"I don't give a damn where they hail from," Kormad said. "Highlanders, Lowlanders, Sassenachs, I will destroy any man who follows MacGrath. Tell Pike to come in here as the two of you leave."
The dolts hung their heads and shuffled out. He didn't know how he suffered their stupidity.
Pike was his most resourceful man, not to mention ruthless.
Minutes later, he entered, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight. "Aye, my lord."
"Desperate measures are called for with this MacGrath."
Pike gave an evil half smile; his gray eyes glinted like dirty ice. "What did you have in mind? Let me torture him."
"As much as that would please me…I just need Lachlan MacGrath dead. In an 'accident.' Angelique, too."
"Indeed?" Pike looked ravenous of a sudden. "The lady, too?"
"Aye, the bitch will never marry me. Don't bungle this. The king mustn't suspect foul play."
"Of course not, my lord. 'Tis my specialty."
"I will pay you well if you succeed."
"I ken not how to fail." Pike grinned.
"Accident, I tell you. 'Haps they could fall from a high window, a rooftop, a bridge."
Pike nodded with enthusiasm. "Can I have the woman first?"
"I don't care. Just leave no evidence of foul play, no marks upon her save the ones from her fall."
Pike's head bobbled up and down again before he left. The man belonged in Bedlam.
Chapter Three
Angelique awoke in the night, thinking she'd heard a thump. Her eyes searched the darkness of the bedchamber. She snatched her dagger from beneath her pillow and slid to the floor behind the bed. The faint moonlight glimmering through the window did little to illuminate the room. Only embers glowed in the hearth. She caught the whiff of a masculine scent. An intruder!
A floorboard squeaked and a large dark silhouette moved forward. Parblue! Immobile, she waited for the moment when she could best strike.
When the intruder bent over her bed, she lunged toward him, stabbing her blade at his neck. Before she met her mark, he jerked back, grabbed her forearms and dragged her against him. She lost the grip on her dagger. Heaven help me.
"M'lady?"
She screamed, trying to wake Camille, sleeping on a cot in the corner. A hand clamped over her mouth.
"Release me!" Her demand came out muffled.
"Shh. 'Tis me, Lachlan. You must come with me." He uncovered her mouth.
She went limp with a bit of relief. The heat of his strong hands and solid body burned through her. Now she recognized the pleasant but disturbing male scent of him. "Why?"
"Someone is trying to kill us. We must go into hiding," he said, low and fierce in her ear, his breath fanning her hair and tickling her skin.
"You have lost your senses. No one is trying to kill me." Were they?
"Indeed, Kormad is making plans."
Kormad. Mon Dieu. "I must have my clothes, my trunks."
"We have no time. Bring one change of clothes. I'll have the others shipped to Draughon."
"Camille must come with me. I go nowhere without her." Angelique wrested away from Lachlan, hurried to the corner and shook her cousin out of a deep sleep. "Parbleu! Camille, wake up."
"Whaa?" She stirred a bit.
"She is a heavy sleeper."
Lachlan went to the door. "Dirk, we need your help. Can you carry Lady Angelique's companion?"
The fearsome man appeared at the threshold, the lantern in his hand illuminating his long red hair and exaggerating his frown. "Can she not walk?"
Unable to wait for Camille to wake, and with no maids about, Angelique quickly threw smocks, stays and a change of clothes into a sack for herself and the same for Camille.
"I must dress," Angelique said.
"No time."
She yanked a blanket off the bed to wrap around herself seconds before Lachlan dragged her from the room.
After meeting Dirk cradling the sleeping Camille, and Rebbinglen carrying a lantern and a sword, they slipped through a narrow doorway she'd never seen before, and entered a tight dark passage. The dank air and close space made her feel she would suffocate. Apparently this was one of the secret passages she'd heard about that riddled Whitehall.
They reached an exterior door—near the stables if the stench was any indication. Wind twisted the trees and bushes. The faint glow of the lantern revealed the muddy ground. Angelique hung back on the threshold. "I am barefoot."
