Chapter 8

Brigit watched the warriors practicing archery. She watched the arrows fly, watched the sweat drip, watched them tease and mock one another. But always they ignored the one in the first position, the warrior wearing the heavy helm of a King's Hunter.

She watched as, one by one, they finished their practice and left to address other tasks.

But the Hunter stayed.

Leaning her hip against the stone wall, Brigit's hand dropped to idly finger the bundle hanging from her belt. ‘Twas a nasty little weapon, designed to be carried easily, and she'd used it more than once. But it had none of the power and strength of the longbow Drummond pulled.

Aye, the man in the helm was Drummond, there was no doubt of that. Even if another Hunter had returned to Scone, she'd recognize his form, recognize his stance.

Recognize his anger.

‘Twas there in his movements, in the way he shook his head sharply when an arrow didn't land as true as it might have.

Finally, with a curse she heard even this far away, the warrior sent the last of his arrows hurtling down the range toward the straw target, then rolled his shoulders.

Brigit's chest ached to see him so coiled up in his emotions. She wanted to help, even though she knew she was the cause of his pain. And the absolute worst part was, even if she could take back everything that had happened between them, she didn't want to; if she hadn't betrayed him, the Queen would still think him guilty, and thus so would the King.

But she could apologize.

"Drummond," she called softly, but the man was already striding for the target, and didn't hear her. So, she called again. "Drummond!"

Was it her imagination or did his step falter just slightly, his helmeted head tip to one side as if looking for a threat? But he didn't stop, and Brigit found herself hurrying after him, determined to get his attention.

Determined to set this right, somehow.

He'd reached the target and was pulling his arrows from the straw, examining each one before shoving it back into the quiver on his hip.

"Drum!" she yelled, and this time there was no way he didn't hear her.

He froze, his hand wrapped around the shaft of one of the arrows…but he didn't turn.

And Brigit's own anger rose up in her at the knowledge he was ignoring her, ignoring what they'd had and unwilling to even do her the honor of showing his emotions behind that stupid metal helmet.

So, as she strode toward him, she lifted the little crossbow from her belt, slid the bolt into place, then lifted and fired in one smooth motion.

The small bolt made a heavy thwack as it sank into the straw a good foot from his right shoulder, exactly where she'd aimed. Brigit didn't want to hurt him, after all: just get his attention in an undeniable way .

It worked.

With another curse, Drum yanked his arrow from the target, fitted it against his bowstring, and whirled into a crouch, halting himself from raising the weapon only when he saw her striding toward him.

Well, thank God for small miracles, then .

"What in the absolute shite , Brigit?" he bellowed. "Ye could've killed me!"

"Nay, I could no'!" she yelled right back, marching up to him and stopping an arm's length away. She forced her voice to lower. "I hit what I aimed at. I was tired of ye ignoring me."

She couldn't see his expression but had the impression he was gaping at her. Finally, he repeated, " Ignoring ye ," in what could only be called an incredulous tone.

Well, too late to back down now. Brigit raised the stakes by stepping forward, tipping her chin up to show she wasn't afraid. "Aye! I've come to apologize to ye, and ye were ignoring me. So, I got yer attention. It worked, did it no'?"

The sound he made was difficult to identify beneath that helm, but she wondered if it might have been a sort of chuckle.

"It worked," he rumbled, slowly lowering his bow completely and rising from his crouch. "Ye have my attention."

"Good." Suddenly, she wasn't certain how to proceed. She nodded and repeated, "Good. I'm…um…I'm sorry."

A pause. Then, "Ye're shite at apologies, Brigit."

Bah, he was right. "Then I'm sorry for that too!" Deciding ‘twas easier not to look at him, she turned and reached for her bolt which had embedded only partially into the straw. "And I'm sorry for getting yer attention in such a stupid way."

But as she yanked the small bolt out, Drum's larger hand closed around her wrist.

"What is this?" he asked, turning her whole hand so he could examine the bolt.

"'Tis my crossbow bolt," she said a bit uselessly.

"So small."

"Aye, well, Angels realized ‘tis easier to be dismissed as a danger if yer opponent cannae see yer weapon."

Still holding her wrist, Drum turned to her, and she had the impression he was studying her. Finally, he said, "What other weapons do ye carry, then?"

He hadn't found any on her the times they'd made love, she'd been certain of that.

With her free hand, Brigit lifted the small crossbow and he released her to take the weapon from her. The helm tipped forward as he examined it.

"This is small."

"Aye, well, I am small."

Another sound that could be a snort. "Do all Angels use these?"

