Текст книги "My wild Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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"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.

"Mmm, 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.

She removed her robe belt and wrapped it around his wrist near the headboard. Now, the hard part…she gently lifted his other arm. Sacrebleu, it was heavier than a tree limb, but she pushed it above his head and tied it with the remainder of the silk belt.

A snore escaped his nose. His chest rose and fell slowly. What would she tie his ankles with? She glanced about. Aha. She took his wide leather belt from the chair where it lay atop his plaide. She placed his big feet side by side, tightened the belt around his ankles, secured it to the footboard post, then slid the end of the belt back underneath itself at his ankles. Even a boar could not escape that.

She checked his eyes—still closed. Feeling a bit giddy, she lowered the counterpane, revealing twin ridges of muscles down his abdomen, an intriguing vertical band of muscle at each hip bone. A silky line of dark gold hair led in a trail from his navel down to the nest of hair his tarse sprang from. And it did indeed spring up, pointing toward his navel.

She studied his closed eyes again. He hadn't moved; his breathing was the same. She reached out a trembling hand and pressed her fingertips to his shaft. The skin was feverish hot. She jerked back.

Gathering courage, she touched it again—smooth as polished oak. No, smoother, the skin silky, but the flesh underneath like granite. The head was a different story. It was wide, forming a sensual crest. She slid her hand over it. It was firm but not as stone-hard as the rest, with velvety skin.

She must wake him. Would he be angry?

***

Lachlan watched Angelique through slitted eyes and pretended to sleep, continuing his deep breathing. What the hell was she going to do to him? When she touched his shaft, it was all he could do not to groan aloud.

Did the wench honestly think a Highland warrior wouldn't wake with this much handling?

God's bones! What if she took a whip to him—or a dagger—in revenge for his earlier actions? He would regret letting himself get into such a vulnerable position, but likely he could rip the fragile material and escape if necessary. Considering the way she was petting and inspecting his erection, she had something else in mind entirely. Saints, he hoped! Something he could hardly believe, after learning what she'd endured the year before.

Her cool hand surrounded his tight flesh and squeezed. Pleasure ricocheted through him and he wanted to flex his hips. Stifling a moan, he pretended to be awakening. "Angelique?" He yanked on his bonds and discovered he could easily pull them loose and slip his hands free if he wished. The woman didn't know how to tie a knot. But he would indulge her.

"What are you doing? Why did you tie me up?"

"No talking." She pulled a piece of cloth from her pocket and blindfolded him.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Something I will probably regret."

"God's teeth. I hope this has naught to do with a whip."

"I forgot my whip."

"Thank the heavens."

She stroked a cool hand over his chest, slowly as if exploring every inch. She dipped a finger into his navel and lust shot through him. When his erection jumped, she grabbed him again and squeezed gently. Pleasure wound through him and he growled. No indeed, this was no shy virgin.

Cloth whispered over skin and he imagined her disrobing. Aye, please. He wanted her so badly he held himself rigid. Waiting.

Climbing onto the bed, she straddled his hips and lifted his shaft. The tip prodded something hot and moist. He growled. Aye, take me, lass. Holding onto the headboard, he tightened his muscles and felt himself hardening further.

She pressed down on him, impaling herself. He experienced the bliss of driving an inch or two into her excessively tight, wet sheath.

"Oh!" she near screamed.

He moaned and muttered a Gaelic curse. "Angelique?"

"I am sorry to do this, my laird."

"Don't be. My God, I want you." He gave in to the urge, tilted his hips and thrust. Oh, aye! Another inch. "Untie me and I'll show you how much."

She cried out, breathing hard, and levered herself up. "Non. Arrêtez."

"Take off this blindfold. I'm wanting to see you."

"Non. Be still." She pressed down, and he met her with another thrust.

He slid deeper still, her wet heat surrounding him, squeezing him, making him drunk with desire. "Saints! You're killing me." He turned his head side to side, dislodging the blindfold a bit so he could see her beneath it. She was a beautiful nymph, with slender curves and creamy, perky breasts that bounced slightly when she moved. What a nice mouthful one would make. He growled, aching to suck one of those pink nipples into his mouth and toy with it.

She placed her hands on his chest and lifted herself, then down again. What torture! Her long red curls swung forward, tickling his chest.

Her fast shallow breaths and her moisture told him of her desire. Aye, ride me, Angelique. He watched their merging bodies for a few seconds and he near lost control. What an erotic sight.

"I didn't ken you wanted this. I thought you were afraid."

"Shh. Do not speak." She increased the pace, riding him with her eyes closed. She was breathtaking with the impassioned frown, flushed face and parted lips.

This was a first. Never had a woman tied him up and had her way with him. Strangely, he was starting to love it. But her gentle, shallow thrusts were driving him mad. He wanted more, faster, deeper.

He tried to suppress the escalating desire and wait for her. "Untie me so I can give you pleasure."

"Non!"

"You'll not enjoy it as much this way."

"You will not have control."