"Come." Lachlan scooped Angelique into his arms abruptly, making her head spin, and rushed her outside. Ma foi! She did not want to notice the warmth of his breath against her hair or the hardness and strength of his body. Before she had time to decide whether or not she liked his touch, he pushed her inside a coach with her cousin and slammed the door. The team and coach took off and raced through the gate, then along King Street. Horses' hooves clomped all around them—guards, she hoped.
"Camille, wake up, damn you." Angelique shook her on the opposite seat. "You are one worthless companion."
She roused a bit. "Huh? Are we moving? Where are we?" she asked in a groggy voice.
"In a coach, heading for God knows where. Lachlan says our lives are in danger."
"Is it Kormad?" Camille sat up.
"Lachlan says yes."
"You do not think it is Girard?"
"No, I hope he is dead of a fever." Angelique slid back on the leather seat. The coach careened around a corner, and she grabbed for a handhold.
"But we cannot be certain."
"We must not speak of it." Angelique's stomach knotted with the very thought.
"Did you get…the item?"
"Of course. You know I would not leave it."
After taking another corner too quickly, the coach drew to an abrupt halt and the door opened. Lachlan now held a torch aloft. "Come, both of you. Hold this." He handed the torch to Rebbinglen.
"Where are we going?" Angelique asked.
"No time for questions now." He motioned her forward.
Again, he lifted Angelique into his arms and carried her across an alley as if she weighed no more than an infant. Amid the chaos, he seemed an island of strength and protection. She was finding, of a sudden, that she liked this feeling. She had not experienced true safety for a long time. And besides, he smelled appealing, like clean male blended with leather. In the torchlight, their gazes mingled for a moment. He was not the seductive charmer now. No twinkle of humor danced in his eyes, no smirk upon his lips. He'd transformed into a formidable warrior with a firm mouth and dark, indomitable eyes—a side of him she'd never fully seen.
They slipped through a narrow doorway, Dirk carrying Camille behind them.
"What is this place?" The scents of tallow and musty books irritated her nose.
The passage opened up and they moved through a large dim church filled with empty pews. Only a couple of candles lit the plain interior. Five of King James's retainers wearing royal livery waited near the pulpit along with a dour Protestant minister.
"What is happening?" Angelique asked.
"We are to be married, as you ken." Lachlan set her on her feet at the front of the church.
She pulled him aside. "Have you lost your mind? We cannot marry now. Not like this," she whispered loudly.
"Aye, 'tis necessary to marry in secret. Someone wishes to kill us. They are wanting your estate through any means, fair or foul." His harsh expression told her of the seriousness of the matter. "King James bid us to go ahead and marry. Now. We have the special license."
"But I must wear my wedding gown and I did not bring it. I will not marry in my shift and a blanket. Barefoot."
"No time." Lachlan dragged her before the minister. "Please begin." He placed his hand over hers, tucked against his elbow.
The minister began in a dry monotone.
Parbleu! Angelique felt paralyzed for a moment, her mind racing. What to do? She glanced aside and found Camille standing barefoot, dressed much as she was. She gave an almost
imperceptible nod and faint smile, her gaze steady. She approved? Merde!
How preposterous Angelique should get married in such dishabille. Her hair was a bedraggled disaster, tousled and hanging to her waist. She was a countess, not a prostitute. Since she had been a small child she had dreamed of the day she would wear her mother's enchanting French wedding gown, say her vows and kiss her own charming prince.
Today was not that day. That day would never come. She glanced up at Lachlan, and sensed some understanding in his eyes, a silent communication she could not fully grasp because she didn't know him. Lowering her gaze, she thought of the emerald ring on her finger and how he'd given it to her on bended knee. A romantic gesture, but had he meant it in the way she hoped?
Mère de Dieu, do not let this be a mistake. Do not let him slip inside my heart and destroy it. I cannot dare trust him.
Lachlan nudged her. "Say 'I will,'" he whispered without moving his lips.
