"Not until you tell me to, Angelique. Saints, at least trust me one time."
No. She could not let go. Already he was losing patience. She could not trust him enough for that. If he was lying, he would shatter her inside.
He stood, lifting her, and carried her toward the bed. Panic closed off her throat and the need to flee seized her.
"Non!" She struggled to escape him.
"Damnation, Angelique, I am at my wit's end. If you won't trust me, I'll have to prove it to you." He laid her on the bed, his big, hard body holding her down.
"Non! Arrêtez, bâtard!" She was trapped, suffocating beneath his weight. Her struggles against his strength were futile.
Camille pounded on the door. "Angelique?"
"Camille!"
"Be quiet," Lachlan said. "I won't hurt you." He shoved her arms above her head, quickly wrapping something around her wrists.
"Non!" She yanked at the bonds, but he had already tied the material, the belt of her wrap, around the headboard post. Stark terror paralyzed her.
"Don't look at me like that. I said I won't hurt you."
Scalding tears leaked from her eyes. Her throat constricted. Dear God, he was going to rape her.
He moved away for a moment, then came back with a wide ribbon. He wrapped it around her ankle.
Her senses returned and she kicked at him with all her might. But it was not enough; he secured her ankle to the footboard. "Untie me at once, you brute! You are nothing but a vile animal," she said in French.
"I ken it well, m'lady." He sat beside her. She kicked at him with her one free foot but he caught it and removed her slipper. His lustful gaze lingered on her legs where her smock had ridden up. "Now what are you going to do, hell-cat?"
Any affectionate feelings she'd had toward him were now dead. She had known she could not trust the knave. "You will have to rape me, you bastard! Because I will never willingly let you touch me."
"Nay. I have never raped a woman, nor will I ever," he said in a calm tone. "You, on the other hand, will be begging me to make love to you afore 'tis over."
"Never! I'll kill you while you sleep," she said through clenched teeth.
"You're a bloodthirsty lass. I like that." He glanced aside. "You ken about the torture, do you not?"
"Torture?" Mère de Dieu. What was he going to do to her? Torture, then rape.
He moved to the dressing table, then returned to the bed. "Aye." Something stroked over her bare foot. A feather.
The tickle was a shock. She squealed and jerked away. "Do not!"
Holding her free foot in place, he slowly trailed the feather up the inside of her calf. He paused at her knee, caressed in a circle, then went higher, up the inside of her thigh. She squirmed and yanked at her bonds, wishing to escape the stimulation but could not.
She tried to make herself numb for indeed it was a twisted torture. Not painful, but she could not tolerate tickling. "I hate you!" She kicked.
He drew the feather down the length of her leg again to her foot, tingles scattering outward, then, feather forgotten, lightly traced his fingers along her calf. That did not tickle half as much. Some part of her liked his hands, while another part hated them.
She turned her face away, wishing to hide. Slowly, he ran his palms up the outside of her legs. Bastard. She clamped her thighs together and twisted her lower body sideways. No, she would not let him touch…
He slipped his hand up the back of her thigh, pushing the smock upward. Continuing, he ran his palm over her derriere. Shocked, she sucked in a sharp breath, turned onto her back again and kicked at him.
He crawled over her, holding himself above her in dominating mastery. Breathing hard, she turned her face aside. "Get off, you beast!"
"Am I hurting you?" he whispered, lightly stroking his lips over her ear. Some sensation she hated spiraled through her. Not fear, but arousal. He lifted himself and waited for her to look at him. When she did, he drew close to her mouth. She thought he would kiss her, but he didn't; he merely breathed upon her. Hungry for his mouth, she parted her lips, perversely craving his tongue invading and possessing, the sinful, addictive taste of him. No, I do not!
He brushed his cheek against hers gently, his beard stubble rasping. Again, his lips hovered less than an inch above hers. Mère de Dieu, kiss me!
No, do not!
Her breath caught and her eyes closed. Her body felt as if a trembling fever had taken it over. Surely, this was some horrid illness that caused delirium and lunacy.