Control? That's why she did this. At first he'd thought it was in revenge for when he'd tied her up. But nay, it was so he would be at her mercy. She wouldn't fear him if he couldn't touch her. Still, he wanted to hear it from her mouth. "Why are you doing this?"

"You desired a wedding night, so I am giving you one."

Ha. "Is that all?"

"I wish to know why the women want you in their beds. What is so special about you besides your grand tarse?"

He almost laughed, but controlled it. "I thank you for the compliment, but you cannot know what I can do unless you untie me. I like to use my hands. And my mouth."

"I know," she whispered and stroked a finger over his lips. Lifting his head, he opened his mouth and sucked her finger inside. Of course she knew, but what he'd done earlier was only the beginning.

Giving a short purr, she drew her hand away. Pressing her breasts against his chest, she kissed his throat while she continued to ride him. Her hard nipples rubbed his chest.

"Mmm. Kiss me," he said, craving some deeper emotional connection with her he didn't understand. Normally fast and furious sex was his specialty, but that was not what he craved at the moment. He wanted to explore all of her. He had not tasted her nipples yet; he desired touching her everywhere at once.

She leaned forward and nibbled at his lips, placed a small lick between. He opened, welcomed her inside. With her lifted up like that, he took advantage and thrust his hips, driving into her over and over, deeper. She gasped and accepted him, held still for him. He moaned. She near squeezed the sanity out of him.

"You push me to the edge, mon ange," he said.

"I am not your angel."

"Aye, you are," he whispered. "I'm inside you, love. By your own vow, you are my wife."

A burning tingle rushed through him. He tried to hold back the impending release and think of something unappealing. But he was too deprived, had wanted her too long.

His climax broke over him like a wave of happiness and all the best feelings on earth. His mind deserted him and he was drowning in a sea of pleasure. He shuddered and groaned with the enormity of it. "Ah, God!" His breaths whooshed in and out during the aftermath.

Angelique lay still on his chest. He wanted to pull his arms down and hold her close. After a moment she lifted herself, releasing him from her body and climbed off.

"Don't go. Untie me."

She quickly slipped on her smock and wrap. "I cannot stay."

"Why?"

"Now, maybe I will have a child," she said.

"What?"

"We need an heir to be the next earl of Draughon, do we not?"

"Aye." Was that her only reason for riding him like a wild woman? Nay, she had wanted him intensely. She had been wet and aroused…still was. "Untie me." He could yank himself loose, wrap his arms around her and force her to stay with him, but…no. She should want to stay with him the night. It should be her choice.

She released one of his hands and before he could disentangle himself, she disappeared out the door.

"Angelique? Damn you," he muttered. This was the first time he had made love to a woman and not given her the pleasurable climax. But it was her fault.

He untied the belt of her wrap from his other wrist and then removed his leather belt from his ankles. After tucking the sheet about his waist he strode to her bedchamber door. He lifted the latch but found it barred. Why was he surprised?

He knocked. "Angelique."

"Time to sleep now, my laird."

"Let me in. I only want to talk."

"Non. You had your wedding night. Là. C'est fini."

It was not finished by a long shot.

***

Angelique jumped into bed and covered her head, her body still pulsing with desire. She felt empty and cold. Her body craved his wrapped about her. Inside her. His heat. She did not understand it; though his hard member had initially hurt as she'd forced it into her, once she started moving something changed and he'd felt divine. Though coupling should have been a dutiful, onerous task, it was something incomprehensible. A secret pleasure. The absolute opposite of what Girard had done to her. Yet the same body parts were involved. How was this possible?

She had been shocked at herself for enjoying the act. Such feelings went against all rationality. No, she could not indulge herself overmuch and slide down that slippery slope of needing him or falling for him.

She was afraid she liked her husband a bit too much. He was trying to steal her heart and blind her to his true nature, but she was not so naïve as he wished her to be. Likely, he would find someone else, no doubt several women, to amuse him, whether now or later. Her own actions would not matter. So much the better if her feelings were not attached to him.

***

"And how was your long-awaited wedding night?" Rebbie asked Lachlan the next morn. He used a low voice so the many men around them wouldn't hear. They, along with Dirk, stood outside while the Drummagan clansmen readied the courtyard for the traditional chief's inauguration. Each clansman carried a stone to build a short pyramid while Heckie supervised. Lachlan glanced up at the gray sky, hoping the rain would hold off.

Rebbie elbowed him, then lifted a brow.

"Why can you not be more like Dirk and mind your own business?" Lachlan asked. In the past, he might have revealed certain details of his exploits with women, but his wedding night was not up for discussion.

"He wants to know, too," Rebbie said.

"But he's not asking."

"That bad, huh?" Rebbie grimaced.

"Nay, 'twas good." Actually, she'd given him the most amazing, earth-shaking climax of his life. He only regretted that she hadn't enjoyed it as much that time.

"Only good? Not magnificent?"

"Indeed, magnificent. But what's betwixt a husband and wife is private."

"I see," Rebbie said in a dry tone. "Lady Eleanor wished to share something private with you last night. I found her hiding in your bedchamber, as you predicted, when you were with Lady Angelique."

