My Wild Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  "A wild Scot, a Highlander who does nothing but seduce women. A debaucher worse than Girard."

  "No one is worse than Girard."

  "Of course. But I cannot marry this MacGrath. You must take a message to Philippe." Angelique hurried to the desk and withdrew a piece of paper, her hands shaking. She almost overset the inkhorn as she dipped in the quill.

  "Take a deep breath, mademoiselle. You will do nothing but waste paper in your haste."

  "You are right." She paused a moment, sucked in two deep breaths, then continued at a more controlled pace.

  "Would this be the Highlander who wears a belted plaid about, sinfully long hair, tall strapping man?"

  "Oui. How can you know of him already?"

  Camille gave a dramatic shiver. "The ladies and servants talk. Are you sure you do not want to marry that one?"

  "No! Do not tell me he has bedded you as well."

  "No. Heavens, no. I wish." She smiled. "If you do not want him…"

  "You can have him, believe me. Traitor!"

  "It was only a jest."

  Angelique put pen to paper. She almost wrote Philippe's name. No, what if someone intercepted the message and took it to the king?

  My Love, she wrote. We must run away together. Make arrangements tonight, then come to my room before dawn and I will be ready.

  Camille read over her shoulder. "Must you lie and expect the impossible?"

  Angelique frowned up at her. "What?"

  "You do not love him, and he is not cunning enough to sneak you out of Whitehall. If you elope, you may jeopardize your inheritance. Anger the king, and he is likely to give the estate and title to Kormad."

  Angelique thought for a moment. "Yes, you are right." She wadded the paper and took out a clean sheet. "Philippe must beg the king for my hand. That's the only way."

  "Why do you want to marry the milksop anyway?"

  "Because—"

  "The truth." Only because her companion was also her illegitimate French cousin and best friend did she get away with such impertinence.

  "Because he is a milksop," Angelique said. "He will not order me around. He will not force me to couple with him if I do not wish it. He will be the earl, but I will run my estate myself without an overbearing, demeaning swine of a man controlling every aspect of my life. I cannot abide it, Camille. I will smother and die." Her throat constricted and tears burned her eyes.

  "Shh, it's all right, Ange." Camille rubbed her arm. "Do not overset yourself. Damn Girard for ruining your life."

  Angelique shoved the emotion away and wrote the second note, telling Philippe to meet with the king and ask for her hand immediately if he wished to be an earl. She folded the note, dropped red melted wax on it and stamped it with an obscure seal only Philippe knew she used. One she had pilfered from her mother's last benefactor.

  "Take it to him." She placed the missive in Camille's hands. "Quickly, please."

  "Oui, mademoiselle."

  ***

  A curvaceous, flaxen-haired woman scurried past Lachlan in the passage, moving at such a brisk pace he but caught a glimpse of her. What was amiss? No one chased her. "Mmph."

  Lachlan continued his search for Lady Angelique's suite along the dim, wood-paneled corridor. Though visiting her chamber was inappropriate, he had to speak with her immediately. Besides, when had he ever cared what was inappropriate? His gut clenched, making him wonder if he'd made a mistake accepting the king's offer.

  Damnation. Nothing was easy to find in the confusion of Whitehall Palace, and the directions he'd gotten from a servant were unclear. Believing he'd found the correct door, he knocked.

  "Qui est-ce? Who is it?" a woman called. Her sensual French accent and husky voice awoke his carnal urges. He held a keen fondness for the French ladies.

  He knocked again.

  She muttered a French curse and he smiled.

  Angelique yanked open the door and her gaze cut into him. "Why are you here?"

  "I wish to talk to you, m'lady." He bowed.

  "I have naught to say to you, Highlander. I have already agreed to marry someone else."

  "Indeed? Are you speaking of Philippe Descartes?"

  "How do you know of him?"

  "His Majesty told me he found the man unacceptable as a husband for you."

  Her green eyes widened. While she was distracted by his comment, he pushed his way inside her door and closed it behind him.

  "Que vous êtes bête!" She backed away. "Leave at once, monsieur. We have nothing to say to each other."

