What do I care?
But she did care, for whatever reason. He had protected her and helped her escape Kormad and his men. As well, she had grown used to his smiling eyes and tall, muscular body…which she had seen every bare inch of. And taken note of every scar and bulge of muscle.
Metal clanged and flashed in the bright sunlight while Angelique held her breath. Swordplay was much like a violent dance of death, beautiful and dark. She had not hated it so much until this moment.
The men of both sides shouted encouragements.
A sword flew up into the air and tumbled to the ground. "Sacrebleu," she whispered before Lachlan turned and she saw he still held his sword. "Grâce à Dieu. He has done it."
"Did you have any doubt?" Camille asked.
Angelique shrugged and kept her eyes on the action.
Kormad's man, now unarmed, backed away, tripped over a rock and sprawled to his back. Standing over him, Lachlan pressed the tip of the sword against the man's throat. "What are you called?"
"Edward."
"Well, Edward, I shall spare your life if you deliver a message for me."
"A m…mes…message, m'laird?"
In Angelique's estimation, Lachlan looked a bit too pleased with himself.
"Aye. Tell Kormad if he wants this castle, to come get it himself, if he is brave enough. It belongs to Lady Angelique and me." He nicked the man's cheek. Blood trickled from the small wound.
He included me first. Pride swelled within Angelique, and a warm spot inside her chest softened for Lachlan.
Stepping back, he sheathed his sword. "Get up. Gather your men and go."
The prone man lurched to his feet and stumbled away. Four men rushed past, following him.
"Does anyone else wish to challenge me or leave with your friends?" Lachlan asked.
No one moved.
"Anyone else loyal to Kormad?"
Angelique noticed a tall, skinny man off to the side, clothed in dark brown leather, holding a sword behind his back. His face was hard as he watched Lachlan, like a terrier intent upon his prey.
"Who is the steward here?" Lachlan paced before the remaining clansmen, looking into the face of each one. When he turned his back, the thin, suspicious man charged forward, his sword aimed directly at Lachlan's back.
Chapter Five
Murder in his eyes and his mouth pulled into a grimace, the stranger charged Lachlan's back with the broadsword.
"Mère de Dieu." Angelique lifted her pistol. Holding it steady with both hands, she aimed at her target and fired. The pistol popped and the recoil jarred her teeth.
Crying out, the traitor flipped to the ground and slid a few inches. His sword clattered away.
Lachlan ducked, his gaze darting to the groaning man she'd downed, then to her. "What the devil?"
Where did I get such reflexes? She coughed against the thick smoke, stared at the pistol and lowered it with shaking hands spotted with black powder.
"You have done it again, Ange!" Camille said. "Maybe someone would hire you as a mercenary."
"Do not jest with me so."
Now was the time to assert her power, before Lachlan and the clan. He would not lead alone. Carrying the pistol, she climbed down from the coach and strode forward, trying to conceal how her knees shook.
Lachlan stood over the traitor. "Lock him up," he told two of the Drummagan men. "Have someone see to his injury." Blood soaked the man's right sleeve. Lachlan turned to one of the king's retainers. "If you would, see they do what they're supposed to."
Two brawny Drummagans carried the man away and two retainers followed. Lachlan shifted his attention to Angelique, his expression showing mild amazement—or was it amusement? Oui. Again, he had the smiling eyes which taunted and teased, but now she glimpsed a bit of pride there as well. Perhaps he had underestimated her before, but now he saw what she was capable of.
Get accustomed to it, she wanted to say to him but faced her clan instead. "Do you know who I am? Lady Angelique Drummagan, countess of Draughon in my own right. The rightful heir and daughter of John Drummagan. Lachlan is my husband, the earl and chief. We are laird and lady here. This is our home. You will put away your weapons and let us pass."
Lachlan sidled in close beside her, his sword again drawn, and put his arm around her shoulders. She savored the way he always wanted to protect her, but she'd shown him she was strong enough to protect him as well. And she wished he'd remove his arm before he felt her tremble.