"Hell, I forgot about her." He hadn't realized Eleanor would be so persistent in her pursuit of him. "I thank you for getting her out of there and keeping her occupied. Where is she now?"

"Still locked in the tower chamber, where I put her last night, alone."

"We must send her away from Draughon before Angelique finds out she's here. She is becoming too much of a problem."

Lachlan glanced back at Angelique, standing on the castle's entrance steps. So regal, she looked like a queen in her golden gown and bejeweled headpiece. Meeting her eyes, he winked and her skittish gaze darted away. Was that a blush?

He wanted to lick her head to toe and stay in bed all day, exploring every inch of her perfect body and each facet of her cunning mind. He would never grow tired of her. That realization struck like a punch to the stomach. God's blood! How could he know such a thing? He had no answer for himself; he simply knew. Facing forward again, he imagined the next time he'd get her alone.

"What the devil's so amusing?" Rebbie asked.

"Naught is amusing at the moment." Still, Lachlan couldn't hide his daft grin.

Dirk leaned toward them and whispered, "He's calf-eyed."

Lachlan scowled. "I prefer the word 'happy.'"

"Och. St. Andrew, deliver us," Rebbie muttered.

"This is an important and serious ceremony," Lachlan said. "And deserves my undivided attention."

"Aye. So stop staring at your wee wifey and pay attention."

"You blather on too much."

Lachlan tried to forget about Angelique and focus. He had been present at his brother's inauguration deep in the Highlands five years ago. The Drummagans had a similar tradition. He just hoped the pyramid of rocks, built to symbolize his elevated position as leader of the clan, didn't collapse once he sat on the chair atop it.

The Protestant minister said a prayer. Heckie, the Seanachaidh, recited the Drummagan genealogy back to the 11th century, then Lachlan's ancestry to the 12th century, which the older man had to learn from Lachlan in only a few days. Heckie then delivered a newly written poem in Lachlan's honor.

And he was honored. He still could not believe his great fortune in receiving a title, becoming chief of this strong clan and marrying Angelique.

Though last night had surely been bizarre as wedding nights go, it was unforgettable. He had to make sure tonight was better for her, and hoped she had stopped fighting him.

As for the Girard outlaw, he had seen neither hide nor hair of the whoreson. And they couldn't discern where the goblets had come from.

***

On her way to the great hall for midday meal, Angelique strolled along the dim corridor, passing servants and other clan members. She had not been close to Lachlan all day and must now sit beside him to eat. A sudden fit of nerves seized her stomach. What if he made mention of last night, either to her or to his friends? She would die of mortification. Yet, in another way, she looked forward to being near him. Too much. She could not let herself enjoy him and his charm too much.

"I am to take Lady Eleanor a tray of food," a female whispered.

Eleanor?

Angelique stopped and turned. "Wait."

The servants froze. "M'lady?"

"What did you say?"

The young servant lowered her timid gaze and curtseyed. "I have been instructed by Laird Rebbinglen to deliver a tray of food to Lady Eleanor, Countess of Wexbury, in the south tower bedchamber."

A hot torrent of fury raged through Angelique. "What is she doing there? When did she arrive?"

"I…I don't know."

Ignoring the fact she was supposed to be in the great hall for midday meal, Angelique continued along the corridor, toward the south tower. She would find out what the putain was doing here. Obviously, Lachlan knew of her presence if Rebbie did. But why had no one told her? Why had Lachlan allowed Eleanor to remain here? Angelique was afraid she knew the answer to that, though her heart railed against it.

A tall, burly guard, covered in thick leather armor and with a sword at his side, stood before the chamber portal.

"Unlock this door," she said.

"M'lady." He bowed. "I've been told not to."

"What do you mean? I know Eleanor is in there."

"My orders were to not allow you or anyone inside."

"Me? Who did your orders come from?"

"Laird Rebbinglen, m'lady."

"You do not work for Rebbinglen. You work for me."

"With all due respect, m'lady, Laird Rebbinglen said his instructions came from your husband."

A chill settled into her blood. "My husband?"

"Aye. His lairdship. No one is to enter or leave this chamber except for them or the servant who brings food."

Her icy rage spread. She would strangle someone—Lachlan. "Let me in or I shall relieve you of your duties. Your pay comes from my coffers."

The guard squirmed for a moment. "I must ask his lairdship."

"No. Now!"

"God help me," he muttered, unlocked the door and opened it.

Eleanor rose from the window seat. "Thank the heavens…" Her smile fell. "Oh, Angelique."

She forced herself to step inside the room. "What are you doing here? I do not recall inviting you."

Eleanor pressed a bejeweled hand to her huge bosom covered in rich fabrics, pendants and pearls. "What a horrid way to greet a friend."

"You are not my friend. You covet my husband."

Eleanor smiled—no, it was a malicious parody of a smile. "And I've had your husband. You are fortunate indeed."

Angelique felt as if she'd been struck down the center with a poleax. What did Eleanor mean? She'd had Lachlan since their marriage? She'd slept with him here?