The Laird’s Angel Read online

  Back legs frantically pedaling, the piglet changed directions once more, shooting out from under Owen’s lunge, and running back toward the lads. Young Ian dove, arms outstretched, but missed completely, coming up spitting mud and grass.

  If the men hadn’t all been laughing before, they certainly were now.

  The next three minutes were frantic ones, calling encouragement and challenges to one another as the wee, squealing animal darted from one side of the closing circle to the other, looking for a way out.

  It was a surprising amount of fun.

  Finally, his man Angus lifted his arms and jumped forward, bellowing at the poor creature. He was hairy enough, the piglet likely thought he was being attacked by a bear, and in terror, it turned completely about on only one front leg.

  As the piglet hurtled, screaming across the circle toward Lachlan, the laird did the only thing he could do…

  Pushing his sword out of his way, he dropped to one knee and thrust out his leg to block the piglet’s charge, then threw the bulk of his upper body down onto the poor creature.

  Lachlan could feel the animal squirming to escape underneath him, so he quickly tore off his shirt and wrapped the piglet securely inside the cloth.

  Still laughing, he rolled to his feet and thrust the squirming bundle at young Ian, who grinned through the muddy mask on his face, and waved as he ran off.

  “Always kenned ye were nimble, Laird!” Thomas cried, as he slapped Lachlan’s shoulder.

  Angus did the same, though nearly felling Lachlan with his heavy blow. “The pig-catcher of the Frasers is what they’ll call ye!”

  Laughter and jokes flew back and forth, and Lachlan found himself reveling in the camaraderie.

  “I cannae recall the last time I’ve had so much fun,” he called out, then gave a mischievous wink, and added, “without my sword.”

  “Nay, milord,” Owen shot back, lewdly grabbing at his crotch, “Ye need yer sword for the best kinds of fun!”

  The raucous laughter rose again, and Lachlan slapped more than a few of his friends on the shoulder, before they began to disperse.

  “If ye plan things right, milord, ye might be able to get in a wee bit of sword practice right now!”

  Before Lachlan could ask Owen what he meant, his friend pointed upward. Lachlan followed his finger, then raised a brow.

  There, standing on the walk and staring down at their antics, without a hint of what she thought of them showing on her face, was his betrothed.

  Feeling bold after his battle with the piglet, Lachlan stepped away from the crowd and sketched a deep courtly bow. It was all the more ridiculous, being that he was shirtless, covered in dried sweat and the stink of pig, but if she were planning on living at An Torr, she’d have to get used to their simple way of life.

  When he rose, he met her eyes. Her neutral expression never changed, but she did hold his gaze for a long while.

  She’s wearing that red gown again.

  The one she wore at court, the first time he’d realized who she was. The one she wore her first dinner here at An Torr.

  The one which did amazing things to her curves, and made him want to taste her skin.

  After a long moment, she lifted her hand and stretched it out toward him…then beckoned.

  God’s Blood!

  His knees went all tingly.

  Then Mellie turned away, but after only a few steps, she threw a little smile over her shoulder, and Lachlan knew he’d follow her anywhere.

  But first, to the well to wash.

  Then he’d track her down and…and…

  Sighing, he shook his head.

  He’d track her down, and then what?

  Demand to know the real Melisandre?

  Demand to know why she was really there?

  Demand to know why she’d saved him that day in the alleyway?

  Mayhap he’d be able to think better when he was cleaner.

  He didn’t.

  Ten minutes later, he was pushing his hand through his wet hair as he took the steps to the keep three at a time. His thoughts were still jumbled, and the bucket of cold water he’d poured over his head hadn’t helped sort his thoughts one bit.

  He was mostly still thinking about that smile his betrothed had sent him after she’d beckoned him to her. And his cock was proof of those thoughts.

  “Ah, excellent timing, milord!”

