blamed my willfulness on my mother’s blood, ye ken.”

  “Who’s yer mother?”

  Her false smile faded into a softer, more genuine one at Simone’s question. “My mother was French, ye see. She was verra certain she kenned what was best for everyone, which drove my father mad.” Her brow twitched as her grin turned wry. “Da always said I looked like her, but I donae ken ‘twas praise, coming from him.”

  “Then she must have been verra beautiful.” The words escaped Lachlan’s lips before he could call them back—before he was even sure if he wanted to. But when he saw her flush, his cock twitched again.

  “Thank ye,” she whispered, acknowledging the compliment, even as she looked away.

  Today she wore one of her court gowns, sewn to accentuate her body and show off those glorious tits of hers. She ought to look out of place, strolling along the shores of his loch, but somehow, she didn’t. With her braid thrown over one shoulder, it was easy to let his eyes travel down over her curves.

  She was dressed to accentuate her beauty, and he knew she used her looks to her advantage.

  Curious about this woman he was to marry, Lachlan pressed on, “Surely ‘tisnae the first time a man has called ye beautiful, lass.”

  There was a moments pause, before Mellie sucked in a breath and lifted her chin. Her blue eyes flashed at him for too brief a time, then she turned back away and looked off toward the village.

  “Nay, of course not, milord. I am used to men telling me such all the time.” Stiffly, she ran her hand down the side of her kirtle, caressing the curve of her hip. “ ’Tis true after all, and is what a man values most.”

  Is that what she thought?

  Lachlan frowned slightly, barely registering the way his daughter rested her head on his shoulder.

  “A lass’s worth is made up from far more than her appearance,” he began, only to be cut off when she stepped away from them.

  “Aye,” she called out, not bothering to turn. “I ken all about a woman’s worth, milord. Excuse me.”

  Holding his daughter in his arms, Lachlan stood and watched her march stiffly up the path back toward the village, wondering what in damnation was going on in her head.

  His betrothed was a personal confidante of the Queen of Scotland, sent here to test his loyalty. But she also pulled knives on cutpurses and had learned to row a boat without her father’s permission.

  What else would he learn about this intriguing young woman?

  Who was she?

  Because the more he knew about her, the less certain he was she was anything at all like Alice.

  And if she wasn’t like Alice—if she wasn’t selfish and heartless, like the other ladies he’d known, interested only in bettering their station in life—then mayhap their future together could be happier than he’d once expected.

  Mayhap.

  Chapter 5

  “The poor lad was only twelve when he left.”

  Mellie frowned down at the piece of parchment, which was still blank. She’d pushed the small table up against the open window for better light, but it hadn’t helped; she still had nothing to write.

  Which is why she’d cornered Brigit when the girl had brought luncheon and demanded gossip.

  “This is Cameron?” she muttered distractedly, trying to focus on the story the maid was telling her about a lad running off years ago.

  “Aye, the wee thing left in the middle of winter too, if ye can believe it. Are ye going to eat this bread?”

  With a sigh, Mellie tossed down the stylus and leaned back in the chair. “Nay, enjoy it.”

  Her stomach was still churning at her inability to make a report to Charlotte.

  The how wasn’t that difficult; with Brigit on her side, she could send the girl into the village, or mayhap farther, to send the letter.

  But the what was proving more difficult.

  After almost a sennight here at An Torr, she had absolutely nothing to report.

  A nearly full sennight had been spent making herself useful around the keep, in an attempt to gain more knowledge of her betrothed.

  A sennight spent embroidering with his mother, or discussing menus with the cook, or learning about the clan’s history from Martin, the old seneschal.

  A sennight sitting beside Lachlan on the dais each evening, pretending—as he was—to be happy about this betrothal, while the whole time, she wanted to squirm with confusion and frustration.

  She was failing her mission, but every moment spent with Lachlan—any time they touched, whether on accident or otherwise—made her insides warm. She remembered the brief kiss she’d given him her first evening here, when his clan members had cajoled them into it…and wasn’t sure if she wanted more, or wanted to forget that feeling altogether.

  Because she’d been unable to find any evidence Lachlan was guilty of treason, or was in any way associated with the Red Hand. In fact, everyone she spoke to raved about Lachlan’s honor, integrity and loyalty.

  And now, even the gossip was failing her!

  She sighed and forced herself to concentrate on Brigit’s story about Cameron..

  “Is there any evidence the lad is dead?” Mellie asked, as she lifted her fingernail to gnaw at it.

  Her maid shook her head enthusiastically, her eyes bright with excitement from sharing gossip, and waited until she’d swallowed the bread before answering. “Nay! But there’s been nae word from him for so long, most assume the poor lad perished soon after leaving. The laird’s uncle—his father’s younger brother—left soon after to search for him, but found nae sign of him!”