She realized with a jolt that he was accepting the fact that she was a Queen's Angel, and that there were others. Did this mean he knew she'd only been following orders?

What had he asked? Och aye. "We're all trained with them. Some are better with larger weapons, but my partners and I always relied on these smaller ones. "

He hummed, turning it over a few more times as if analyzing the design, then handed it back to her to hang on her belt. Straightening, he slid the arrow he still held back into his quiver and tucked the bow over his shoulder while he studied her.

Her stomach was in knots. Was he her judge, then? And what would the verdict be?

Finally, he asked, "What else?" as his right hand closed around the hilt of his sword. "Do ye fight with a blade?"

This was a fragile truce, but at least he was speaking to her without anger, so she answered carefully.

"Nay," she admitted, "but I find other uses for them."

As she spoke, she slipped two small knives from her waist, tucked beneath her bodice at the back. Holding her expression steady, she pivoted on one foot, tucked one blade between her fingers, drew back her arm and hurled the other one. As it lodged into the straw of the next target over, she was shifting her fingers, pulling back, then releasing the second to slam into the target right beside the first.

The whole attack took only a moment, and she turned back to Drum to see that helmet cocked to one side, attention on the target. Finally, he sighed.

"Impressive," he murmured.

When he reached up to place his palms on either side of his helm, Brigit realized she was holding her breath.

Drum slowly removed the thing, shaking his hair out of his eyes as he did so, the movement smooth and practiced, something he'd done thousands of times before.

But for Brigit, this time was special.

When his dark eyes met hers, there was sadness there, aye, but perhaps…a grudging sort of respect?

He'd removed his helm, and ‘twas as if he was saying he was willing to be Drummond here and now with her…instead of a faceless King's Hunter.

They stood there before the target, staring at one another. Brigit had to tip her head back to meet his gaze, and he tucked the helm under his arm in an easy pose as he studied her.

"Ye are an agent for the Queen," he finally said.

She nodded once. "As ye are for the King."

"The difference being, I am kenned to be one."

Wincing slightly at the sudden hardness in his tone, Brigit knew he was referring to her deception. "Yer power comes from the people of Scotland recognizing ye—or at least, that helm. ‘Tis yer reputation that works for ye—ye've told me so yerself."

Drummond had made certain that stories of the King's Hunters had been carried far and wide across Scotland; often their enemies were terrified of them before they even arrived, and ‘twas why the helms were so similar.

His nod was more of a jerk, his mouth tugged into a fierce scowl. "'Tis the truth."

"Well…" She offered a small, rueful smile. "'Tis the opposite for us. The Angels' power comes from people believing us to be naught more than ladies of the court or serving wenches. ‘Tis insulting, aye, but our anonymity allows us to move through Scotland pr actically unseen. I have completed more than one mission because I was underestimated."

As she spoke, Drum's expression softened from a frown to a sort of soft consideration .

"I am remembering a story one of my men told me about his life being saved by a maid with a skill for throwing daggers."

Brigit immediately nodded, pleased she was now able to share everything with him. "Craig Oliphant, aye. The Queen sent me along as his new wife's maid because I'd been guarding her son—the wee earl—before yer Hunter was assigned."

Something like realization crossed his face before Drum rolled his eyes a bit and shook his head, looking away. "I should have realized. Leave it to a woman to work in secret."

Taking a chance, Brigit laid her fingers on his forearm. "'Tis often our only option. The Queen herself, a brilliant leader and bold strategist, hides her skills from her court so she is underestimated."

"Cannae trust women," he muttered, still looking away from her.

Brigit squeezed her eyes shut, knowing he was slipping away from her once more.

"Come," she blurted. "I want to show ye something."

It wasn't until she'd whirled away that she was able to draw a breath through the crushing weight on her chest. And when Drum fell into step beside her, things felt a little better.

By the time they reached the empty corridor where the attack on the King had taken place weeks ago, his quiver and bow were gone, but the helm was still clamped under his arm, right above the hilt of his sword.

As if he carried both as armor, even if he didn't wear them.

"There," Brigit announced, pointing. "This is where the attack took place."

Without speaking, Drum dropped to a crouch, shifting his blade out of the way as he examined the spot where the assailant had cleverly attached the trip cord. She watched him slowly rise, following the imaginary string up to the niche where the crossbow had been tucked. He sighted along the wall, humming as he visualized how the attack would've taken place.

Then he turned, expression blank. "And ye couldnae show me this place last week?"

Was he thinking—with regret?—of the day they'd spent working together? She raised her hands, palms up, as if to show she had no choice. "Can ye blame me?"