  Lachlan’s temper was so high, his desires so frustrated, that when Gillepatric stopped him on his way across the great hall, he almost snapped at the older man. No matter how devoted he was to his clan’s future, there were limits to a man’s geniality! And when his cock was rock-hard, and there was a damnably confusing woman upstairs, waiting to—

  Nay.

  He shook his head and took a deep breath, forcing himself to give a polite nod to his father’s advisor. He couldn’t allow thoughts of Mellie to jeopardize everything he’d worked so hard to build within the Fraser clan.

  “Aye, Gillepatric? Is something amiss?”

  “Oh, naught, naught, lad!” The older man was smiling widely over his beard. “I just wanted to inform ye, yer mother has gotten it into her head to visit Scone. I’ll escort her o’ course, and I thought we might pay our respects at the palace while we’re there, to assure Her Majesty ye are well settled with yer betrothed.”

  Lachlan nodded distractedly, his attention only on climbing the stairway leading up to his chambers and finding a dry—non-piglet-scented—shirt. “Fine, fine. Are ye sure ye’re up to traveling again so soon?”

  The advisor chuckled. “I’m auld, but there’s still plenty of life left in these bones, lad!” He slapped his stomach. “And plenty of schemes in this mind.”

  When he tapped the side of his head and winked at Lachlan, the younger man frowned slightly.

  Schemes?

  And now he thought about it, just why exactly was Gillepatric so anxious to go off traveling with Lachlan’s mother?

  “I can send some of her maids with her, Gillepatric, so ye are no’ obligated—”

  “Now, now.” The older man tsked as he shook his head, then winked again. “Just because yer mother is a wee bit aulder, doesnae mean she doesnae have her own desires and kens her own mind. If she wants to travel with a fit, kind, aulder man, then who are ye to say differently?”

  “For one, I’m her son—”

  But when Gillepatric winked again, Lachlan finally realized what in damnation the man was trying to tell him, and nearly blanched.

  Was Lachlan’s father’s advisor interested in a liaison with Mother?

  Lachlan swallowed. “Aye. Um…fine.” He cleared his throat and shook his head, praying for God to release him from the disturbing mental images now assaulting him. “Ye’re right. She is her own woman, and she does ken her own mind”—at least, she kens her own mind when she isn’t hanging off the edge into complete and total madness—“but ye are to take enough men to ensure her safety.”

  Gillepatric bowed deeply, his smile still in place, and Lachlan backed away from the all-around disturbing encounter.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he turned away and forced himself to maintain his normal saunter, but as soon as he was out of sight of the advisor, his legs took on a mind of their own and rushed him toward his chambers.

  His erection had immediately abated when—dear Lord, help me!—he realized his mother—

  When he realized Gillepatric—

  Nay!

  Stop thinking about it, ye clot-heid!

  Lachlan repeated the words, Clean shirt. Clean shirt. Clean shirt, in his mind as he made his way to his chambers. He would get that damned shirt first, just as he’d planned, but then he was going to track down that lady in red of his and get some answers, once and for all.

  But the desire he’d felt earlier, which had so quickly disappeared when—

  Nay!

  The earlier desire came slamming back, though with even more intensity, when he pushed open his door.

 
She was there, standing in front of his chamber window so the afternoon light silhouetted her like some kind of…angel.

  Her hair hung loose and freely down her back and flowed over her shoulders. A golden halo, streaked with red, that his fingers itched to run through.

  And that blasted crimson gown…!

  Lachlan swallowed the lump in his throat, then shut the door behind him.

  God help him, but that gown!

  “Lachlan,” she said, in a throaty, seductive tone of voice, and under his kilt, his cock hardened even more.

  Saints preserve him, he’d thought her lovely before, but now?

  Now, when she used those too-wide, too-sensual lips to send that enticing, flirtatious smile in his direction, she was absolutely exquisite.

  “Mellie,” he managed to rasp out, “what are ye doing here?”

  He knew what he wanted her to be doing, but also knew it was unlikely to happen.