  Nodding, Mellie remembered what she’d heard that first day from Lachlan and his mother. “And now nae one’s heard from the uncle either?”

  “Aye, Andrew is his name.”

  How was this helpful?

  Mellie squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think like Rosa.

  The youngest brother would’ve left when Michael Fraser, Lachlan’s father, was still laird.

  Was it possible the man’s treason had something to do with his disappearance?

  Had he truly left on his own?

  “Does anyone know why the lad ran off?” Mellie asked her maid.

  If possible, Brigit’s eyes grew even wider as she scooched around the table to plop herself in the seat across from Mellie, directly in front of the window. She then planted her elbows on the table and leaned forward, waving a hunk of cheese around as she gestured excitedly.

  “ ’Tis shocking really! The auld laird and lady Isla had four sons, aye? The eldest was Hamish, who became laird after his father pass
ed.”

  Mellie nodded, remembering this from Rosa’s briefing before she’d left Scone.

  The maid lowered her voice. “Hamish was already wed, ye see, but never fathered any children. Several people are convinced he and his wife—they’d been betrothed since birth—never consummated their marriage. ‘Tis said he had…unnatural tendencies.”

  Frowning, Mellie chewed furiously at her nail. No matter what the societal norm was, she knew there were those—both men and women—who had other desires. “But why would—”

  But Brigit interrupted. “With children.”

  Mellie sucked in a gasp, and her maid nodded, their shared disgust reflecting in each other’s eyes. Her stomach churned.

  “With lads?” she whispered, dropping her hand to the table, where it curled into a fist.

  But the other woman shrugged. “Likely so, according to the stories I’ve heard. So nae one was completely surprised when wee Cameron ran off; if his older brother was preying on him, what other choice did he have? And if his parents kenned of Hamish’s habits, they surely made nae great effort to stop him.”

  “But now he’s dead,” Mellie confirmed in a harsh whisper.

  Brigit nodded. “Aye. A training accident, ‘tis said.” She leaned in once more. “But I heard the warrior who did it had a son of only ten winters, and the laird had been spending time with the lad prior to the accident.”

  “May he burn in hell,” Mellie spat, then crossed herself.

  Sainte Vierge!

  Hamish had been dead for over two years now, and his soul had already been judged and sentenced, but she felt it couldn’t hurt to be sure.

  However horrifying the previous laird had been, none of this information helped her with the current laird.

  “And Lachlan became laird because the second son—what was his name…James?—was already dead?”

  Brigit nodded. “Aye. He lost his life at Loudon Hill against the English,” she told Mellie, then took another bite of cheese.

  “So the Frasers were still loyal enough to the crown to send warriors to fight for the cause, at least,” Mellie murmured, staring down at her blank report to Charlotte. It didn’t prove anything, but it was a start.

  Picking up the stylus, she wrote: Frasers fought for Robert at Loudon Hill.

  It was better than nothing, and mayhap would lend credence to the theory not all of the Frasers supported the Comyns.

  Or mayhap it only meant they wanted a Comyn on the throne, and would fight for Scotland against the English to ensure that would one day happen.

  She sighed, irritation warring with worry in her gut. She was failing Queen Elizabeth by not finding evidence of Lachlan’s guilt.

  Yet…why did that make her feel so much relief and give her such hope?

  Sainte Vierge!

  Was it possible she didn’t want to find evidence linking Lachlan to the traitorous attempt on Elizabeth’s life?

  Was it possible she wanted to believe him innocent?

  With a groan, she dropped her head into her hands.

  After a sennight here at An Torr, the Frasers’ belief in their laird was starting to rub off on her!

  “Brigit,” she mumbled from between her hands, “have ye heard aught to indicate Lachlan isn’t the paragon of leadership he seems to be?”

  When her maid took a moment to answer, Mellie peeked from between her fingers to see the other woman frowning thoughtfully. But finally, she shook her head.

  “Nay, milady. He’s good for the clan, and everyone seems to adore him. I havenae heard anything about his loyalties being suspect either. I heard what he said at the welcome dinner, and everyone says he’s an honorable supporter of the Bruce.”

  Merde!

  Was it possible their theory about him was wrong?

  Mellie rubbed at her forehead, trying to remember everything Rosa had argued—for and against the Frasers—since the assassination attempt. Of course, that was a fortnight ago.

  Was Court back at the palace yet with more news?

  Mellie forced herself to think like Rosa once more.

  What else would be relevant to this investigation?

  “Simone!” she blurted, then rested her chin on her hands, staring at her maid. “Surely ye have some gossip about her? Who her mother was?”

  In the previous week’s discussions, not one person had mentioned any of Lachlan’s mistresses, and the man hadn’t snuck off from his duties to his clan to secretly visit his leman, at least as far as Mellie knew.

  So who was she?

  Brigit shrugged, then nibbled at the cheese once more. “The laird was betrothed once before.”