"Ye thought me guilty," he growled. "Ye didnae trust me."

"The King thought ye guilty," she cried, then forced her voice into an even tone. "I was ordered to find proof of yer guilt. If ye had been guilty, then yer reaction to being told the incorrect site of the ambush would've been telling."

"And ye showed me the bolt for the same reason. To watch my reaction."

It wasn't a question, but she nodded. "The way ye believed me, the way ye interviewed the guards and armorer so thoroughly, proved ye were innocent."

Rage flickered in his eyes as he stepped toward her. "Ye could have taken my word! "

Brigit felt him slipping from her grasp. "And ye could try to understand my position a bit better, Drum!" she cried, reaching for him, but halting her hands. "Have ye never had to follow an order ye hated? How do ye think that made me feel? To be ordered to investigate for treason the man I lo—"

She bit down on the word, but Drum reared back as if she'd slapped him, and stared down at her, those dark eyes unreadable.

"The man ye what, Brigit?" he finally asked.

Blessed Virgin . She wasn't going to announce her feelings for him, not now. Not when he was still so hurt by her actions.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, tucking her chin to her chest. "I truly am. I hated—nay, I loved working with ye, but the reasons…"

They stood in silence in the empty corridor for a long moment. Then, releasing his breath on a sigh, Drum stepped toward her.

He was close enough she could press her palm to his chest. She could run her hands along his corded forearms. She could reach for his belt, tugging his pelvis against hers so she could tease him with her own heat.

Just his nearness, his scent , was enough to make her breath quicken, her blood pump.

"Lass," he murmured, and Brigit closed her eyes, wishing she might hear longing in his tone.

When Drum placed his fingers beneath her chin, she forgot how to breathe. She opened her eyes as he lifted her gaze to meet his and watched as he studied her. Gently .

"Lass, I loved working with ye too. I didnae think I could, and ‘twas what made yer betrayal hurt so much."

"I'm sorry," she whispered yet again, wondering if he'd ever believe her.

He shifted forward until her hands were trapped between them, his kilt brushing against her skirts. Brigit swallowed, wondering at this rush of desire. Was it because of his nearness after a week apart? Or just because her emotions were roiling in her stomach?

Or was it Drummond ?

"Ye brought me here," he murmured, gaze dropping to her lips, "to show me the truth. Does that mean ye want to work together again?"

Her tongue darted across her lower lip as she tried to nod. But his hold on her chin halted the movement, so she whispered, "Aye. I can show ye the crossbow as well. I've investigated Matthias this past week, but I believe his initial story."

Drum didn't seem to care about the cocky guard who'd lost his weapon to the assassin. Instead, he lowered his face toward hers, still holding her steady. "Then, if we are sharing notes, I ought to tell ye I traced the poison the King almost drank that evening."

Blinking, Brigit stared up at him, trying to force her mind to focus on his words instead of the riot of feelings—desire, worry, desire, hope, desire, desire, desire—churning in her.

"Wha…" She licked her lips. "What did ye find? "

Her pulse pounded in her core and she wondered what she would discover if she was to press her hips forward against his.

"The poison came from the court sorcerer."

Focus, idiot ! She forced herself to think about his words. "Charles the Thirty-Seventh? He made poison to kill the King?"

Drum's thumb was now stroking her jaw, and she doubted he knew what his touch was doing to her. "Nay, lass, he made a potion to create smoke . ‘Twas what was diluted in the King's wine."

"No'…No' poison?" Distracted, Brigit moved her hands to his forearms, the way she'd been yearning, then wrapped her fingers around the corded muscles. Was it her imagination, or did he shudder slightly. "Why would the assassin…"

"Brigit…" Drum murmured, tipping her head back, gaze caressing her features. "Think."

There was nae assassin?

She gasped in realization just as Drummond's lips came down to claim hers, and then she wasn't thinking at all. With a little mewl of need, she rocked her hips forward, pressing her heat against his hardness, and aye Blessed Virgin aye he was hard!

Hard and thick and needing , just as she herself was. His cock jutted against her softness and she couldn't help the way she ground against him as his tongue plundered her mouth, begging him to ease this ache in the way only he knew how.

Her arms rose to hook around his neck, to pull him closer as she leaned upward on her toes. Then he was moving, pressing her backward until her arse hit the stone wall behind her .

"Lass," he murmured against her jaw, "I want ye."

"Aye, Drum!" she gasped, wriggling in anticipation. Liquid heat pulsed in her core and he'd done naught but kiss her, for fook's sake. " Please ."