  Still giving him that wicked smile, she lifted her hand, and he only then saw the dry shirt dangling from her delicate fingers. “I thought to help ye, husband-to-be.”

  Closing his eyes briefly, Lachlan breathed a silent prayer for strength.

  But when he opened them again, she was there, right in front of him.

  He could reach out and touch her.

  Hold her.

  Taste her!

  They were betrothed, so why shouldn’t he be allowed to touch her, hold her…taste her,, at least a few times before the ceremony?

  “Let me help ye dress, Lachlan,” she said, in that husky voice, which seemed to be directly linked to the tip of his cock, judging from the way it jumped again.

  “I can—” He shook his head and forced himself to think properly, as he took the shirt from her. “I can dress myself.”

  “Can ye?”

  “Aye, woman,” he ground out.

  To his chagrin, her tongue darted out across her lower lip, making it glisten.

  Did she do that on purpose, to tease him?

  “I want to ken all about ye, Lachlan,” she said, in that same arousing voice. “I want to be useful to ye, to learn everything I can. I can help ye. Let me ken yer secrets.”

  It was an odd request, and as soon as he could think rationally, Lachlan was sure he’d be able to figure out why. But right now…

  He shook his head once more. “I have nae secrets,” he managed. “I am a simple man—”

  And then she was in his arms.

  He wasn’t sure how it happened—had she really moved so quickly?—but one moment she was in front of him, then the next moment she had her arms around his neck, her fingers twisting in the hair at the base, her lips stretching up toward his.

  And Lachlan stopped thinking.

  On her first night here at An Torr, she’d kissed him in front of his people. He’d be damned if he’d let her kiss him again.

  Nay, this time he’d be the one doing the kissing.

  Instinctively, his hands reached for her waist to hold her steady as he met her lips midway. When they melted against his, he dragged his palms up each side of her torso, then slid one arm around her back to hold her in place as he kissed her.

  Her lips parted under his, and she let out a little moan, which made his pulse pound and his cock strain forward.

  Could she feel it under his kilt, pressed against her hip like that?

  Did she know what it meant?

  And then she wriggled against him, making a sexy little noise of encouragement, and Lachlan wondered if he’d died and gone to Heaven. Not only did she obviously know, but she was encouraging it.

  His free hand flexed, stretching out his fingers, until they brushed against the underside of one of her breasts, and when she didn’t pull away, he groaned deep in his throat.

  He hadn’t been this close to spilling against his kilt since he was a lad!

  God’s Wounds, this kiss was undoing him.

  With a gasp, he pulled away, but didn’t overlook the way her grip on his shoulders seemed to tighten.

  Was she as affected as he was?

  But as his breathing returned to normal, so did his reason, and he met her gaze. He’d been about to apologize—both for his actions, and for the very clear indication of his arousal still pressed against her—but something in her eyes stopped him.

  Those blue pools weren’t glazed with passion the way he’d assumed. They weren’t confused, or even offended, by his kiss.

  Nay. They were…calculating.

  He swallowed, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He’d thought her to be like Alice, but even Alice—who hadn’t been a virgin when she’d given herself to him—hadn’t once ever looked at him in this way.

  What in damnation was Mellie thinking?

  His hand still rested against the underside of her breast. As he moved it, he tried for a smile, but knew it came out rather weakly. “Mellie…” he began.

  Who knows how he would’ve finished, had she not dropped her hands away from his shoulders at that moment, and shifted her weight back.

  He thought she was about to throw herself away from him, and braced himself to catch her if she needed his help.

  What he didn’t expect was her to drag her hands to his forearms, her palms sending sparks into his stomach as they caressed his bare skin.

  And then, in one swift movement, she sank to the floor in a crouch before him.

  What in God’s sacred name…?

  She settled on her knees and released one of his arms. While his mind was still whirling, she reached for the bottom of his plaid and lifted it.

  It wasn’t until the cooler air brushed against his bollocks that he realized what she was doing, and he made a strangled noise somewhere between denial and a gasp.

