My Wild Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  "Ah, saints, Angelique," he growled and halted a moment to savor her. So hot, wet and exquisite.

  She buried her hands in his hair, fisting, pulling, and gave sweet little whimper-cries. "Lachlan?"

  "Aye. That's good, hmm?" He moved, driving up into her gently but with persistence.

  "Oui," she breathed.

  Every stroke was pure heaven, even more so because of her enthusiasm. As he had suspected, she wanted him profoundly, as he did her. He was greedy! He never wanted this to end. The pleasure was absolute; climax teased him. Slowing, he fondled that sensitive spot with his wet thumb. She cried out, held her breath, wiggled on him.

  "That's it, lass. Give it to me." When her inner muscles started to flutter and caress him, he drove into her hard. She screamed and rode him as her orgasm took over. He let go some of his control, allowing his own release to burn through him, so strong and all-consuming his conscious thought left him for a moment. He groaned, his face pressed into her hair.

  "Iosa is Muire Mhàthair." He had never felt anything so powerful. Legs weak, he carried her to the bed and laid her upon it. Still inside her, he rested a moment while gently kissing her lips. He didn't want to leave her. Not this time, not when she'd said she wanted him.

  Her inner muscles tightened, caressing him again. He pulled out and stepped back to undress. When he'd shed his plaid and shirt, Angelique surveyed him with darkened eyes, her lashes a bit damp.

  He could not think of that gut-wrenching feeling she inspired in him, not now. She was like a storm-tide at sea that would suck him under and suffocate him. He'd felt her pain and hated it when she thought he'd been with Eleanor. But Angelique refused to trust him. It cut him to the bone to realize how untrustworthy she saw him when it was the thing he longed for most. That and her devotion, affection.

  He hoped she liked what she saw when she observed him for he was not quite done with her this day. In fact, he feared he would never be done with her.

  She didn't resist when he loosened the ties and fastenings on her clothing. Soon he unlaced her corset, removed it, and she helped him pull the shift over her head. Sudden vulnerability softening her eyes, she crossed her arms over her breasts.

  "You cannot be shy now. Too late." Smiling, he tugged her arms away.

  After thoroughly devouring her mouth, he turned his attention to her breasts. "You have kept these luscious morsels from me too long."

  "You do not…"

  He placed wee cherishing kisses on one. "What?"

  "They are too small," she whispered.

  The uncertainty in her gaze flayed him. "Nay. Your breasts are lovely beyond words." With his tongue, he flicked her nipple, pink and scrunched hard, then sucked at it. "Perfect."

  She whimpered and closed her eyes.

  "Mmm." He switched to the other, savoring the feel of her fingers in his hair, holding him close.

  He allowed his gaze to leisurely wander over her naked body, taking in each exquisite detail. Her breasts were not huge, true, but they were round and perky, in perfect proportion to her slim body. He did not lie; they were indeed the loveliest breasts he had ever seen. Her waist was slender and her derriere curvy and succulent. He wished to bite it, then lick and memorize every inch of her.

  "Angelique. You're the most beautiful creation on God's earth."

  "Do not speak." She placed a finger on his lips.

  He kissed the tip. "Why not?"

  She grasped his semi-erect shaft in her hand.

  "Och." It was too soon. But as he watched her small, inexperienced hands stroking him, he hardened with gusto. "Mmm." He couldn't stay down long with her in control.

  She rose over him, mounting him, guiding his shaft into her. He growled, loving her aggressiveness. A woman who knew exactly what she wanted and took it. She rode him for several blissful minutes.

  He stroked her nipples, tweaked them gently, loving the simple act of observing his wife enjoying his body. A woman who had feared him and hated sex days ago. Giving her pleasure had become his primary goal in life. He was not sure when that had happened, but he burned to hear her cry out his name at the height of passion.

  Before he could've expected it, her body shuddered around him in a climax. Screaming, she flopped onto his chest and he took over the thrusting as she squeezed him.

  Still in complete control, he rolled her onto her back and rose over her.