  Aye, Mellie knew this. Rosa had told her—

  She sucked in a sudden breath.

  “He sired a child with his betrothed?” It wasn’t unheard of, but why wouldn’t he have just married the woman, once she told him of her state? Unless… “He wanted to see if the bairn survived, if she was a good mother.”

  The knowledge, the certainty, settled into her stomach like a rock.

  Bon Dieu! He’d waited until the bairn was born before deciding about the mother. But Simone was a healthy child. Unless…

  “Was it because she’s a lass, and no’ an heir?” Shaking her head, Mellie pushed herself to her feet, but kept a tight grip on the table with both hands. She wasn’t sure she could stand otherwise. “Nae matter how loved Simone is, she’ll never be what he needs. And that’s—”

  Shaking her head, she stumbled away, reaching for a bed post to catch herself, as memories from her own past came back to haunt her.

  —to be expected.

  —a man’s right.

  Ye cannae expect a powerful laird to still marry a failure like ye.

  The harsh words spoken by her father, her confessor, and even a few others, sliced open all the scarred-over wounds covering her heart, and ignited the once-smoldering embers of pain in her stomach into a roaring flame once more.

  Sainte Vierge!

  Lachlan was no better than her own betrothed had been, may God forgive them both!

  She clutched her stomach, fighting back tears, as she glared at the door where she imagined Lachlan to be currently standing.

  From the window seat, Brigit said in a small voice, “I donae ken why the betrothal was broken, milady, but I ken she went home to her family not long after the birth, and entered into another marriage the following spring.”

  With a growl—where had that come from?—she forced herself to straighten. Her shoulders went back, her breasts thrust forward, and her jaw clenched with determination and anger.

  Lachlan was a bastard, a wicked man indeed. And if he could treat an innocent woman that way—banishing her and keeping her from any contact with her own bairn —then Mellie could believe he was guilty of treason too.

  And she would find evidence, and possibly from his very own lips!

  Rosa had urged her to gain his trust, without using her seduction techniques, but when had that ever worked for her before?

  Nay, there was only one thing Mellie was good at—one thing she was good for—and she intended to use it to the very best of her ability.

  Lord help him if he thought he could resist her.

  And if she had to fuck every single one of his secrets out of him, she would.

  “Brigit,” she commanded, in a low voice. When the maid scrambled out of the seat to stand, wide-eyed before her, Mellie nodded. “Fetch my red gown. I need to visit my betrothed.”

  As she lifted her fingers to her hair to pull out the pins her maid had carefully inserted that morning, Mellie’s eyes narrowed determinedly.

  She would have a report for Charlotte, along with all the evidence the Angels needed to condemn Lachlan Fraser.

  * * *

  “Catch ‘im! Get ‘im”

  The shouts came from behind Lachlan, where he walked alone, having fallen behind the other men on their return from the training fields, because he was distracted. His thoughts were on Mellie, and
the way she’d been at dinner last night—at times flirtatious, other times, rather standoffish. It also seemed to him as if she weren’t quite sure of her role at An Torr.

  Though to be honest, her dueling personas have confused him, ever since the moment he’d realized she wasn’t the knife-wielding wench he’d thought her to be, and was, in reality, a lady of the royal court.

  Wasn’t she?

  Hell, he didn’t know, and mayhap she didn’t either.

  “Laird! Laird, catch ‘im!”

  This time, Lachlan turned, and it was a damned good thing he did.

  Three lads were barreling right toward him—he recognized one of the lads as young Ian from the stables—and were shaking sticks and rakes, and running like the fires of hell were behind them.

  Nay, not behind them.

  Something caught his attention, and he realized the lads appeared to be chasing a small, brown, squealing…

  Piglet?

  “Get ‘im, Laird!”

  Lachlan’s brows shot up, but he did what any good laird would do; he spread his legs, stuck out his arms to either side, and tried to catch the terrified animal.

  The piglet ran right through his open legs.

  A chorus of groans and shouts went up from the lads, and Lachlan had to reach out to steady one—Thomas’s son?—as they ran by.

  “Come on, Laird!” the lad shouted, squirming to struggle out of Lachlan’s grip. “He’s the last one of the lot who escaped!”

  Chuckling now, Lachlan freed the boy to run off toward the commotion, then stuck two fingers in his mouth. The ear-piercing whistle was one his men all recognized, and he was pleased to see more than a few of them instinctively reach for their swords as they turned toward him.

  Battle-hardened warriors or nay, they were about to meet a real challenge.

  “Catch him, men!” Lachlan bellowed, pointing to the piglet, who was just about to hit the wall of Fraser muscle, before it turned, squealing, and headed straight for the curtain wall.

  But the Fraser warriors had trained together for years and knew how to work in tandem. Some moved left, some moved right, some filled in the middle, and soon there was a ring of hollering, laughing men moving inward toward the frightened animal.