He drew away, climbing off the bed. Where was he going? She glared after him through the mist of tears. Oh dear heaven, he was undressing, unpinning the brooch at the top of his kilt.
"Je te déteste," she muttered.
He unfastened his belt, removing his plaid. "Non, mon ange. You hate yourself for liking me."
"T'es goujat!" She yanked against the belt that bound her. "You could never be faithful to one woman."
"Do you wish me to be?"
"Wishing for that would be a waste of time. You could never do it."
"I've done many things others have said were impossible. Don't be underestimating me."
"Untie me!"
"Not until you trust me."
"Never! You think this will earn my trust? You are beyond insane."
He slipped the shirt over his head, leaving those burnished muscles bare, and climbed back onto the bed. His erection was massive, protruding like a weapon. Mère de Dieu, non.
While she held her breath, he pushed her smock up her thighs, clamped tightly together, his sword-calloused palms rasping over her, producing a shower of tingles. He exposed her mound completely.
How indecent! Humiliating. She closed her eyes, trying to hide from him…and herself.
Lightly, he touched the hair that hid her sex, combed his fingers through it. He paused at that most intimate spot. "Angelique, you're wet…extremely wet." His heated voice held a bit of awe. "Do you ken what that means?"
Squeezing her eyes tight, she turned away. I do not want to know.
"It means you want me. You desire me."
No, I do not! Yet she was paralyzed in this burning heat, unable to fight back anymore. Her body would not cooperate.
He kissed the top of her thighs, her hip bones. He pushed the smock further up, kissed her lower belly. He flicked his tongue into her navel.
Oh God, no! That burning hot, liquid sensation grew more intense. She ached in the core of her being.
Her body craved something her mind hated. And she was no longer in control of herself; Lachlan was.
A half moan escaped before she smothered it. Her body tightened, rigid like a bow, straining for something. She arched toward him, then forced herself to stop.
Slowly, he trailed kisses over her lower belly and down toward her mound. She tried to squeeze her thighs together but he had inserted his knee between.
Her legs trembled, her strength vanished. Pushing her knee up, he kissed her inner thighs, both of them, opening her to his view. She was utterly at his mercy.
"Oh." He was scandalous. She whimpered, praying it would not hurt.
"Mmm, you smell like heaven."
That most feminine part of her wept and ached…and yearned for something…he touched her there with his fingers, parted her female lips, blew his hot breath upon her, and licked between. "Mmm."
"Mon Dieu!" She gasped and her body did what it wanted, her hips thrust toward him, her legs widening like a wanton's, giving him complete access.
"Aye." He took full possession.
Her sole focus was on what he did, spreading her with his fingers, lapping with his tongue. He closed his lips around some part of her and drew on her, sucking. A sharp ache speared her. Not a painful ache, but one that yearned for something more. Not his member, no, she did not want it.
His tongue slid inside her, in and out. How could he do such a thing? Surely that was immoral and sinful…the most erotic thing she could imagine.
"Mm
m, you are sweet as a plum tart," he murmured, his breath heating her skin.
A moan slipped out without her permission.
"You see? You like this."
She shook her head vehemently. "I hate it!"
"Liar. I love to hear you moan. Do it again." He slid his tongue inside, deeper, no…it was his finger. Before she could protest, he suckled at her flesh again, licked a most sensitive spot fast and hard. The sensations were blinding, mind-stealing. He would drive her to lunacy. Her body suddenly became possessed with something, taken over, bombarded and smothered with intensity.
Pleasure? No, something beyond pleasure.
His finger felt larger inside her, two fingers, stroking in and out. And she rode, hating him for making her crave it so badly. He tugged at her hair, exposing her more completely, licking faster, making the erotic sensation extend and magnify. She knew she was crying out, screaming, but was helpless to stop it. Her body clutched at his fingers, but wanted something more, something that wasn't there. Whatever invisible demon possessed her made her jerk violently beneath him, shoving her body more firmly to his mouth.
