My Wild Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  He lifted a brow. "Are you trying to be amusing?"

  Amusing? She wished to strangle him. She was the fool, the woman who did not know of her husband's sons.

  "Why did you not tell me long before now?" Who was this man? Did she know anything about him at all? A stranger.

  "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be angry. And you are, aye?"

  She was unsure how she felt at the moment. Like a woman being spun about in a whirlwind, everything beyond her control, out of her grasp. She didn't have her husband nor her estate—both in the possession of someone else.

  "Were you married before?" she asked.

  "Nay."

  Just as she'd suspected, they were by-blows of his endless string of sexual liaisons. "What of their mothers?" Women he had given those same intimate and sensual delights to that he'd given her. Despite being his wife, she was not special; she was but one among hundreds. Well, she'd seen that back at Draughon.

  "Kean's mother died tragically a few months ago in a fire. Orin's mother still lives in the village. I'm no longer involved with her, of course."

  "Of course," she muttered. Whether or not he was involved with a woman hinged on a split second decision and how lecherous he was feeling at that moment. "You could have told me…about your sons." She felt defeated somehow. Lost. "I know you are only telling me now because we are going to Kintalon, where I'm likely to run into them. What if we hadn't? Would you have ever told me?"

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next evening, snow flew through the gray gloaming as the sweet sight of Kintalon Castle and its ancient towers appeared in the distance, the loch beside it like dark glass.

  "Thanks be to God," Lachlan murmured, warmth spreading through his chest. He hadn't realized how badly he missed home.

  He'd let Angelique down in a big way, but he intended to take possession of Draughon again. He would not be defeated in this. His stomach knotting, he glanced back at her, shivering in the blankets. Damnation, he had to be a much better husband to her.

  "We're almost there," he called out, the icy wind carrying his words away.

  A half hour later, they rode through the village and approached the gates. Upon recognizing him, one guard unlocked the gates while another ran for the castle—to notify his brother, no doubt. Their party passed through into the empty barmkin where a lone torch flamed, lighting the snow-strewn cobblestones.

  His dark-haired, smiling brother emerged from the tower and advanced toward them. "Lachlan! You barely made it by first snowfall."

  "Aye." After swinging down from his horse, he shook Alasdair's hand, but then pulled him into a brotherly hug.

  Dirk and Rebbie dismounted and greeted Alasdair, whom they had met years before. Lachlan lifted Angelique down from the horse and wrapped an arm around her, sharing some of his warmth. She felt perfect next to him and he'd sorely missed her touch. "I'd like you to meet my wife, Angelique, countess of Draughon. Angelique, my brother, Alasdair, earl of MacGrath."

  "Enchantée, monsieur. Lachlan has told me much about you." She curtsied.

  Alasdair bowed and kissed her hand. "A pleasure, m'lady, and congratulations on your marriage."

  Dirk helped Camille dismount and Lachlan introduced her as well.

  "Come inside. The snow grows heavy. A lad will see to your horses." Alasdair urged them toward the castle entrance. "Lachlan?" He hung back at the door.

  Lachlan allowed Angelique to slip from beneath his arm and continue inside with the others. "Aye?"

  Snowflakes lit on Alasdair's black hair, while his dark eyes gleamed with both curiosity and happiness. "When you wrote to me of your marriage I could hardly believe it."

  "'Twas unexpected, to say the least. I must talk to you in private as soon as possible. I'm afraid this isn't a social call."

  Alasdair nodded, clapped a hand onto his shoulder and ushered him up the steps.

  "Did you wed Gwyneth?" Lachlan asked.

  "Indeed." Alasdair gave him a broad smile. "I'm not letting her escape me again."

  "I'm glad. Congratulations to you as well."

  In the great hall, the smiling faces, warmth and light from the hearths, and the scent of fresh baked bread and mutton stew held a homey, welcoming appeal.

  Gwyneth rushed forward, her middle a bit thicker than it used to be and Lachlan wondered if the next earl of MacGrath had already been conceived. Lachlan smiled and kissed her cheek. "Gwyneth, good to see you. Please meet my lovely new bride, Angelique. Angelique, my sister-in-law, Gwyneth."