The worried gazes of the male clan members shifted from her to Lachlan and back again. She looked into the eyes of each one, some of them vaguely familiar, from her childhood, and others foreign to her. They must trust and respect her and Lachlan. For this to happen, they must see no sign of weakness or fear.
"You have the look of your father, lass," the man directly in front of her murmured, then dropped his gaze and went down on one knee. "M'lady. Pray pardon."
His was one of the familiar faces. What was his name? Byron? Bryce. No, Bryson. "Are you Bryson?" she asked.
"Aye, m'lady." He grinned, a light of awe entering his brown eyes. "I was sword-bearer for your father."
"I remember you." She glared at the armed men behind him, meeting the wild, pale eyes of another man she recalled. His thick beard had gone white. "Heckie," she said. "You were Father's bard."
He winked. "Indeed, m'lady. And I can recite the clan's history back to the time of Noah."
His ridiculous comment caught her off guard and she smiled.
"You've grown into a lovely young lady, lass. Glad I am you've returned to us so another chapter of the Drummagan story can unfold." He laid down his sword and knelt.
One by one, the rest of the men put their weapons upon the ground and knelt.
"We are grateful for your loyalty." She curtsied, feeling a bit of awe herself.
"Indeed, good men," Lachlan said with a bow. "Now if you would please, open the gates."
One of the men lurched up and fumbled with the lock.
When the black iron gate swung back, she strode forward, her legs a bit stronger now. Lachlan walked beside her, the retainers and his friends following.
"We shall all assemble in the great hall at supper," she called, almost stepping in a pile of horse dung, one of many littering the bailey. "Clean this place forthwith! It is no better than a pigsty." She held a fondness for her clan, but they would not shirk their duties or view her as weak. She had observed her father giving orders often enough.
Once she and Lachlan climbed the stone steps and entered the great hall, she saw that it was much cleaner than the outside and looked just as it had during her childhood. She inhaled the sweet scent of fresh rushes and pungent herbs scattered about the floor.
When she was a child, Heckie and other clan members had told the stories depicted on the large, colorful tapestries that decorated the stone walls. A barrage of nostalgic memories flitted through her mind, most bittersweet. She truly had loved this place. And missed it more than she realized.
Her father's ornate oak chair sat at the elevated high table. How she wished she could see him proudly sitting there one last time, his russet hair gleaming in the firelight. She could not imagine this place without him. He belonged here much more fully than she did.
He had sometimes remarked in anger he wished she'd been a boy. But at other times, he looked at her with kindness and stroked roughened but gentle fingers over her cheek. Often, when he returned from trips, he brought her a baby doll or some other trinket.
"Angelique," Lachlan whispered in her ear.
Realizing the whole of the household was assembled before them, Angelique blinked back the burning in her eyes and tried to wipe the past from her mind. Several of the female servants and clanswomen curtsied or bent their heads in respect.
"A good day to you. I thank you for your service. The castle looks splendid." Was that the right thing to say? She glanced up at Lachlan as if he would know.
"Indeed." He tucked her han
d around his elbow. "'Tis a lovely home."
"I am Angelique Drummagan. Some of you may remember me from when I was a child. My mother took me to France when I was nine but I always missed this place. This is my husband, Laird Lachlan MacGrath Drummagan, your new chief and the earl."
The women curtsied again.
He bowed. "'Tis my great pleasure to meet all of you."
The women, especially the younger ones, did what all women did around Lachlan—stared as if mesmerized. She wanted to snap her fingers to break their collective trance. Ninnies.
"We have traveled from London and would like to rest a bit before evening meal. Please see that the guests in our party and the king's retainers are well cared for," Angelique said, her tone a bit more irritated than she'd meant. Clearly if Lachlan wanted a paramour—or several—to warm his bed, he'd have no trouble finding such among this lot.
The servants curtsied and disbursed, murmuring amongst themselves. A giggle or two reached her ears.