The possession released her and she felt she dropped back to the bed, her flesh tender and most sensitive. She wanted to draw away from him, fold into herself and hide completely.
"Mmm, Angelique. There you have it." Lachlan licked his lips, savoring her sweet, sensual flavor. Saints, that was the best sex he'd ever had and he hadn't even been inside her yet. Near to the edge of climaxing himself, he sat back on his heels.
Angelique sobbed and turned her head aside, crying into the pillow.
"Nay, don't cry." He stroked a hand over her hip. "Did you not enjoy that?"
"Non. Va-t-en! Leave." Tears glistened on her lashes.
He had seen women brought to tears during climax, especially their first, but not in this way. He was used to joyful tears of awe, or maybe an outburst of laughter. But not distraught as Angelique was. "Don't be afraid, lass. I wouldn't hurt you."
"I'm not afraid. Que vous êtes brute!"
"What's wrong, then?" He could not understand her, still hostile after such an obviously pleasurable release.
"Men. Je les déteste."
So she hated men, not just him? "Why?"
"None of your concern."
"Did someone hurt you? Your first lover, the man you had planned to marry?"
She nodded slightly, surprising him.
Dear God, no. Why had he not realized? "Tell me his name."
"Girard," she whispered.
Poisonous jealousy and rage snaked through Lachlan, sickening him. "Girard? He was the man you had wanted to marry? The man who you fear is here now, threatening you? Why did you not tell me this before?"
"I did not wish you to find out," she said in a small voice.
"What else are you keeping from me? What secrets?"
"None."
What the hell have I gotten myself into? "Saints! What did the bastard do?"
She shook her head.
"Tell me. Did he hit you?"
She nodded but kept her eyes shut tight.
"What else?"
"C'est rein."
"Nay, I don't think 'tis naught."
Tears leaked from beneath her long lashes.
"Did he force you?" He tried to ask gently, but his voice came out a growl.
She turned her face into the pillow, her curls hiding her face.
"Ange, did the whoreson rape you?"
Chapter Ten
Damnation! Girard had raped her. Lachlan wanted to run the bastard through, nay, slit his throat and hack him to bits!
Angelique cried silently, her body shaking with the sobs.
Lachlan untied her hands and her ankle. Once free, she curled into a ball, and he covered her with the blanket. He knelt beside the bed and stroked a hand over her head, pushing the curls back from her face…trying to soothe her and make up for some of his own callous behavior.
"I will kill him," he said in a soft, rough voice. "By the saints, I swear it. When did this happen?"
Finally, she opened her eyes but would not hold his gaze. "A year ago, in France. The first time, after he asked me to marry him, he did not force me. I thought I was in love with him and, against my better judgment, agreed to become lovers. I hated the painful, humiliating act. Then I caught him with another woman, a serving maid. I told him I never wanted to see him again and this angered him. That is when he raped me."
A killing rage, nay, a dark bloodlust such as Lachlan had never felt speared him. He rose and moved away, fearing she'd feel the violence radiating off him. He wanted to smash something. "If I ever see him, I shall kill him. I swear it!"
She pressed her eyes closed and more tears leaked out.
Lachlan yanked on his clothes, imagining the hell she'd endured, trying to control his anger. No wonder she had not wanted him to touch her. And he'd tied her up. He'd terrified her beyond reason, probably made her think he was going to rape her, too. Though his only intention had been to give her pleasure, he'd been a bastard.
Once dressed, he again knelt by the bed and slid a hand over her hair, offering what comfort he knew how. "I'm sorry I tied you up. I didn't know."
"It is nothing."
"Nay, I was wrong to do it. I never meant to frighten you."
She remained silent. He knew naught else to say. How could he offer her comfort when his mere presence likely scared her worse?
"I hope you can forgive me. Sleep now, and I'll see you on the morrow."