There was a clang as his helmet hit the floor, then his fingers were in her braid, tugging her head to the side so he could trail hot kisses down her neck. He was forceful and hard, a side of him she hadn't seen before.

And Brigit decided she absolutely needed to see more of him like this.

"I'm angry, Brigit," he growled, nipping at her skin. "But this? This heat between us?"

One hand closed around her breast, and through the wool of her bodice and linen of her chemise, her nipple pebbled with need.

"Aye," she gasped, arching into his touch. "This is real. ‘Tis always real."

"Always," he snarled against her skin. " Always ."

"Forever," she promised, knowing despite her haze that ‘twas the truth. "Please, Drum," she begged wriggling against his hardness.

His fingers squeezed, and the rough handling sent a jolt of awareness, of excitement to Brigit's core. She moaned against his chest.

"I want ye."

His simple words made her heart leap in joy. "Aye!"

"But I'm still angry."

She could feel his anger, and in this moment, she wasn't sorry for it, because God's Wounds his touch was making her hot. Still, Brigit forced her hands away from his shoulders to his temples. Forced herself to focus, to say the words that needed to be said.

"Ye have a right to be angry, Drum. But when ye fook me, here and now, ‘twill no' be an apology from me. I want ye, I always want ye. I am sorry, but this…" She shook him as much as she could. " This between us is no' going to be sullied by manipulation."

She saw the moment he understood.

Understood their attraction had never been part of the manipulation, part of her investigation.

I love ye, her heart cried, but she pressed her lips together, willing him to understand the simple truth before she tried to convince him of aught else.

"Nae apology," he finally murmured with a little nod.

"Just us," she assured him.

His hand had dropped from her breast and was now fumbling with his kilt. "Turn around, lass," he growled, and her knees went weak from desire and triumph.

He nudged her toward the deep window ledge and bent her forward, helping her tug up her skirts and press them into place between her waist and the stone wall. She felt him at her back, felt him nudging her legs wider, and she went willingly, gratefully.

When he entered her, they both groaned in satisfaction.

"So wet," he murmured. "For me."

"For ye," she gasped. "Always. "

This whatever they shared might have been casual, but there'd been no other men but Drummond Kennedy in her life since it had begun.

His hand tightened in her braid, holding her in place as his thrusts increased in speed, each accompanied by a desperate little noise of need. Brigit's inner muscles were already tightening, the anticipation heightening each movement. She reached forward and wrapped her fingers around the bars of the open shutters, closing her eyes and allowing the afternoon breeze to capture her pants and whimpers.

He began to speak, timing with his plunges, and somehow that only sent her closer to the edge.

"Such a good lass. Taking my cock like ye want it. Ye want this, aye?"

Brigit could barely form a coherent thought, much less words. "Aye," she thought she might've gurgled.

He curled forward, his hand slipping through her skirts and around the front of her pelvis. "Ye like that? Ye like when I fook ye here in public, where anyone could see ye?"

He was right. Brigit opened her eyes, realizing she could see down into the courtyard. The realization somehow only heightened her pleasure, her excitement.

"Ye're going to come for me, aye? Like a good lass."

She didn't have the chance to respond.

Because at that moment, Drummond's thumb and forefinger found the nub of her pleasure hidden deep in her curls and rolled it the way he might roll her nipple.

‘Twas enough .

"Drum!" she gasped, inner muscles tightening as she hurtled higher and higher.

"Aye, Brigit," he growled, his speed increasing. "Come for me."

She did.

Oh, Good Christ, she did.

" Drummond !" she screamed out the window as her pleasure burst over her in white-hot sparks. "God's Wounds, aye !"

And then, with a wordless roar, he locked his hands on her hips, plunged forward once more, and spilled his seed deep inside her.

It should have been degrading, should have felt as if she had been used.

But Brigit blinked up into the bright Scottish afternoon sky, breathing slowing as her core spasmed around him, and realized it had been one of the most exhilarating experiences of her life.

‘Twas a long moment before Drum straightened, pulling his hand from her as his cock slid free with a rush of warmth. She pressed her elbows to the stone and felt him cleaning her with his kilt, his movements slow, gentle.

As he'd always been before.

She smiled, deciding she liked both Drummonds.

His touch was light as he drew her skirts down over her arse again then reached for her arms, lifting her upright.

Then, to her surprise, he nudged her around to face him, closed his hands around her waist and lifted until her arse rested on the window ledge where she'd just leaned. Leaned as he'd taken her hard and fast and deliciously .

