"A wee lass of a score years, flaming, curling, ginger colored hair. Eyes, green as the hills of Scotland in summer." She did have lovely eyes. And an adorable but too stern mouth that desperately needed his attention to soften it up a bit. He had a fantasy about kissing her, parting those lush lips and sliding his tongue between to sample her, without being bitten. Well, he'd always loved danger, so 'twas fitting.
"Och, God's bones, would you listen to yourself?" Rebbie scoffed. "You'll tire of her in a fortnight."
"'Haps." Indeed, what if he did? He would make the best of it.
"Is she smitten with you, then, like all the other lasses?"
"Nay, she's a prickly wench who thinks she's naught but French silk. She detests me. Would rather stab me than kiss me." Imagining his fire-breathing nymph wielding a weapon, Lachlan smiled. She was different, and that held his interest.
"'Tis clear. You're a bedlamite."
"She fancies herself in love with a wee French laddie named Philippe."
"You're not wantin' a happy marriage then?" Rebbie asked in a dry tone.
Lachlan sipped his ale. "I am a man in need of a challenge."
"You're bored so you get hitched?"
"Not bored, exactly. Just tired of wandering. Tired of being shiftless with no plan or purpose. I want something for my lads. I'm thinking she could be a good mother to them."
"Pray pardon, but a lady such as herself will not take to raising your bastards. She'll be wanting bairns of her own."
"Aye, and I'm all for it—the bairns, that is. She'll learn to accept Kean and Orin as well." Lachlan imagined his two endearing, fair-haired sons, wee versions of himself. Och, how he missed them. He was thankful to his brother for acting as guardian of them in his absence.
Rebbie shook his head. "You've gone daft as a sheep."
Lachlan leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. "The lass isn't the problem. Sorlie MacGrotie is."
"Who?"
"Baron Kormad. Her distant cousin, next in line to inherit. He is covetous of the title and lands. He sent his ruffians after me tonight, and he has plans to hurt Lady Angelique. Dirk and I heard him talking."
A maniacal glow lit Rebbie's eyes. "You need help?"
"Aye. I'd like it if you would join me at court and watch my back. Dirk has already agreed. I'm to meet him at the Black Spur shortly."
"Count me in."
After glancing about to make certain no one was watching, Lachlan drew his jewel-hilted dagger—the one his father had given him—from its scabbard within his doublet and placed it on the table. "How much will you give me for this?"
"What, you're wanting to sell it now? I'm not believing it." His friend scrutinized him.
God's blood! How he wished he had enough coin not to worry about things like this. "I would like to buy her a gift."
"How much? I shall loan you the money."
"Nay. You ken I don't borrow money," Lachlan snapped.
"You can pay it back after you're married."
"I won't buy her a ring with her money, but mine own. So, do you want to buy the dagger or not? I wager Dirk will. Or 'haps Miles."
"I'll be damned if the Sassenach will get such a valuable Scottish weapon. I'll give you ten pounds for it." Rebbie opened his sporran and covertly withdrew some coins. "A ring, eh? Must be a fancy one."
Lachlan shrugged. Earlier that day, he'd spoken with a goldsmith at a booth in Britain's Burse who would custom-make the ring, and it should be ready on the morrow. Though 'twould be a small token, he hoped it would say to Angelique that he was trustworthy and honorable.
Watching Rebbie take possession of the dagger felt like someone ripping out his spleen. His father had given him the weapon on his deathbed, and Lachlan had sworn never to part with it. But at the moment he had little choice. He couldn't risk gambling, nor could he part with his sword.
"Don't worry, man. 'Haps I'll let you buy it back someday…if I don't get too attached to it." Rebbie sent him an evil grin. "And if you can afford my price."
"To hell with you. I will not want it back."
"Bah! You're a terrible liar."
Lachlan drained his ale tankard. "Time to meet Dirk."
***
The next day, Angelique sat in the richly appointed drawing room with the other ladies who had accompanied her from the queen's court, but she was in no mood for conversation. She would rather be in bed with her head covered. Camille was the only person who understood her, but she was not entirely welcomed into these social gatherings.