  "'Tis a pleasure, madame." Gwyneth curtsied as did Angelique. "I'm sure you're all frozen to the bone. Come, warm by the fire. The servants will bring food out in a few minutes. And rooms are being prepared. I'm so glad you've come."

  Angelique watched in amazement as Lachlan continued to greet his grinning clansmen, all of whom shook his hand heartily or slapped him on the shoulder. Some of them teased him mercilessly. His arm around her, he proudly introduced her to all of them.

  "I'm going to talk to Alasdair for a few minutes about the Draughon situation." He kissed her forehead and disappeared down a corridor. That brief affectionate action disoriented her for a moment, taking her back to those times she missed, of sharing his bed.

  "You must be exhausted. Let's sit." Gwyneth escorted her and Camille toward high table, not far from the blissful heat of the fireplace. Servants bustled about, setting out food and drink. Gwyneth fussed over her and Camille as if they were a couple of children, serving their stew and pouring ale. "Whilst the men talk about…manly things, we shall eat." Gwyneth's aristocratic English accent stood out as unusual among all these Scots, and Angelique wondered how she'd met Lachlan's brother.

  A lad of about six approached Gwyneth. She pulled him close and introduced him as her son, Rory. After a shy greeting, he scampered away to play with a group of children.

  Gwyneth smiled. "We were so surprised and pleased to receive the missive about your and Lachlan's marriage."

  Angelique wished she could be as pleased, but at the moment she didn't know what to think or feel. "Our marriage was as much a surprise to me. Arranged by King James, you know."

  "I never thought Lachlan would marry," Gwyneth said.

  "He probably should not have." Sacrebleu, why had she said that? Now everyone would know they were unhappy.

  Flushing, Gwyneth frowned slightly and picked at her berry tart.

  "Pray pardon. I did not mean to say that." The tears which had threatened for days now flooded Angelique's eyes. The exhaustion, fear and confusion finally overcame her.

  "I must beg your pardon. I did not mean to upset you," Gwyneth said.

  "Do not worry over it, my lady," Camille insisted, patting Angelique's arm. "It is only that Angelique and Lachlan have had a dispute."

  "Forgive me. I didn't mean to pry." Gwyneth's worried gaze shot to the opposite end of the great hall. Angelique turned.

  A young lad of about three or four sat atop one of Lachlan's broad shoulders. The child had the same smile as Lachlan. Blond hair. It was eerily like seeing a tiny version of Lachlan.

  "One of his sons," Angelique whispered. Though she knew about them, seeing one in the flesh was like a blow to her vitals. Forcing herself to breathe normally, Angelique found her gaze would not leave her husband and the lad, engaged in boisterous horseplay.

  Lachlan held him upside down, the child laughing so hard he could scarce breathe. And Lachlan looking happier than he'd been in a while. Games. That was all he knew. He was more child than man, himself. And then she recalled the games she'd played with him in the bedchamber, the risqué version of hazard. Yes, he was a man full grown then. She had so enjoyed the play, but that was a thing of the past.

  "I'm very tired. Would you mind if I lie down?" Angelique asked.

  "Of course not. I'll be right back." Gwyneth hastened across the room and said something to Lachlan. He nodded, his gaze flying to her as he set the lad to his feet.

  Gwyneth returned. "Please, foll
ow me, both of you, and I will show you to your rooms."

  Lachlan trailed behind at a distance, up the stairs to a dimly lit corridor. Gwyneth opened a door. "Lady Angelique, this is Lachlan's room and yours. Camille, your room is further along." The two women continued on.

  Angelique paused, refusing to look at her husband when he drew near. "I wish a separate chamber," she said, needing to rest and release some of her emotions. She could not do that in Lachlan's presence.

  "I must protect you, so we need to sleep in the same bedchamber," he said in a low, rough voice.

  "It is but an excuse."

  "Call it what you will. I'm your husband and we share a room, even if I do sleep on the floor."

  "The floor. I agree with that." One part of her wanted to hurt him viciously as he had done her, while another part rebelled at the thought of him lying on the floor. No, that large poster bed with blue hangings of fine velvet was his.

  He urged her inside the chamber and closed the door behind them. A thick white candle sat lit on the mantel and a cozy fire flickered in the hearth.