"I will," she said in a strong voice. She could have been agreeing to anything. The minister droned on. In shock, wishing this over with, she let her attention slide away to other things, the creaking of the old building, Lachlan's warm, slightly roughened fingers on hers as he pushed another ring onto her finger, a shiny gold band.
"With this ring, I thee wed. This gold and silver, I thee give. With my body, I thee worship." Lachlan's smooth baritone voice reciting those vows stripped away the fog. Her attention riveted upon him, and she knew she would remember this moment forever.
She repeated her own vows rather stiffly, in a halting voice. Only Lachlan's steady hands kept her upright. She wanted to do nothing but burst into tears, though she didn't know why. The way she was dressed—or rather undressed—like a whore for her wedding, or the satisfied, hopeful expression in his eyes, such a contrast to her own misery.
Naturally, he should be pleased. He would be an earl and worth a goodly sum. Her possessions became his. He owned her now.
Sliding his fingers into her unbound hair, Lachlan lowered his head toward her and panic tightened her throat. He touched his lips to hers, the first contact startling, but warm and compelling. His full lips sipped at hers gently, drew away a breath and came back for a firmer, more possessive kiss. His beard stubble rasped her chin and the tip of his tongue tasted her lips, between. Such an unexpected and erotic action. She could not even draw breath.
Whistles and yelps from his friends echoed into the rafters. The minister cleared his throat.
I must shove him away. But no, she couldn't. Not because he was her husband, but because the damnable seducer had mesmerized her.
***
"With my body, I thee worship," Angelique whispered next to the velvet draperies of the room they'd locked her in alone at the earl of Knightly's residence.
Lachlan's eyes, as he'd said those words, had gleamed gold and sincere. He knew her not. How could he look at her as if she were the only woman in the world? When but days ago he had been fornicating with two different women in the space of two nights.
He was a talented liar. So good at it, so good at everything…especially kissing. The moment they'd sealed their vows had been the most shockingly arousing of her life—in a church, no less. The kiss couldn't have lasted more than five seconds, but had instigated such conflictive feelings within her.
The bedchamber door opened and closed back with a soft thud. Her new husband sauntered toward her in the dark English clothing he'd worn for the wedding. It lent him a dashing grace with his light hair pulled into a queue. A mask was all he required to become the epitome of a roguish highwayman. A pistol grip and the polished steel basket hilt of his sword gleamed at his waist.
What did one say to a new husband? Especially when she didn't trust him…nor herself.
"You did not wear your belted plaid," she said to fill the void.
He halted two yards away. "Nay. Draws too much attention here in London, and 'tis best to wear black for secret movements at night. I'm hoping my father was not here in spirit to witness it. I wouldn't have any of the MacGrath clan ken I wore English clothes to mine own wedding."
"They are better than a shift and a blanket."
"I'm sorry for that, but it couldn't be helped. We'll have another ceremony at Draughon Castle, afore your clan—our clan—if you wish. You can wear your wedding gown then."
His words disoriented her. "In truth?"
"Aye. Would you not like that?" His gaze remained steady and sincere upon her.
"Oui. But…why do you care?"
"Why should I not care?"
She shook her head. "You are a man."
"Aye. And?" Waiting, he stared at her with lifted brows.
"Men have no patience for…never mind."
"I have much patience. I'm not a demonic goat as you assume." With that he removed his sword belt and started disrobing, throwing each article of the rich clothing into a heap on a chair. First his doublet, then waistcoat and trews. He was certainly acting like a goat with his lack of modesty.
She turned her gaze to the window before he removed the long shirt. Parbleu, she could not look at him unclothed. Could she?
She cleared her throat. "Where is your Highland clothing?"
"I don't ken. In one of these trunks, I'm thinking."
Her gaze darted to his nakedness, then away. Sweet heavens. He possessed defined muscles as if he were carved in warm, burnished marble, like the statues she'd seen in Italy. A wickedly improved version of Michelangelo's David with a pagan's long golden mane. A feverish heat consumed her.
She forced air into her constricted lungs. "Need I remind you this is a marriage in name only?" Was she proclaiming that to him or herself?
"The king wants the marriage consummated to make it legal and binding."