A round, gray-haired woman rushed forward with a wide grin. "Welcome home, m'lady! You may not remember me but I was your nanny when you were a wee bairn. I'm so pleased you've come home again, and with such a strapping and handsome lad for a husband."
"Thank you, Mistress Mayme. Oui, I remember you. We used to play games together. And you told me many stories. I have not forgotten them."
"Bless you, child." The older woman patted her arm. "I will show you and the laird to your chambers so you may rest. We've kept them clean and maintained these last months because we expected your return, though we didn't ken when. I'm so glad Kormad wasn't allowed to take over." She kept up the chatter the entire time they climbed the narrow spiral stone stairwell and entered the master's chambers, Lachlan following.
"As you recall, this was your mother's suite," Mistress Mayme said. "And the laird's suite is just beyond, with a door connecting the sitting rooms. I hope you will find it to your liking, m'laird."
"I'm sure 'twill be excellent."
"I had best get busy and see that the evening meal is prepared properly. Let us know if you have need of anything." She hastened away.
Angelique entered the sitting room that used to be her mother's. Was that her mother's perfume lingering in the air? A blend of lavender, violet and ambergris. Angelique half expected her to be sitting in her favorite chair by the window. She moved forward, as if through a dream of the distant past. The chair was empty, of course, but the view the same, sheep grazing on the rolling hills. Beige stalks of grain waiting to be harvested in the fields. And in the distance, the sparkling River Tay; her mother had loved looking at it.
"I thank you for saving my life," Lachlan said behind her.
Angelique jumped, her blurry gaze darting to where he stood just inside the doorway.
He moved forward. "Is something wrong?"
She dabbed at her misty eyes and tried to put the past behind her, but not before Lachlan touched her face. "Why are you crying?"
"I am not." Chills showered over her from his warm hand. His concern, his every touch felt like affection. But it was manipulation, she knew. She would not allow him to draw her under his charmed spell. A man such as Lachlan inside her soul would cut her to bits and leave her bleeding. Heavens. Each day she found him more appealing. And each day she told herself he could not be trustworthy or faithful…but those things, she wanted above all.
She paced away from him, shoving her fragile, daft emotions behind the cold protective wall, then turned. "Shooting the traitor…it was the least I could do for mine own husband, a man who trusts too easily."
Lachlan stiffened. "I would've stopped him if you hadn't."
"Indeed? Before or after he stabbed you in the back?" This was what she needed to forget her nostalgia—a good dose of reality.
"I'm not daft. I ken what you're doing." Amusement returned to his eyes. "Unsheathing your claws, wee hellcat. The rose is becoming thorny again, hmm? And considering what you did out there, I'm thinking you're a bit too cocky for a lady."
Her face burned. She hated his damnable perceptiveness. Why could he not simply keep his distance? The distance she required for her own sanity.
"Non, you are the cocky one, sir. Very confident and trusting of strangers. I wonder if you are up to the task of leading this clan."
"Oh, believe me, I am." His grin disappeared and his jaw hardened. "And I shall be proving it to you."
She had to turn her eyes away from the determination lighting his. He would not fail without a massive fight to the death. But boredom might claim him first. He wouldn't be able to pursue his favorite pastime here. No elegant skirts to be lifted, only the serving maids'. But she was sure he would keep them busy.
"You will quickly grow bored here, I fear." I hope. Did she hope or not? What would it be like to lead her clan alone? To not be able to look upon his arrogant face each day? A face that—with its square jaw, sensual lips and intelligent golden eyes—threatened to cast a spell on her.
"I've never been bored, and I won't be here."
"You have never been married before, either. Have you?"
"Nay, but I have a feeling our marriage will never be dull." He winked.
She hated being an object of his twisted amusement. He didn't take her seriously. She must remedy that. "Mayhap I will be the one who is bored."
His grin appeared, broadened. "That, I consider a challenge, madame. I would never allow such a thing."
"Everything is not under your command or control." She forced the words out.
