Текст книги "My wild Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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"Oh yes, little Angelique. He is indeed an impressive specimen of a man, so seductive and commanding, is he not? Last night was breathtaking."

"You are lying," she managed to say in a seething whisper. Eleanor had to be lying, didn't she?

"Am I? Then how do I know the counterpane on his bed is green and that his window looks out over the courtyard and that a tapestry depicting Flodden hangs on his wall."

That bitch. "I shall kill you." She flew at Eleanor, her hands aimed at her throat. Before she made contact, someone grabbed her from behind and lifted her from the floor. She kicked and elbowed the male who restrained her.

"Angelique. Calm yourself." Lachlan's voice was a growl in her ear.

She redoubled her efforts to damage him bodily, her elbows and feet flying and bashing. But he carried her squirming from the room, down the stairs and along the corridor to the solar.

He kicked the door closed behind them.

"Let me go, you bastard!" she said in French.

"Not until you calm yourself."

She stilled, but inside a death pain sliced through her. "I knew I could not trust you. I knew men like you could never change."

He released her and she spun away from him, backing toward the opposite wall. Her eyes burned; her throat ached. No, I refuse to cry.

"I have done naught," he said, his tone defensive, hateful eyes glaring.

"Do not lie. I know you had Rebbie lock her up for your pleasure. So I would not know she was here."

"Rebbie locked her up to keep her out of my rooms."

"Because you cannot keep yourself away from her?"

"Nay! I have no interest in her."

"She was in your bedchamber last night!"

"But I wasn't there at the time. Rebbie found her, and that's why he removed her and locked her in the tower."

"You knew she was here before that, did you not? If what you say is true, why did you not send her away?" She could barely force the words out, hating her own damnable weakness and emotion for this bastard.

"I was planning to, but I forgot about her this morning."

"Forgot? You expect me to believe such?" How could he forget about the bitch who would destroy their marriage? "You were keeping her for your entertainment between ceremonies and meals and the chore of visiting my bed. And you forbade the guard to allow me inside the tower room. I will have her escorted to the gates. If you are determined to have a paramour, it will not be Eleanor." Angelique stalked from the room, forcing herself to appear strong, though she felt like a windflower tossed upon the ocean…sinking, drowning.

***

"Angelique. That stupid little cow!" Eleanor, countess of Wexbury, waited outside the gates of Draughon with her trunks while her rented coach was brought out. She tugged her velvet-lined cloak closer against the chill Scottish wind. "I will not be treated as a fishwife. I shall have my revenge for this insult, this humiliation," she raved to her maid.

The young Englishwoman wisely kept her eyes downcast. The nearby guards stared straight ahead, avoiding her gaze.

It was the height of rudeness to throw out a peer, a member of the nobility. She would tell everyone she knew about Angelique's ignorance and viciousness.

A quarter-hour later, just as the fat drops of rain began, Eleanor's coach arrived from the stables. "Angelique had best be glad," she muttered and climbed inside. "We stop in the village, at the Breakstane Inn," she ordered her driver. While she sat inside the coach, her servants loaded her trunks then climbed on board.

As they'd passed through that little village yesterday, she had seen an inn which looked acceptable. Since it was about a half day from Perth, it was not too rudimentary. Eleanor was not yet ready to give up the pleasure of having Lachlan one last time…or several more times. He was the most splendid lover she'd ever had and she couldn't stop thinking about him, dreaming of him. He was so young, strong and virile. She didn't know a man could be so appealing, until him.

Thankfully, Eleanor had finally lost her elderly husband to natural causes, a man who'd been thirty-three years her senior, and she wasn't putting off enjoyment of life any longer. Of course, her father had forced her into the marriage with the old earl and she'd had no say in it. She'd endured his repugnant attentions for over ten years and bore him an heir. Now, finally, she could choose which men she slept with.

Angelique could never appreciate Lachlan and his bedchamber prowess as she did. He would grow bored with his unfriendly new wife in short order and when that happened Eleanor wanted to be close by to fill his carnal needs, of which he had many.