How Angelique wished she could have married Philippe or another biddable man before her mother had passed away. Maman would not have approved of the Highlander as a husband. She would say Angelique was headed for a repeat of her parents' marriage. And she knew this to be true. Scotsmen knew not how to remain faithful—her mother had said it many times.
"'Twas in this very room where you intruded upon Sir Lachlan and me…" Eleanor whispered and took a seat beside her on the burgundy velvet settle.
Disgust rising within, Angelique glared at the other woman.
"In the throes of passion."
"I understand your meaning, Eleanor." The putain was worse than a cat in heat. "And where was it you crawled away to hide that night?"
Eleanor's smugness disappeared. "At least you have bagged yourself a man who is proficient in the bedchamber. My late husband was not."
"A pity."
"You may not care now, but you shall one day."
Angelique ignored that. 'Twas true, she didn't care now. She had experienced naught in the coupling she was fond of. It was a painful and loathsome activity.
"Was your lover in France very gifted?" Eleanor asked.
"I had no lover. Merely a faithless fiancé." Few people knew of her compromised virtue. Some believed it only a rumor and she didn't wish King James to know the truth of it. Though Girard had asked for her hand in marriage, and she had thought to marry him before his fit of violence, they were not formally betrothed because her father would not permit it. She and her mother had written to him in Scotland to ask. His answer was a resounding nay and a demand that she return to Scotland. She, of course, had not gone. Besides, Girard had turned out to be a bumbling, cruel oaf who'd forced himself on her in the end, and she was relieved she hadn't married him. But now she must marry the Highlander.
Eleanor chuckled. "And soon you shall have a faithless husband."
Indeed. Nausea took Angelique's appetite and she put down her puff pastry.
"Lachlan told me two nights ago in his bedchamber he knew his faithfulness was not required. You may have to share him, but believe me, he's worth it." Eleanor sighed.
The ruttish varlet. "I am fortunate, no?" Angelique wanted to toss her wine onto Eleanor's head and watch it ruin her perfect dark curls.
"Indeed, you are most fortunate. His broadsword is long and stiff and—"
"Enough." Angelique knew exactly what the other woman spoke of.
Eleanor giggled.
"We all know you have sampled most every male member at court," Angelique said.
Eleanor smirked, dropping her gaze to Angelique's chest. "Well, Sir Lachlan is rather fond of large breasts, so I don't imagine he will be overjoyed with you."
Angelique stiffened and forced herself not to draw her wrap closer about her body and hide. "I do not care what sort of breasts he fancies." He will not be touching mine. She wondered if she could lure the bitch into an alcove and squash her nose like a Scottish bannock. Instead, she sipped her wine in a very collected manner.
"Perhaps I shall pay him a visit one day to alleviate his frustrations," Eleanor said.
"You will stay away from my home," Angelique said with smooth calmness. "If you do not, you shall regret it."
"Is that a threat?" Eleanor glanced toward the doorway. "Speak of the virile and handsome devil."
Angelique almost dropped her Venetian glass before she turned to face Lachlan, striding across the Turkish carpets, three large, f
earsome men trailing behind him.
Eleanor rose and gave a deep curtsey. "Sir Lachlan," she purred.
Angelique wished to send her sprawling across the floor.
"Lady Eleanor." He bowed, proceeded to Angelique's side and lifted her hand to kiss the back. "M'lady," he murmured in an intimate tone. She avoided his gaze for she was suddenly most irritated at him and Eleanor. Lachlan turned to his friends. "This is my lovely future bride, Lady Angelique Drummagan, the countess of Draughon. M'lady, I would like you to meet my friends. Robert MacInnis, earl of Rebbinglen."
The attractive dark-haired man stepped forward, took her hand and kissed it. "A pleasure most sweet, countess."
"Dirk MacLerie," Lachlan said.
"M'lady." The auburn-haired man, tall as Lachlan, bowed briefly but remained in place, his steady blue eyes assessing her.
"Miles Seabourne, the only Sassenach unconventional enough for me to trust."