The king? Plague take the king. She had done what he commanded. But her body was her own, to give to whom she chose, when she chose.
"Tonight," he added.
She stared at a blue vase of white lilies on the dresser, surprised it did not shatter beneath her glare. "I do not care what the king wants."
"Are you wanting to be the one to tell him that?" A tinge of amusement crept into Lachlan's voice.
"Non."
"Well, then." Lachlan waited. "He wishes proof given to his men within the hour."
"Proof?" Her gaze darted to him again. He still had not donned clothing, damn him. She gave him her back.
"Aye. Your virgin's blood on the sheet."
"The king is naught but a Scottish barbarian!"
Lachlan snickered. "Indeed. 'Haps you would like to tell him that as well."
"I have no virgin's blood. I am not a virgin." There, she hoped that shocked him speechless.
"I'd heard," he said in a mild, almost pleasant tone. The bastard.
"From whom?"
"It matters not." He strode toward the other side of the room and flipped open his trunk. "But I didn't ken the king would want a bloody sheet until a short time ago. I'm not saying I agree with it, but he's the king. To oppose him is not wise. Besides, he but wants to assure the marriage is legal and your estate is secure."
Did Lachlan not care she wasn't a virgin? Most men—husbands—would be furious. She peeped at him from the corner of her eyes. His back was toward her, and she could not help but stare at his wide, muscular shoulders, arms thick from swinging a sword, his narrow waist and compact derriere. Sacrebleu! All men were not built like him. The sight of his nude body usurped her other thoughts, even her anger.
"Aha." He withdrew his plaid, a linen shirt and various other articles of clothing along with a flask. He threw his clothes on the foot of the bed and unsheathed a small knife.
She backed up a step. "What are you…?"
He flung back the covers to expose the white linen sheet. He stared at her then down at his own body. "Which part of my body do I wish to mutilate?"
None of it! Was he a lunatic? Though he already had several pale scars on his chest, arms and leg, she didn't want to see a fre
sh wound.
"God's bones. The things I'll do for a hellish woman." He opened the pewter flask, drank a long swallow, and then poured some of the liquid upon the knife blade. He set the flask on the bedside table and climbed onto the huge bed to sit upon his knees.
"My first battle wound for you, sweet wife." With a flick of his wrist, he placed a short cut on his abdomen several inches above his waist.
"Ma foi!" She covered her mouth and gaped at him. What in Heaven's name possessed him?
His blood dripped onto the pristine sheet for a few seconds. He smeared it in. "There's your virgin's blood, lass. And don't be telling anyone how it got there." Glaring at her, he yanked at the top sheet and pressed it against his cut. "Damn, who kenned I was such a free-bleeder?"
She rushed forward. "You have cut yourself too deeply. Lie down."
He obeyed. "'Tis but a scratch. But I am oft too enthusiastic about things. Here, pour some of this on it." He handed her the flask from the table.
"What is that?"
"Uisge beatha. Water of life. The best, made in the Highlands of course. Take a sip."
The strong whisky burned her nose. "Non." She poured a dribble on his wound.
He jerked, breath hissing through his teeth.
She pressed hard against the sheet over his cut. The material draped down, covering his man parts, thank heavens, or she would've been too nervous to remain this close to him. He was her husband, oui, but something about him defied her to touch him, like a hot kettle. He would sear her in the same manner as that kiss at their debacle of a wedding.
"Are you in pain?"
"Nay. 'Tis fine now, I'm thinking." He lifted the edge of the sheet.
"I shall make you a wrap for it, else you will bleed on your clothing and our ruse will be for naught." She ripped the bottom edge off the sheet. "Stand, s'il vous plaît."
Again he obeyed her, rising without the sheet to cover him. "You enjoy ordering me about, aye?"
She tried not to let her gaze drift below his waist as she wrapped the strip of cloth around his trim, muscled abdomen, but his male member was impossible to ignore, especially when it appeared larger each time she happened to glimpse it. She thought her imagination was playing tricks on her, but then it started jutting out toward her.
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