  "That was one of your sons," she said.

  His sharp, dark gaze shot to hers. "Aye."

  "He appears to be a small replica of you."

  Lachlan's lips lifted a bit. "Indeed. I hope you'll want to meet them."

  Her mind felt overcrowded, too many thoughts and feelings squeezed into it. "Perhaps. But right now I'm exhausted. Would you mind if I rest alone for a while."

  "'Tis exactly what you need." Lachlan turned down the covers and fluffed the pillow. "Would you like me to bring you anything else? Food, drink?"

  "Non. Merci."

  "Well then, I'll return in a short while. I'll be in the library with Alasdair should you need me."

  A knock sounded at the door. He opened it to Camille, bowed and showed himself out.

  Lachlan strode away from his own bedchamber, the one he'd slept in most of his life, feeling as if it was no longer his. He had let Angelique down in so many ways. Mayhap those people who believed he would amount to naught were right. Maybe he was not capable of handling the responsibility given to him; maybe he had no potential at all.

  "God's blood," he muttered. He would not be defeated in this. He would get Draughon back if 'twas the last thing he accomplished.

  Upon entering the library, he found Alasdair by the fireplace, pitcher in hand. "Clarey?"

  "Aye, thanks."

  His brother poured wine into a pewter mug and handed it to him. "So, you—Seducer of the Highlands—are married?" Alasdair held his own mug aloft.

  "Aye." Lachlan clanked his mug against his brother's in toast. "To our lovely wives." He drank a long swallow of the spiced wine.

  "I never thought I'd see it." Alasdair smiled.

  "Nor I. But I couldn't pass up the king's generous offer. And I had to protect Angelique."

  "You like being married?"

  "Aye." Lachlan couldn't prevent the grin that escaped when he remembered the few days of bliss he'd shared with Angelique. Making love during the day, or at night. The games. The way they'd laughed together. Would they ever be that close and harmonious again?

  "I can see you care for her."

  Lachlan nodded, staring down into his mug. His brother didn't know the half of it. But Lachlan wasn't going to enlighten him.

  "I've heard a rumor that…you two have had a disagreement."

  "Damnation. What did you—?"

  The library door opened. Rebbie and Dirk strode in and closed the door back.

  "Are we interrupting?" Rebbie halted. "Should we come back later?"

  "Nay," Lachlan said. "We're done with that subject."

  "I'm not so sure about that, brother." Alasdair grinned.

  ***

  Angelique crept down the dim, deserted stairway and toward the library where Lachlan was to meet with his brother. A chambermaid had been kind enough to tell her the location. Thankfully, Angelique encountered no one along her trek, though a murmur of conversation echoed from the great hall. She'd wished to sleep, but the restlessness would not leave her.

  The library door was thick carved oak, but a slice of light escaped a narrow crack around the frame. If she held her head just right, she understood every word from within. The men did not keep their voices down. For a while they talked of the Drummagan clan and the problems at Draughon, then Rebbie mentioned Neilina.

  "Who is this Neilina?" Alasdair asked.

  "God's teeth, Rebbie. Can you not keep your mouth closed?" Lachlan growled.

  "'Tis difficult."

  Angelique awaited Lachlan's answer, a sick feeling coiling inside her. Would he admit his guilt?

  "She's Angelique's cousin, and Kormad's. She was working for him, spying and trying to seduce me."

  "You and your women," Alasdair scoffed.

  "She's not my woman, never was. I sent Dirk to meet with her in my place to get information. She didn't even ken 'twas Dirk until after the deed."

  "Then what happened?"

  "She was furious," Dirk said. "Angelique believes 'twas Lachlan with her because I was wearing his kilt. We tried to tell her, but she still thinks Lachlan is the guilty party."

  "Can't say I blame her, given your habits, Lachlan," Alasdair said.

  "To hell with you. I've changed my habits."

  Alasdair chuckled. "So, you're faithful to your wife?"

  "Indeed."

  "Does he tell the truth?"

  "Aye. He's not near as much fun as he used to be. No more carousing. He but obsesses over the wee lass," Rebbie grumbled.

  "Do you love her?" Alasdair inquired in a smooth voice.