She only hoped her associate had more luck in driving the two newlyweds apart. If not, she would pay Kormad a visit. Surely he would help her, if he thought he could get his hands on that estate.

Chapter Eleven

"Damn him." Angelique strode from the great hall toward her rooms. She'd barely held up her façade before the clan during midday meal while her heart splintered. She should've killed Lachlan last night while she had him tied up instead of bedding him. Now that he'd had her, he would pursue someone else. But not Eleanor; she'd made sure of that. Angelique was certain any woman would do, so long as she was still breathing. The selfish, lascivious whoremonger.

It should be a crime, what he did—forcing her to relish the shocking things he'd done to her with his mouth last night. But she was the imbecile for taking him into her body. She feared that act alone had caused her to take him into her heart as well. Or maybe it was the things that came before, the kissing, the sweet murmured words, his hands caressing. Even now, she burned for all those things, no matter that he would never be true.

"Mademoiselle," whispered a male voice in the darkened alcove between the great hall and solar.

She paused. The voice sounded familiar, the accent French. Not Girard…or was it? She backed away. "Qui est-ce?"

"It is I, Philippe." The young man she had once thought to marry stuck his head out.

She rushed to join him. "Oh, Philippe, what are you doing here?" she asked in French.

"I had to see you, mon coeur." He grasped her hands and kissed them. "I love you. You must leave the barbarian."

She tugged her hands away from him, now realizing, though he was indeed her friend, he was little more than a silly boy. "What are you talking about?"

"There must be some way out of your marriage. You loathe him, do you not?"

Loathe? Indeed, she detested many things about Lachlan. Still, he was her husband. She had spoken sacred wedding vows and fully intended to keep them as long as possible. Plus, the marriage was now consummated, thanks to her rash, bold actions of the night before. She glanced behind herself through the shadows to make sure no one eavesdropped, then faced Philippe again. "No, the marriage cannot be undone. It is too late."

"It is never too late. I know some people, friends, who will help us be together. We can go back to France and live happily there. You love France. My father has written to me. He will give me a small estate in the country." Philippe's tone was rather desperate, as was his gaze. She did not like this aspect of him.

"Your father?" Last she'd heard, his father hated him and would not claim him.

"Oui, he is a wealthy nobleman."

"I cannot leave my estate and my clan. This is my birthright and my inheritance. At all costs, I cannot let Kormad claim it."

"But you are a lady. You need not concern yourself with the leadership of an uncivilized clan."

"That is your opinion, and I disagree with it. Besides, my clan is very civilized."

"I am sorry, ma bien-aimée." He knelt on one knee and she realized he moved her not at all. He was but a timid child compared to Lachlan.

"I beg of you, please consider going away with me," Philippe said, grasping her hand again. "I shall make you happy. You will not be happy here with that overbearing brute."

"Don't do this, Philippe. I am married," she whispered, resisting the urge to again yank her hand from his clammy one. She did not wish to hurt his feelings and hoped they could remain friends. "Do you not understand that?"

"Your mother left your father, her husband, and returned to her beloved France. You can do the same."

That was true but…this wasn't the same yet. She must bear a legitimate heir and do her duty; that much she would accomplish for her family and forefathers. And though it was the most extreme of follies, some small part of her prayed Lachlan would prove to be more honorable and faithful than she expected. She had no way of knowing if he was with Eleanor last night.

How dare Angelique dream he might develop feelings for her? Idiotic. Still, she couldn't help it.

"Have you never heard of annulment or divorce?" Philippe rose, releasing her hand. "You were forced to marry him against your will. I have friends who will help us."

"What friends?"

"What the devil is he doing here?" Lachlan's voice, almost like a growl, came from behind her.

Angelique jumped and turned. Her heart felt as if it would leap from her body. "Philippe has come for a visit…to wish us well."

Even in the dimness, Lachlan's cutting gaze was obvious. Deadly, when he observed Philippe. She had to sometimes remind herself the frivolous libertine was also a Highland warrior, skilled with the sword. He'd probably killed several people in battle.

"I see I shall have to fire my guards for allowing such vermin inside the gates." Lachlan captured her hand and pulled her toward the solar. "I will speak with you in private, wife."