  Having never before been called a beast, he almost laughed. But he didn't want her to know he spoke fluent French, as well as Italian, Spanish and German. In the past, pretending ignorance had sometimes given him the advantage.

  "I would ask you kindly to please speak English or Gaelic."

  "I will never lower myself to speak your barbaric Erse."

  Though her disdain of his native tongue pricked at him like thorns, her closed-mouth, purring accent stirred arousal within him.

  "Because you don't ken the language? I shall teach you, if you wish."

  She drew her lips into a firm line. Clearly, she had never known the pleasure of a good kiss, something he would enjoy tutoring her in. 'Haps she'd never experienced a kiss at all, good or bad.

  Her rich voice and wise, guarded eyes were those of a woman, but her girlish face and slender, waif-like body made her appear she had not enough to eat. In contrast, her clothing of finest gold silk told him she could not be starving.

  "How many years have you?" he asked.

  "Twenty."

  He nodded, pleased she was not as young as she appeared…if she was telling the truth. He would ask one of the courtiers on the morrow. Nevertheless, the king wanted him to marry her and he was not one to forgo grand royal gifts, even if he didn't know what the devil to do with them yet.

  "Et vous?" she asked.

  "Pray pardon?"

  "And you? You must be very old."

  He chuckled. "You don't see any gray hairs, do you? I am twenty-six."

  Her brows lifted, intensifying her haughty look, but this only increased her allure. He couldn't resist a challenge.

  "We have much to discuss before we are wed."

  "I will not marry you. King James cannot force me."

  "'Tis dangerous to defy your king."

  Her militant expression and rigid stance, hands on hips, told him she might be one of the few women in the world he couldn't sweet talk into liking him. A sinking feeling settled into the pit of his stomach.

  "God's bones, I don't ken how you are a reward," Lachlan muttered. "'Haps His Majesty is wanting to punish me for saving the life of Buckingham."

  Angelique murmured something in French that sounded like insolent lecher, though he couldn't be sure.

  "I thank you for that compliment, m'lady." He winked.

  The pink from her face spread down her neck toward her bodice and small breasts. How he loved a woman's creamy curves flushed with the glow of passion.

  If she could've made dirks of ice shoot from her eyes, she would've slain him on the spot. She turned away. "Leave me at once."

  Her prickliness didn't fool him. 'Twas all a front. Her blush told him she found him appealing, whether she wanted to admit it or not. But maybe she was a virgin and didn't know the pleasures that awaited her in his bed. He would attempt a kiss now, but she might bite off his tongue.

  "As you wish, m'lady." He bowed. "I shall see you on the morrow."

  "Bonne nuit, monsieur," she said in a condescending tone before he closed the door on his way out.

  As he strode down the passage, his heart raced. She excited him more than any woman in a long while. Surely he did not enjoy her sharp tongue or chilly glares. Nay, but he loved a chase. Most women were too easy to catch—he winked, he smiled, and they came.

  With determination, Lachlan continued toward the king's private chambers. He sent a message by one of the ushers and five minutes later, B
uckingham emerged.

  "I wish to inform His Majesty that I would be honored to marry Lady Angelique," Lachlan said.

  Buckingham grinned. "I shall tell His Majesty. He will be most pleased."

  "I thank you." Lachlan bowed and made his way toward his own bedchamber, trying not to think of the future or what he'd committed himself to. Could be hell itself.

  From the passageway, he carried a lit candle into the darkened room. A breathy female voice called out his name in a sing-song fashion and a giggle floated from the draped bed. A second of excitement ignited within him when he thought of Lady Angelique, perhaps come for a surprise visit, but it could not be her. Unless she'd come to murder him. He parted the curtains.

  Eleanor lay naked upon the velvet coverlet, gazing at him with heavy darkened eyes. "I am ready for you," she breathed.

  He surveyed her ivory skin, her rosy, hard nipples highlighting full breasts, the dark patch of hair at the apex of her shapely thighs, but he felt nothing. No heat of arousal curled through him as it had the first time he'd seen her.

  What the devil was wrong with him? He didn't want a naked, willing woman?

  "You must go. I'm not in the mood."

  He let the curtain drape back into place and set the candle on the mantel.

  "What?"