  Once she had calmed, he pulled her upwards. "On your hands." She lifted her upper body and held herself aloft on her hands, while he supported her hips. He drove himself into her and her head fell back on her shoulders.

  "Lachlan," she moaned.

  "Aye." A warmth of emotion rushed through his chest. He tugged her closer, placed her arms around his neck, brushed her lips with his. I want only you. Do you understand? No other woman. He wanted to say those words to her again, but they would only remind her of her jealousy. Would only make her ask, for how long?

  He didn't know. Maybe forever. He could not imagine tiring of looking into her eyes, of driving himself into her hot, wet body. But he yearned to see more in her gaze—complete trust. Love. How could he gain such things? How could he decipher the secrets in her?

  After another minute he detected a change in her breathing and loosened some of the control he held. They reached the height of pleasure together.

  He lay her down beside him and pulled her close so they could rest.

  "Angelique?" he murmured a few moments later, after his own breathing was back to normal, but she didn't respond. Asleep already? He kissed her cheek, quietly slid out of bed and dressed. While she napped, he would see what information he could extract from Philippe.

  ***

  Eleanor descended the narrow wooden staircase at the inn to dine in the common room. All heads turned to her as she and her maid entered. She prayed none of the men were thieves.

  "M'lady." The stocky proprietor bowed before her. "I hope you will allow us to serve you supper this evening."

  "Perhaps." If anything from his humble kitchen appealed. But she tried not to treat these poor commoners too badly.

  "I've saved you the perfect spot." He escorted her to a private table in the corner by the window. Not that the view of a cobblestone street and livery stable was anything worth noting. Her maid and a footman stood nearby, if she should need anything. Being a countess could sometimes be lonely. How she wished Lachlan or some other member of the aristocracy was here.

  Once Eleanor ordered and they'd served the wine, she waited while her gaze searched the faces of each person present. Commoners, all. Judging by their clothing, not even a lowly baron was present.

  A tall, thin gentleman with black hair and stylish clothing descended the staircase. His dark brown eyes caught on her immediately. Well now, this one showed promise. He had to be titled or at least wealthy. She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her when she noticed one of his arms missing.

  He approached and bowed before her. "Madame, pardonnez-moi for being so forward as to introduce myself. I am Guy Laurent, comte de Girard, at your service."

  "A French count?" Indeed it was her lucky day.

  "Mais oui." Despite the paleness of his skin, his midnight eyes sparkled wickedly.

  "Eleanor Stanhope, countess of Wexbury." She lifted her hand and he kissed the back.

  "Enchanté, madame."

  "A pleasure. Join me, won't you?"

  "Merci. Nothing would please me more." He pulled out a chair and seated himself across from her.

  "Wine?" She waved her maid forward to pour him a glass. Eleanor had a most intense curiosity as to how he lost his arm, but minded her manners. "What brings you all the way to the wilds of Scotland?"

  "Visiting an old friend." His French accent was very thick.

  "And who would that be?"

  "She is a countess, also. Perhaps you know her? Angelique Drummagan."

  "Indeed, I do! We were ladies in waiting together for Her Majesty, Queen Anne. You wouldn't be…Ang
elique's former suitor, would you?" If this man would take Angelique away from Lachlan, then the Highlander would be free for her taking. What a brilliant circumstance.

  "I am flattered. You have heard of me?" the comte asked.

  "I only know she wished to marry a French nobleman but her Scottish father forbade the match. She did not reveal his name to me."

  He smiled, but strangely, it did not appear a genuine smile. "You have found me out."

  "I assume you've heard she is recently wed."

  "Oui." He sipped the wine, then scowled at it and set it down. "What can you tell me of this fortunate man?"

  Fortunate? Hmm, clearly he still had feelings for Angelique. "Lachlan MacGrath is a good man, a Scottish Highlander. The marriage was arranged by the king, you see, as a reward. But I fear it is a terrible match."

  "And is this man brave, powerful?"

  "Indeed, he is what one would call a warrior. Very large, strong and crafty with a sword. Also cunning. He saved the life of the king's favorite by uncovering an assassination plot."