Angelique's heart sped along. Mother Mary, help me. What would he do?

In the solar, he slammed the door behind them. "What were the two of you discussing?"

"Nothing of importance." Her head throbbed with sudden pain as she tried to remember every word she and Philippe had spoken.

"Plotting against me?" Lachlan demanded.

"Of course not, my laird." She backed away from his stalking advance.

"My laird," he mimicked. "You only call me that when you're hiding something. What is afoot?"

Her hands trembled and she could not think what to say. In his anger, he was irrational, like most other men, believing he had a right to his paramours, while she could not even have friends.

"Why is he here? What did he say to you?"

"I do not know why he's here and he said nothing."

"You are lying, madame! I heard part of your conversation. I understand French, remember?"

Mon Dieu. She was in trouble. What would he do, beat her? Force her to leave?

"In case you've forgotten, Angelique, he said something about an annulment or divorce. Then he said, 'You were forced to marry him against your will. I have friends who will help us.' Help you what? Are you thinking to leave me?"

Her shallow breaths rushed in and out, making her lightheaded. "No. I told him I would not do it."

"I didn't hear you say 'no.' You said, 'what friends?'"

"Before that, I told him no; it was too late."

"Tell him to leave or I will throw him out!"

She hated it when he became domineering, ordering her about. This was her home since she was a babe, not his. "Non."

"What?" he growled. "You're on thin ice, madame."

"No thinner than you are, monsieur. Locking your lover in the tower! This is my home. My friends are welcome if yours are. You had Eleanor come here."

"Wrong! I didn't invite her."

"You would not even tell her to leave; I had to. And I still don't know if you slept with her last night."

"I did not." His jaw hardened.

"How do I know? She said you did. It is your word against hers. Neither you nor she is reliable."

He blew out a laborious breath and tried to cut her down with his glower.

"You are a man controlled by your sexual appetite," she said.

"There is naught wrong with that! As I recall, your own sexual appetite was healthy last night, when you climbed on top and rode me as if I were a pony. Finally making use of your paid stud."

A furious heat inflamed her face. "You are no gentleman."

"What has that to do with it? I speak the truth."

Her thoughts were so mixed up, she could not think what she wanted to say next.

"Tell him to leave," Lachlan ordered. "I don't trust the puny bastard."

"Do not call Philippe a bastard. You are the bastard."

"Why do you defend him? I know you don't love the weasel!"

Angelique stood obstinate. How dare he tell her who she loved or didn't?

"Do you?" he asked.

"Mayhap."

"Very well, then. Take him to your bed! See if I care!"

"I will!" Angelique strode from the room, heat raging through her blood. She would pay Lachlan back for his cheating ways.

She found Philippe, looking sheepish and afraid, in the corner of the crowded great hall. No one seemed to notice when she slipped her arm through his and escorted him up the stairs. She would show Lachlan she was not afraid of him and that she would not obey his every snarl. She would call his bluff. If he could have lovers then so could she…or at least pretend to.

***

"I don't care," Lachlan muttered as he stormed blindly out of the castle. Angelique could have her wee laddie if she wanted him that desperately. "This is a damned sham of a marriage anyway. Unfaithful, scheming, thorny bitch!"

When he reached the stables, a strong emotion struck him—battle rage, bloodlust. He turned on his heel and strode back through the great hall and up the stone steps, seeing no one and nothing save his destination. Fire pounded through his veins. He felt strong enough to topple a stone tower.

"Lachlan?" Rebbie trailed after him.

"Not now. I'm killing vermin." He drew his sword.

At Angelique's sitting room door, he used all his strength to kick the solid oak. The door swung back and hit something. He charged in. "If he lays a damned hand on you, I shall slice the bastard limb from limb!"

Angelique stood by the fireplace alone. Where was the whoreson?

Someone scuttled out the door behind him. He turned to see the retreating red cloak.

"Coward." Lachlan sprinted after him.

"Lachlan!" Angelique tailed him. "He did not touch me."

"You don't wish me to kill your lover?"