"I'm sorry," he muttered, not meeting her eyes as he reached for her, pulling her against his chest and tucking her head under his chin.

Brigit blinked in confusion. "About what?"

"About…that. I shouldnae have let my anger have such power."

He sounded positively miffed, and she felt a smile tug at her chest as she inhaled his scent and burrowed into his hold.

"I loved it."

Drum stiffened. "What?"

She giggled. "Dinnae get me wrong, I love the way ye always… care for me." Their lovemaking had, up until now, been almost reverent, and he'd made certain she found her pleasure multiple times. "But today…I think we both needed this release."

His arms tightened briefly before he pressed his cheek into the crown of her head. "I'll take that into consideration in the future."

The future.

Her heart leapt at the words.

It meant…

It meant that Drum thought there might be a future, and that was the most wonderful news she could've hoped for. Her arms snaked around his middle as her mind jumped from one thought to another.

If they had a future, mayhap ‘twould mean working together again!

Working together…as they'd done in the past. As they'd done today, briefly, when she'd showed him the secrets the Angels had kept and he'd understood wh at they'd meant. Drum had even told her of his own investigations…

She stiffened.

"What is it?" he murmured against her hair.

"The poison!" she pulled from his hold far enough to look up at him. "Ye said ‘twasnae really poison."

His lips twitched. "Ye finally remember that?"

"Aye, well, I was distracted." She poked his side teasingly. "But if ‘twasnae dangerous…"

"Charles said ‘twould no' be pleasant, but the King wouldnae die from it."

Nodding, she craned her head to see around him. "And the line of the crossbow bolt…"

He hummed, loosening his hold so he could step back, giving her a better line of sight. "Ye noticed that?" He pointed to a torch holder further down. "Placing it there would've given the bolt a better chance at hitting the target."

She was already shaking her head as she frowned in thought. "The ambush was clumsy from the beginning. The trip wire being too high, the corridor a servant might hurry down. ‘twas as if…"

Trailing off, Brigit met Drum's eyes, and they spoke together.

"He wasnae trying to kill the King."

Brigit sucked in a breath, excitement blooming to fill her chest, the coil of energy she always experienced as a mission took a turn. "Is it possible his target was someone else?"

Drum shrugged. "Yer fellow Angel, mayhap, the one who pushed him out of the way?"

A suspicion had her eyes widening. "The ambush, what if it had to have been set off mechanically, as a sort of trigger, because the assassin couldnae be there to pull the trigger?"

"Aye, that is logical." He held out his hand to help her from the deep window ledge. "So he could be far away?"

That suspicion, the one she dared not name yet, made Brigit squeeze her eyes shut. "Something like that," she groaned.

"And the wine that wasnae poisoned, but appeared to be?" He didn't wait for her to answer, but continued, "Merely for show?"

Oh God .

Suddenly his fingers tightened around hers. "Brigit, did ye send me a note today?"

The question was so unexpected, she blinked up at him. "What? Nay, I came to find ye in person."

His gaze was serious, thoughtful. "So ye didnae want me to meet ye in the chapel at midnight?"

She reared back. "Nay! Did someone ask ye that?"

He nodded grimly. "And I think I ken who ‘twas."

Brigit swallowed, holding his gaze. "Someone who wanted the King to think he was the target of an assassin?"

"While no' actually wanting him dead," Drum agreed with a nod. "Someone loyal to him, but who wanted to feel more important."

"Who?" Brigit whispered, knowing the truth.

Suddenly, Drum's lips twitched. "Well, in murder mysteries, ‘tis always the butler who did it."

"The…what? What's a murder mystery?"

"Ye ken, a book about a sleepy little New England town where the resident author works part time as a sleuth—making it completely unbelievable that she could ever produce books at such a prodigious rate, what with all the murders happening. And at the end, someone yells The butler did it !"

Brigit blinked.

She blinked again, wondering if the earlier exercise had rattled her brains lose. "I…have nae idea what ye're talking about."

Drum shrugged. "My point is, Lawrence's role here in the palace is the closest thing we have to a butler, aye? He was the one who delivered the wine. Does he ken aught about crossbows?"

Oh dear.

"Ye think Larry is our suspect?" Brigit shook her head. "Ye're on the right trail, though. We're looking for someone who is already close to Their Majesties. Someone who kens weaponry, but isnae as experienced with the larger crossbows the guards use. Someone who was there when the potion was slipped into the King's wine."

Drum's eyes widened. "Ye mean yer partner, the other Queen's Angel?"

Brigit nodded grimly. "Lady Avaline."