  "Aha." Girard leaned back in his chair, his expression turning frosty. "And his family?"

  Eleanor was careful not to show her glee. Girard was clearly jealous. Perhaps he would kidnap Angelique. "The new earl of Draughon is a second son, brother to an earl and chief. Lachlan is a formidable man. One would not want to confront him directly."

  "Hmm." Girard lifted a dark brow, waiting.

  "He has several guards and trained warriors who travel with him. If one wanted something he had, one would be wiser to steal it away while he wasn't looking."

  "Indeed?"

  Eleanor nodded, observing the scheming thoughts reflecting in the man's eyes. She did not want him challenging Lachlan. Not that he had a chance of besting him with only one arm. Still, pistols could be deadly accurate in the right hand.

  "You have seen Angelique recently, no?" he asked.

  "Yes, I've just come from a visit to Draughon Castle and the wedding festivities."

  "And how is she?"

  "Unhappy to have been forced to marry a man she doesn't love."

  Girard snickered, his black mustache and neatly groomed beard lending him a devilish quality. "Poor little Angelique."

  "Did you love her?" Eleanor prayed he did.

  "Ah, amour. It is such a perplexing emotion, non?" The smirk appeared on his face again. Something about that was all wrong. The man was supposed to be jealous, angry, and wanting Angelique all to himself.

  "I agree," she said. "Sometimes intense desire can masquerade as love."

  "You are a wise lady, I see." His attention focused on her completely, delving down to that sensual side she tried to keep hidden, except before the right man.

  Excitement charged through her. "I thank you." Oh, who cared if he had only one arm? The man was intriguing and debonair. With his slender physique, he could never measure up to Lachlan and his burly muscles, but he could keep her entertained in the meantime.

  "Angelique took something from me," Girard said in a secretive tone. "Perhaps you would be willing to help me retrieve it?"

  "Perhaps. If you will help me in turn. She stole something from me, as well…my lover. And I would like him back."

  Girard threw back his head and laughed. Once he'd calmed, he lifted her hand and kissed it. "I think we have a deal, madame."

  Chapter Twelve

  "Let Angelique sleep as long as she will. When she wakes, take the bath in for her," Lachlan told the servants. He must keep her occupied, after all. Hopefully, questioning Philippe wouldn't take long and he'd be back in time to share her bath before it was cold.

  After taking almost an hour to bid their departing wedding guests farewell, he descended the steps to the dungeon. Rebbie and Dirk followed.

  "We're here to see the French lad," Lachlan told the armed guard.

  "Aye, m'laird." He led them further along the dank, underground passage and opened a wooden and metal door. Dirk carried a torch into the dark cell, Lachlan entered, unsheathing his sword and Rebbie followed.

  Lachlan eyed the small fellow cowering in the corner, squinting at them. He might pity the weasel if he hadn't tried to steal Angelique. "What is your name?"

  "Philippe Descartes, my lord." He crawled forward a few inches and remained in a submissive kneeling position.

  "And why have you come here to Draughon?"

  The boy's eyes were so wide, Lachlan feared they'd pop from their sockets.

  "I am but an old friend of Angelique. I wished to congratulate both of you on your marriage." He bowed his head briefly.

  "Humph. What a lie," Lachlan muttered, remembering the goblets from Girard. "Did you bring a gift?"

  "A…a gift? Pray pardon, my lord, I did not. But I shall send you one if—"

  "Nay, I mean, did you deliver a gift from someone else?"

  "Non." The boy's gaze remained steady for a few seconds, then dropped to the glinting blade of Lachlan's sword. Perhaps he told the truth, but who could tell? The gutter rat probably knew not how to be honest.

  "Who did you travel from London with?" Lachlan asked.

  "No one."

  "I'll tolerate no more lies, laddie! I want the truth."

  Philippe turned jittery, his hands trembling, gaze darting about.

  "You traveled with someone or spoke with someone. Now, who was it?" Lachlan demanded.

  "Eleanor, countess of Wexbury, my lord."