  He poured himself some sherry and took a hefty swig. By the saints, was he changing his ways?

  Nay, he was just…distracted. Preoccupied with the startling turn of events. Worried he'd stepped in a huge pile of horse dung.

  Behind him, she struggled from the bed. "I heard about your reward from the king."

  "Already?" He turned and watched her shove her arms into a silk smock.

  "I knew before you did. She is not a virgin, you know."

  Indeed? "Nor am I."

  Eleanor smirked. "She's a French whore and you shall never see a moment's happiness with her. She will never please you in bed."

  "From what I've heard, French whores are excellent in bed."

  "You shall regret this!"

  "Aye, likely I will," he muttered, but what else had he to do? Keep wandering about, looking for adventures and women? Now, he saw the futility of it. The pursuit of revelry was losing its appeal. What would his friend Rebbie say to that?

  "A title and estate do not require your faithfulness," Eleanor snapped.

  "Who said anything about faithfulness?"

  "Then why are you throwing me out?"

  Not wanting to insult her, he simply lifted a shoulder. In truth, he even surprised himself with how rapidly he'd tired of Eleanor. "As I said, I'm not in the mood."

  "All the men want to marry her, but she will have none of them, save Philippe. What makes you think she'll have you?"

  "She will obey the king, I suspect."

  "I wouldn't place a wager upon it. You won't last long anyway. Kormad will grind you to sausage in no time."

  "Who?"

  "The baron of Kormad. Sorley MacGrotie."

  "Ah." A Lowland Scotsman he'd met almost a fortnight ago. He had not been impressed with the man, medium of stature with a sizable gut. He would be clumsy on the battlefield. "Is he Angelique's distant cousin, next in line to inherit?"

  "Yes. And the rumor is he will let nothing stand in the way of what he wants."

  ***

  After Eleanor left, Lachlan slipped from his bedchamber and along the dark corridor. He'd traded his kilt for black trews and cowl. His basket-hilted broadsword thumped against his thigh.

  Sorley MacGrotie. The longer Lachlan thought of the bastard, the more his sword hand ached to grip a hilt. How badly did the baron of Kormad want to be an earl? And what would he do to achieve his goal?

  He will let nothing stand in the way of what he wants, Eleanor had said.

  Mmph. He doubted the man had ever had a Highlander in his way. 'Twas the same as a rocky crag. He intended to gain the upper hand and ferret out Kormad's plans. Lachlan's instincts told him to expect a battle. This was his opportunity to finally be someone who mattered, to live up to a potential he never knew he had. And damned if anyone would snatch it away from him.

  Lachlan lowered his cowl for a moment, allowing the guards to identify him at the gate. They let him pass. Outside on the dark muddy street, he listened to the sounds of the night—the fetid Thames flowing by, a dog barking—then proceeded along King Street to the nearest coaching inn, The Golden Cross, a likely haunt for Kormad. But the man was nowhere to be found.

  Lachlan stepped into the third establishment along the Strand. The Black Spur was a din of English talk and laughter. Ale and beer scented the air of the low-ceilinged room, along with roasting boar and smoke from the fire.

  He scanned the dozens of men seated at tables, then spotted his friend, Dirk MacLerie, near the back. Lachlan slipped over and sat in the empty chair.

  Hand drifting to his sword hilt, Dirk turned dangerous pale blue eyes toward Lachlan in his cowl. "What do you want, friend?"

  "'Tis me."

  Dirk's auburn brows quirked. "Lachlan?"

  "Shh. Has Sorley MacGrotie, baron of Kormad, been in here tonight?"

  "I don't ken the man."

  "Lowland Scot, dark hair, bushy beard. Ugly bastard."

  "I've seen a lot of them like that."

  The door opened and a boisterous group stumbled in. Among the six men, he found the whoreson he was looking for. "'Tis him, there."

  "Why are you looking for him?"

  "I'll tell you later," Lachlan said in a low voice.

  The buxom alewife plunked a full tankard of ale onto the scarred wooden table, some of the brown liquid sloshing over the rim. Lachlan flipped her a silver coin. She thanked him with a wink and bustled away to see to the newcomers.