  In the dark, Angelique could scarce breathe, afraid she would miss the answer. But more, terrified his response would be nay.

  "Who?" Lachlan asked.

  "Don't be daft. Lady Angelique."

  "She is beautiful. I enjoy her. She enjoys me."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  "You ken I don't get calf-eyed over women."

  "Has he gone calf-eyed?" Alasdair asked.

  "Aye, that he has," Rebbie answered.

  "To hell with you, too. Don't be putting words in my mouth."

  "He will never admit it. Do you ken, he couldn't even bed his own wife until she made him go to the physician and get his tarse checked for the French pox."

  "Damnation, Rebbie," Lachlan snapped.

  The other men let loose an uproarious laugh.

  Angelique's face turned scorching. Why had he told them everything?

  Lachlan muttered curses. "Well, I'm healthy, officially, and completely free of disease."

  "'Tis a miracle," Alasdair said.

  "Some brother you are."

  "So, how long has she had you cut off this time?" Rebbie asked. "A week?"

  "I will not be discussing my intimate relations with my wife with you heathens."

  "No lass was ever able to resist him long. So doubtless, his wife cannot resist him either," Alasdair said.

  "Even if she wishes to kill him sometimes," Rebbie put in.

  "A stormy relationship suits him, I'm certain," Alasdair said.

  "Will you bastards cease discussing my marriage like a gaggle of fishwives."

  "I think he loves her," Alasdair said in an astounded tone.

  "He does. He can think of naught else but her."

  "Did I not tell you 'twould happen?" Alasdair asked. "You've been bitten on the arse."

  "No one has bitten my arse, I thank you."

  "Cupid shot him in the arse," Dirk said.

  They guffawed. Angelique fanned her burning face, wondering if what Rebbie said was true—did Lachlan love her?

  "You're all daft." The abrupt noise of chair legs scraping across the floor sounded. "I'm going to bed."

  "Nay. Come back. We're sorry." More laughter.

  "He never could take teasing, though he likes to do it to others."

  "His pride is as big as Ben Nevis."

  "Will you stop talking ab
out me as if I'm not here? A bunch of lasses, the lot of you. I thought we were here to discuss the Draughon situation. If not, I'm going to bed."

  Angelique rushed away from the door and up the stairs. She ran into their bedchamber, closed the door, and jumped into bed, covering her head with the counterpane. Her hands trembled, as did her whole body.

  Could any of it be true? Had he been faithful? Did he love her, though he would never admit it?

  ***

  Two hours later, Lachlan entered his bedchamber quietly. He crept toward the bed. Angelique was asleep as he'd expected. Something about seeing her lying there in his bed struck him deep in his vitals. Her smooth ivory skin in the firelight, her flame-colored hair. She was so lovely he couldn't look away for long seconds. Saints! She had bewitched him.

  Though he craved her, he would not touch her again until she wished it. He was innocent of the charges she'd hurled at him—innocent for the first time in his life—and he would not grovel at her gold-slippered feet. If she never believed him, never forgave him, he would suffer in silence. As long as he could.

  What if they could never make amends? What if she never kissed him again or gave him that rare sweet smile he'd glimpsed a few times during their love-play? He would live in hell, that's what. Emptiness crept slowly over him. His skin ached for her hands on him. He remembered how she'd stroked her fingers down his chest, down his bare abdomen to the sensitive skin on the lowest part of his belly. She'd made him tremble with touching him there, so close to his shaft. Teasing him and making him yearn as he never had.

  He grew hard now with the memory.

  Releasing a harsh breath, he approached the fireplace and quietly added two more bricks of peat. He dropped into the padded chair and his gaze returned to her. Aye, what he wouldn't give now to strip naked and crawl between those warm sheets with her. Just to hold her.

  But he did not deserve such bliss. He'd lost her estate, and he would not pursue his husbandly rights again until he'd earned them by reclaiming Draughon.

  ***

  Mid-morning the next day, Angelique opened the bedchamber window a crack to better see the view of the snow-covered Highlands. Bright sunlight gleamed off the white mountains and the shimmering loch reflected the blue sky, near blinding her. Tiny bits of ice and snow still flickered through the air. What a stark difference to the Lowlands of days ago.