  Rebbie muttered a curse, and Dirk sent him a concerned glance.

  "I see," Lachlan said. Now what was that witch up to? "And who else?"

  "Her servants and that is all; I swear it." The lad's voice broke, making him sound no more than a dozen years old, but he had to be around twenty.

  "What has Eleanor said to you?" Lachlan asked.

  "Sir?"

  "I know you and Eleanor are plotting against Angelique and me. Planning to destroy our marriage. Tell me of these plans."

  "There…there were no plans, my lord."

  "You're lying again," Lachlan growled. "Would you like me to show you how dangerous lying is?" He lifted his sword before him, as if examining the sharpness of the blade.

  Philippe trembled and gave his head a spasm-like shake. "She wished to…to visit with you. I wished to see Angelique one last time before I return to France."

  "And what did she say about Angelique or me?"

  "She has a most keen interest in you, my lord."

  "Why?"

  "I believe she has a great affection for you. Perhaps she loves you, though she did not say."

  Rebbie snorted. And Lachlan felt like doing the same.

  Eleanor wouldn't know love if it bashed her on the side of the head. Dallying with her had been one of the biggest mistakes of his life. "What did she tell you to do here?"

  Philippe cleared his throat, his gaze darting from Dirk, to Rebbie and back again to Lachlan and his sword.

  "If you tell me the complete truth, we won't harm you."

  His breaths were so harsh as to be audible. "Eleanor wished me to…to lure Angelique away from you."

  "I see." Lachlan had suspected the woman could be evil and cunning. "Do you suppose Eleanor went back to London when she left?"

  "I know not…but I was to meet her at the Breakstane Inn in the village if we were separated."

  "Do you know Baron Kormad?"

  "I have seen him, but never talked to him."

  "What about a French count named Girard?"

  "I have never met him. I only know he asked for Angelique's hand in marriage but she refused to go through with it."

  Lachlan kept his malevolent glower on the squirming lad several moments longer, hoping to frighten him one last bit. "I shall release you if you promise never to set foot here at Draughon and never approach Lady Angelique again. She is my wife and will remain so. My advice to you is to return to France and stay there."

  "Oui, my lord. I shall. Merci." He bowed again, which put his face close to the floor in his kneeling
position.

  Lachlan and his two friends strode out. Near the top of the dungeon steps, Lachlan spoke in a low voice to the guard. "Release him but send two men to secretly follow him. See if he meets with a countess named Eleanor Stanhope at the Breakstane Inn. If so, see if they can find out what the two discuss. Have one man report back to me tonight."

  ***

  "Where have you been?" Angelique asked when Lachlan entered her room minutes later.

  He paused, observing her in the large wooden tub. Firelight gleamed off her wet, ivory skin. Her scrunched nipples flirted with the surface of the water. The sight arrested him, making him instantly hard.

  "The remainder of our guests left." With much haste, Lachlan disrobed and dropped his clothing into a pile on the floor.

  "What? I did not get to say good-bye." Angelique might have been talking about guests, but her gaze devoured the more intimate areas of his body.

  "I conveyed your good wishes and your gratitude." He knelt by the tub, observing her in closer detail. Her face was rosy, either from the hot water or a blush. Damp ringlets of hair teased at her neck, as he wished to do with his kisses. "How long have you been soaking in there?"

  "Not long."

  "Do you suppose there's room for me?"

  "Perhaps." With a shy grin, she scooted back, lifting her upper body out of the water and drawing her knees up. He was pleased to see she was no longer shy about exposing her breasts.

  He stepped into the tub, then sat. "Ahh, nice and hot."

  "Oui."

  "Come. Sit here between my legs."

  Even in the dim firelight her blush was obvious.

  "You're in no danger, I vow. We will refrain from coupling for now…if we can." He winked and sent her a wicked grin.

  She giggled. If ever there was a sound he loved, that was it—Angelique being happy.

  "We shall talk about other matters to distract ourselves."

  A knock sounded at the door. "Your food, m'laird," the female servant called.