Lachlan moved forward, closer to her but she stood firm, her heartbeat accelerating. I do not find him appealing. Not his big, strong body nor his clean male scent. Not the seduction gleaming in his eyes, nor the smile on his sensual lips. Though she tried to convince herself these things were true, her instinctive side would not listen.
"There are different kinds of control. My own is very subtle." He bent to her ear and lowered his voice. "And I wager you will like it." His breath and lips brushed her ear; tingles raced down her chest. Her nipples hardened against her corset and she silently cursed them…but they craved his touch, his roughened but gentle fingertips squeezing them. His subtle control, his hot breath and wet tongue upon them.
Ma foi! She swallowed hard and tried to extract herself from beneath his seduction by turning away. She licked her lips and noticed they had become overly sensitized, as if craving… no, do not think it.
Several paces away from him, she gauged his reaction. He watched her from the corner of his eye, his gaze astute and delving.
She couldn't allow him to perceive even one small speck of her feelings, nor her uncontrollable and instinctive yearnings.
Clearing his throat, he strode away from her. "I'll be in the great hall…or 'haps outside, meeting some of the clansmen. I shall see you at supper." He bowed and exited.
Meeting the clansmen? He was trying to get ahead of her already, exerting his male power.
She ran to the door only to come upon two footmen carrying her trunk, several more servants and Camille waiting there.
Parbleu. She must see to them before she followed Lachlan.
***
During supper, Angelique sat beside Lachlan at the great hall's high table. She squirmed, wishing this meal finished. His friends, the king's retainers, the steward and his wife, along with Camille sat with them. The rest of the clan ate at lower tables, a loud drone of conversation echoing toward the lofty ceiling. Angelique couldn't recall half the names of the people who'd been introduced to her this evening. Some of them, she remembered from her childhood. With others, her mind drew a blank a moment after they'd given their names. What was distracting her?
She picked at her fish. She'd had no appetite since her illness on board the ship.
The way the clan—both men and women—watched her, flicking covert glances her way when they thought she wasn't looking, disturbed her. Were they suspicious of her? One woman in particular—the steward's wife—glared at her. What
was amiss?
She wanted to edge closer to Lachlan's protective presence, though she forced herself not to. He was more pleasant to focus on than her clan, and nothing about him escaped her notice. He had cleaned himself up and changed clothes since she'd last seen him that afternoon. His voice rumbled in conversation with the steward, Fingall Drummagan, on his other side.
Rebbie sat by her on one side and Camille next to him. She only caught a few sentences of Lachlan's discussion as Fingall filled him in on the food and drink he was so proud of, where it came from and its cost. Rebbie seemed intent on distracting her with frivolous conversation she had no interest in, though Camille ate it up. Angelique wished to learn every detail of how the estate was run.
"The late Laird Drummagan, God rest him, preferred Gascoigne wine from Bordeaux. He considered it the finest of its sort and always imported large amounts so he'd never be without, you see." Fingall downed a long swallow. "Though he always insisted on ale served at midday meal. Our own ale, made right here on the estate. 'Tis the finest in Scotland."
Lachlan nodded, his neutral gaze shifting to Angelique. Was he angry about the way she'd challenged him earlier? She didn't know what had possessed her; she simply had to keep him at a distance. And sitting by him was not helping.
"We're glad you've come home, m'lady, m'laird." Fingall toasted them.
"I thank you," Angelique said.
"Mmph," said the woman sitting across from Fingall, his wife, Bernice. "'Twould've been better if the lady hadn't shot my brother."
Parbleu! The sister of the traitor?
"Close your mouth, Bernice," Fingall said in a low growl then gave Lachlan and her a placating grin. "I apologize for my wife. She often speaks when she should not."
"Your brother should not have tried to kill the new laird," Angelique snapped, sending the woman her most intimidating glare. "I will not abide such violence, treachery and insolence."
"Indeed," Lachlan said, his approving gaze locked on Angelique, then he winked.
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