  In less than a heartbeat, his body and his mind warred.

  He wanted this; God knew he’d been dreaming of her lips on him often enough.

  But he’d seen the look in her eyes after their kiss, and Lachlan knew this was no act of passion. This was…something else.

  That realization made his decision for him.

  He abruptly dropped to one knee, effectively blocking her, just as Mellie reached for his cock. She reared back, blinking in confusion, as he took hold of her shoulders in a gentle, but firm, grip.

  “What—” God help him, but he couldn’t seem to make his voice work properly. “Why are ye doing this, Mellie?” he managed to ask.

  She sank back on her haunches, her eyes showing her confusion…but also a haunted look.

  “I… I thought ye might like it if I…”

  Her golden curls bounced when she shook her head, but Lachlan wasn’t thinking of what they’d feel like—not anymore. Instead, he watched her wrap one arm around herself and lift her thumbnail to her teeth, and he felt as if he were looking at someone else entirely. A lass who was confused and worried, who wasn’t sure about his reaction, and was uncertain if he was angry with her or not.

  Her troubled countenance, more than anything else, effectively and thoroughly cooled his ardor.

  “Lass,” he began, in a rough whisper, his thumbs making little circles on her shoulders because he couldn’t seem to release her just yet. “Aye, I would like it, as would any man, but why would ye do it? Why now?”

  A flush stole up her sun-kissed cheeks, and she looked away, staring at the floorboards beside his knee.

  Had that been a flash of shame he’d seen in her gaze?

  What had she been saying to him before their kiss?

  Something about getting to know him?

  Learning his secrets?

  Not for the first time, Lachlan wondered if that was why she was really there.

  Had Queen Elizabeth betrothed her to him, just for the purpose of discovering his secrets?

  To learn all she could about him?

  To discover if he was a traitor?

  And was that why she’d kissed him like that?

  Why she’d been willing to sink to her knees, to take him in her l
ush mouth?

  Why she’d been willing to submit herself to him as she had, offering her body for him to use?

  He nearly groaned aloud.

  “Mellie…” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as his thoughts whirled. “Mellie,” he repeated, in a harsh whisper.

  “Aye, milord?”

  When he opened his eyes, she was watching him, her expression carefully neutral.

  “Mellie, ye don’ have to do this. Ye don’ have to—to—offer yerself.”

  Her chin rose as her hand fell away from her lips. “I want to.”

  It was a lie. He could see it easily in her blue eyes.

  His grip on her shoulders tightened. “Ye do no’ need to. I will tell ye whatever ye need to ken. The truth.”

  He meant it, and he could see she was affected by his word. Her hand twitched, as if she wanted to lift her nail to nibble on it once more, but she held herself back.

  As she had been this whole time. Since he’d met her—there in that alley, and then again in the Queen’s court—she’d been holding her true self back. He had no idea who she truly was.

  “The truth?” she repeated, lifting her chin with a hint of that haughty air he’d seen at the Queen’s side.

  “Aye.”

  He lifted one hand from her shoulder and touched her cheek. When she didn’t flinch away, he skimmed his fingertips across her skin, toward her ear, tucking an errant curl safely out of the way.

  “Always,” he whispered.

  “Well, my truth is, Lachlan, that I wanted to taste ye.” Her chin jutted mulishly, but there were tears gathering in her blue eyes. “What do ye have to say about that? A betrothed, who is little more than a common whore—”

  “Nay.”

  He knew his voice was hard when he cut her off, but he didn’t care. She needed to know her own worth.

  He dropped his other hand from her shoulder, but his fingertips remained on her cheek.

  “There is nothing common about ye, Melisandre Lamond. Ye might understand passion, but that only makes ye more intriguing. What ye were doing”—he winced as he tried to find the words to explain—“ye donae have to do that. No’ for me.”

  “I…” It was her turn to shake her head, sending her curls bouncing. “I donae—”