He did not want to leave her like that. He wanted to crawl in bed beside her, pull her against his chest and stroke her, kiss her, 'til she felt better. 'Til she was happy. But that would not happen. Feeling helpless and in the darkest mood ever, he closed the door on the way out. In the sitting room, Camille glared at him with tear-filled eyes, her fists clenched at her sides.
"I didn't hurt her. I frightened her unintentionally…but I didn't hurt her." He stalked through to his own chamber.
The sounds of music and dancing carried up to him from the great hall, but he was in no mood to celebrate. Hell, he wanted to fight someone named Girard and seek vengeance for what he'd done to Angelique.
"Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!"
Lachlan had never encountered a woman who'd been raped before. The ladies who came to him enjoyed sex or wanted to; he knew not how to deal with one who hated it, feared it.
But he hadn't hurt her. In the end, she should see he wished her no harm.
After pacing about the room for a while, he knew he wouldn't sleep. He exited and descended the steps. He'd find that French bastard or whoever had brought the goblets.
***
Angelique woke from a shocking dream such as she'd never had before. Her eyes were swollen and scratchy from crying. One candle and a glow in the hearth provided the only light. Had a dream or a memory wakened her? The heated, prickly sensation of Lachlan softly kissing her body, rubbing the slight stubble of his face upon her belly. He pressed her legs apart and kissed between, stroking her in forbidden places. Licking her and igniting a strange compelling fever within her. This was passionate arousal, the first she'd felt in her life…and Lachlan had provoked it.
He'd given her a climax. She'd heard women speak of it in France—la petite mort—but she had not imagined it to be so intense and all-consuming. She had thought perhaps it would be mildly pleasurable, but the climax grabbed her body and soul, something at the far edge of pleasure. Something almost frightening. Indeed, like a little death.
Her body ached again now. Images flooded her mind. She fantasized Lachlan returned to her, licked her and did all sorts of lusty, forbidden things to her.
"I do not like it," she whispered. Or rather, I should not like it. But somehow Lachlan had turned a distasteful act into a spellbinding one. She yearned for his magical touch in all her secret places. She pressed a hand against her crotch. The pressure soothed the ache slightly, but she was wet. He'd told her what that meant.
How could she want something she'd hated for the last year? Something that sickened her and gave her nightmares? Was it because Lachlan was an expert at seducing women? Or was it something more?
He hadn't forced her. He could have; she was tied up, helpless and at his mercy. Yet, he hadn't hurt her once. All her fear had come from herself, not from what he'd done. He'd even vowed to avenge her pain. Was Lachlan a man she could trust in every way?
The moist ache in her lower belly would not cease. It only grew stronger the more she thought of Lachlan. She didn't want him to bed her, did she?
When she imagined his honed, muscular body and his massive shaft, she should've been terrified…but she wasn't. No, this image increased her arousal tenfold. Though she knew his tarse would cause her untold pain, still she craved something about it. She wondered what it would feel like in her hand. Hard as stone, she knew. Would it feel hot? Smooth?
Or mayhap she only wanted to get the coupling out of the way. She had been dreading this so long. If she did it with him once, maybe the next time would not be so bad. And she did need to do her duty and have a child, an heir. She wished to get the act over with and appease this senseless arousal.
She slid out of bed and put on her wrap. When she tied the belt, an idea occurred to her. She would tie him up while he slept and seize control over him. She wouldn't fear him half as much if he was restrained.
Taking the lone candle from the mantel, she crept through the chill darkness of the sitting rooms to Lachlan's chamber. She opened the door, praying the hinges wouldn't squeak, and closed it back.
What am I doing? I have lost my sanity.
The flame revealed Lachlan in bed, asleep on his back, one arm thrown over his head. The counterpane covered half his chest. The bulging muscles of his chest, along with his massive shoulders and arms brought back that restless ache. Could a man be called beautiful? It made no sense…and yet, he was. A master should sculpt him or paint him, as he slept like this.
She moved forward and placed the candle on the bedside table. His breathing altered and she feared he'd awakened. She stared at him for a half minute. No, he breathed deep and even, eyes closed.
My Wild Highlander Page 16