  Kormad and his men took a large table on the other side of the room.

  "We need to move," Lachlan whispered, picking up the tankard. "To that empty table behind them. You go first. He's seen me before."

  "You better have a good reason for this," Dirk muttered and stood.

  Squeezing by the chairs of other patrons, Lachlan followed Dirk to the closer table and sat with his back to the men in question. "Watch my back, will you?"

  "When have I not?"

  For a time, Kormad and his men talked of mundane matters. Dirk gave him a hard scowl. Lachlan shook his head and sipped the lukewarm ale.

  "Any progress with the king?" one of the men at the other table asked.

  Lachlan raised a finger at Dirk so he would pay attention.

  "Nay," Kormad said in his gruff voice.

  "If we take the lass and force her to marry you, the problem is solved."

  "I don't want my head lopped off because of the hateful wench."

  "You must woo her," one of his men said in a low, teasing voice.

  "Aye, make her swoon with your lovely poetry."

  The men guffawed.

  "'Tis not a laughing matter. To be earl, I must marry her," Kormad grumbled.

  "Or you could kill her," another man suggested.

  Lachlan clutched the tankard of ale tightly when all he wanted to do was draw his sword and do the lopping off of Kormad's head himself. By the saints, I will protect her. Though he did not know why he should want to protect the thorny, insulting ice queen. Something inside her seemed vulnerable and alone. She reminded him of the wee injured wildcat he had found on his clan's lands when he was a lad. When he'd tried to help, the feline had scratched him, but she was simply protecting herself the only way she knew how.

  Dirk frowned, scrutinizing Lachlan's face.

  "Shh," Kormad hissed.

  The men's voices lowered. "We could steal her away and hie back to Scotland. You can marry her there, legal."

  "And have the king string me up like a bleeding boar? Nay, indeed."

  "The lass will tell the king she wishes it. I can make certain of it."

  "You're too daft to make certain of anything," Kormad snapped. "The Drummagans have been friends of the Stuarts for hundreds
of years. I won't jeopardize that."

  "Queen Jamie doesn't seem like a friend to you," a slimy voiced man muttered.

  "Who is he going to marry her off to, then?" another man asked. "That damned Frenchman bastard?"

  "Nay. The clan would never accept him as chief," Kormad said.

  "Chatsworth?"

  "Too old. And too English."

  "The clan will settle for naught but a full-blooded Scotsman," Kormad said with finality.

  "You're the best candidate. I say you should meet with the king again."

  "He might be thinking of that Lachlan MacGrath what saved Steenie's life," a different man said.

  Dirk's frown grew fierce and his glare deadly.

  Lachlan was glad his friend finally understood.

  "He's a Scot, but a damned Highlander," one of the men said.

  "The king detests Highlanders," Kormad growled.

  "He knighted MacGrath and took him hunting at Theobalds. He likes that one."

  "Might be his bonny face."

  "Maybe Steenie should watch his back," slime voice said.

  Loud laughter erupted. Bastards. Lachlan wished he could shock them all by making his presence known, but that would not serve his purpose. Pretending to be naught but a skirt-chasing gallant would lull them into thinking he was no threat.

  Moments later, the group quieted. "The lass is the only thing in your path, my lord."

  "Aye."

  "So let's remove the obstacle. 'Accidentally' of course."

  "Not yet. Let's see who the king chooses for her first."

  Chapter Two

  Angelique knelt before the king in the throne room the next afternoon. She blinked against the burning rose water perfume she'd dropped into her eyes and stared at the blurred patterns of the lush carpet.

  "You must choose a husband from among these three men," King James said.

  "But, Your Majesty, pray pardon. I love Philippe Descartes. He is a good man." Lifting her gaze as far as his royally shod feet, she blotted her faux tears with a silk handkerchief. She hated to resort to such theatrics but she knew her guardian was easily swayed with tears, especially hers, ever since she was a small child. The first time her father had taken her to court in Edinburgh, she'd been terrified of all the strangers. When the king saw her crying, he gave her a priceless gold trinket. She prayed he still had a soft spot for her, because she must convince him she was genuinely in love with Phillipe. This was her only sound argument.