The man laughed and bowed. "My lady, 'tis an honor."
Angelique rose and curtsied. "Enchantée, messieurs."
"Did I not tell you she is beautiful?" Lachlan asked. His smile and the pride in his eyes made her heart flutter. She could almost believe he liked her. How she wished…
"Aye, lovely." The men bowed and expressed further delight upon meeting her.
"Merci." Angelique's face flushed hotter than it had in a long while. She was unaccustomed to having so many handsome men's regard at one time. The bit of happiness welling within her chased away her doldrums.
To the side, Eleanor cleared her throat, drawing everyone's attention.
"And this is Lady Eleanor." Lachlan was not often embarrassed by his past trysts, but in this case, Eleanor made him highly uncomfortable. He wished she would leave off her blatant pursuit of him.
While the other men greeted her, Lachlan turned to Angelique. "Could we step into the gardens again?"
"Oui."
He escorted her out, trying to decipher the expression in her eyes. Damnable Frenchie. If she'd been an untutored Highland lass he could've read her easily, but Angelique was a mystery he yearned to uncover. With her first glance at him when he'd stepped into the room, her expression had been pleased and surprised, then she'd schooled her brows into that disdainful arch that told him he was lower than a worm. At least she didn't mean it. She was still jealous of Eleanor—that had to be the problem.
Dirk followed at a distance, hanging back and surveying the surroundings. He was the best guard in the kingdom, and Lachlan was fortunate to call him a friend.
"How pleasant you have brought your Highland friends with you today." A bit of her sarcasm bled through but he chose to ignore it.
"Aye. Friends are important."
"I would not know," she said in a bitter tone, then pressed her lips together and turned away.
"You have no friends?"
She shrugged.
"None?"
"My companion, Camille. Philippe. I had several friends in France, but not so many here."
She had to bring up the French lad again, didn't she? He would ignore that as well. "'Tis a shame. I wager you will find many friends in Scotland."
"It matters not."
He took in her sour expression and what lay beneath it. "You're not a happy woman, Angelique."
She directed a cutting glare at him.
"Why not?" he asked.
"I do not wish to discuss it."
"I ken marrying me is a chore, but surely you prefer me to Chatsworth or Kormad. If you didn't, why did you choose me?"
"The lesser of three evils."
"Ah. You think me evil, then?"
"Non, merely wicked."
Lachlan grinned, imagining all the wicked things he'd love to do to her, starting with slow exploring kisses. He'd then unlace her and strip every piece of clothing from her sweet little body. He'd make her ache and moan and whisper his name. Finally, he would give her what she sought, sliding into her wet, hot passage over and over until they both found paradise. His wickedness was to her benefit; he had only to make her see that.
"And are you without fault, then?" he asked.
"Naturellement, I have faults but none so noticeable as yours."
"Of course not." Her main fault may not have been obvious to her but it was clear to him—something had made her bitter. How in the devil was he going to sweeten her up?
"This will be a marriage in name only," she said.
"Is that so?"
"Oui."
Like hell. When she allowed him to seduce her, he would make sure she enjoyed the bedding more than anything she had thus far experienced.
Lachlan shrugged. "Whatever you desire."
"I do not desire anything beyond saying I have a 'husband.'"
"I'm not arguing, my angel." He prided himself on his diplomacy skills.
She clenched her jaw. "I wish to leave immediately after the ceremony for my estate."
"As do I. I've had enough of London. 'Tis a foul stink-pot. And I'm missing Scotland."
She remained silent. How could he convince her to talk civilly? He wanted to know her better, wanted her to trust him a wee bit.
"When were you last in Scotland?" he asked.
"Eleven years ago."
"Do you miss it?"
"Non. I miss France. And my mother." She strode toward the shade of an arbor covered with climbing roses.
He followed. "Your mother?"
"She passed away last year."
"I'm sorry to hear it, truly."
Inside the arbor, she sat on a bench and he joined her.
"My mother died when I was a wee lad," Lachlan said. "I hardly remember her at all. And my father died five years past. 'Twas hard to get through. I still miss him sorely."
Angelique gave him an assessing look. He preferred it to her glares.
"I had not seen my father since my mother left him and took me to France," she said.
"When did he pass?"
"Two months ago."
He nodded. "Do you wish you had seen him one last time?"
She lifted a slim shoulder and stared at her entwined fingers. "I did not know him, really. He sent for me several times, but I did not want to return to Scotland."
"Why not?"
"He wished to find me a Scottish husband." She flicked a glare at him.
"Ah. So, you don't have any brothers or sisters?"
"Non. You?"
"I have one brother who is chief of the MacGrath clan in the Highlands. He's an earl as well. We're very close. You would like Alasdair. He is the most honorable of men."
She shot him a challenging look. "How can he be so different from you?"
"Och, Angelique." Lachlan harbored the small hope she was teasing him in her own waspish way. "You are too much like this lovely rose." He fingered the petals of a late season pink blossom, sniffed the lush scent. "Beautiful, fragile, but your thorns drive deep."
This time he caught a glimpse of vulnerability lurking in the depths of her green-gray eyes. She needed someone to protect her, someone to teach her how to laugh again. Someone she could whisper her hopes and dreams to. Aye, he wished to hear her whispers in his ear at night, and feel her hot breaths upon his skin.
"Do not try to seduce me," she muttered. "You will only be disappointed."
"I'm not trying to seduce you." Though this arbor would be a pleasant, secluded place for a tryst, the seduction would come later.
"Très bien. Save it for your paramours."
God's teeth. He had never known a woman such as her. Jealousy was eating her up. That had to mean something. Mayhap she wanted him all to herself. He grinned and glanced away.
"What is it?"
"Naught."
She stood. "I wish to return to my room."
"Before you go… I want to give you something." A fit of nerves seized him, a feeling such as he'd never before experienced with a woman.
"Oui. What?"
What the devil was wrong with him? Just give it to
her. He knelt on one knee and extended his empty hand.
Her eyes widened and he thought she might bolt. After a moment, she placed her hand in his.
"I ken I didn't propose to you and likely 'twould seem silly to do so now." He pulled the golden ring from inside his doublet. "But I wish to give you this betrothal ring. I had it specially made for you with this emerald because it reminds me of your eyes." He slid it into place on her finger, and he was happy to see it fit perfectly.
She lifted her hand, examining the ring. "It is lovely," she whispered. Her gaze softened a wee bit. "Merci. I thank you, sir." She curtsied.
"You're welcome." Smiling, he rose and extended his elbow. "'Twill be my pleasure to escort you to your room now."
"I wish to go alone," Angelique said firmly to combat the sensual way Lachlan had said pleasure.
The ring was a sweet token, but he could not win her heart with one piece of jewelry. The gold near burned her finger, warmed as it was from his body heat. And the feeling behind the gift clutched at her heart—or rather, the feeling she wished was behind it.
"Of course." His full lips still held a hint of smugness.
He knew he would get her into bed as his wife. At least, he thought he would. No one said she had to go willingly to the lion. She would lie like a dead fish in his bed and he would soon leave her alone.
She smiled.
"Glad I am to see you smiling."
Not for long.
***
"Damn that MacGrath!" Sorley MacGrotie, Baron of Kormad, paced the small room at the Red Bull Inn.
"Damn the king," Arnie said in the same tone.
"Damn Angelique," Rufus said.
"Shut up, you fools! I won't let him steal the estate and title away from little Timmy." Kormad wanted to get this mess cleared up so he could return to his nephew in Scotland. His sister's son would inherit what was rightfully his, despite what Timmy's bastard of a father, John Drummagan, had wanted, and Kormad would make certain of it. Drummagan would pay, from beyond the grave, for shunning sweet Lilas.
Angelique was not the rightful heir, and MacGrath sure as the devil should not be earl.
"We tried to throw him in the river," Arnie whined. "He's big."
"And strong. A highly trained warrior," Rufus said. "He has three men with him now, two Highlanders."
My Wild Highlander Page 4