"He is not my lover! You dolt." She yanked at the plaid on his back but he did not stop.

By the time Lachlan reached the courtyard, Philippe was running for the open gates.

"Damned whoreson."

He hated the victory he saw in Angelique's eyes. It took all his strength to keep from throwing her over his shoulder and carting her back upstairs to give her a sound thrashing on the arse. She sent him a haughty look and disappeared back inside.

He motioned two of his guards forward. "Follow that lad, seize him and put him in a cell below," Lachlan said in a low voice. "Don't hurt him or let anyone know you've captured him. I'll question him later."

"Aye, m'laird." The guards mounted up.

Lachlan returned to the great hall where a couple dozen pairs of curious eyes watched him. He gave a brief bow. "Carry on." He took the stairs two at a time to Angelique's room. The sitting room door stood open. Her bodyguards remained at their post, staring into space as if Lachlan wasn't a mad fool. Aye, he knew he was, but he didn't care. Angelique was his wife and he wouldn't be sharing her. He knocked at her bedchamber door. "Angelique?"

"Go away!"

After she'd barred the door on him last night, he'd decided he would have no more of that and had removed the plank of oak when she'd gone down for breakfast.

He lifted the latch and pushed. Something sat before the door—a trunk—which he shoved out of the way.

"I will not speak to you, monsieur."

"Aye, you will and be glad for it."

"You, sir, are jealous!" Angelique gave him her back.

He slammed the door, placed the trunk before it again, and advanced toward her. "I am not jealous! I am your damnable husband. No man who is married to you will have a pleasant life. 'Tis a certainty."

"Merci. Nor will any wife of yours."

Grasping her waist, he turned her to face him and pressed her against the nearest wall. Taking her chin in his hand, he stared at her lips, lush pink. He would not share them. "Did you kiss that bastard?"

"Oui," she said through clenched teeth.

"Liar." Lachlan crushed her lips beneath his, forceful, driving. A second later, she bit him.

"Och! Like biting, do you?" He nibbled her lower lip, caught it between his teeth, but not hard enough to draw blood. Fiery emotion burned in her darkened eyes, just as arousal burned inside him.

He released her lip and nipped her neck.

She sucked in a hissing breath, her whole body shuddering. Her hands fisted in his clothes and drew him closer. Aye, he loved her responsiveness. He tugged at her sleeve, baring her shoulder, and scraped his teeth over it, flicked it with his tongue. Her skin was smooth, hot and alluring. These blasted clothes were in the way. He yanked up her skirts and slid his hand along the silk stockings to the top, over the softest skin of her inner thighs.

She gasped. "Do not."

"Why not?" While looking into her hungry eyes, he gently stroked a finger over her wet curls. "Because I'll know how much you want me?"

"I do not want you," she said in a breathy tone.

"Nay?" He parted her swollen sex lips and her moisture drenched his fingers. "You're not good at lying, madame."

"It is Philippe that I want."

Ha, what a lie. "Is that right?"

"Oui. Just as you want Eleanor."

"God's blood! I don't want her. I only want you," he confessed. Indeed, that one truth stripped his soul bare.

"Now, who is the liar?" she said, near breathless.

"After last night, how can you doubt it?"

"I am not a naive child, monsieur. I know about men and their…desires. They want the woman they cannot have. They want many women because they like variety. They bore easily."

"You don't know me very well, then." Unable to imagine being bored with her, he stroked her with firm gentleness, that wee, sweet nub of flesh between her legs. She moaned, her eyelids dropping.

Aye. Over and over he caressed her, then slid a finger inside that snug passage. She whimpered but did not try to escape him.

He sensed the tension building within her, readying her for climax, and pulled his hand away. "Who do you want?"

Trembling, her breathing harsh, she glared at him.

He rubbed her inner thigh with teasing, light strokes.

"Touch me," she whispered.

"I want to do more than touch you."

"Oui. Do it." Her fingers grasped at his plaid.

Somewhere, he found a well of restraint and patience. "Not until you say you want me."

"I want you," she said in French, soft as a breath.

Saints! She was so lovely and passionate he wished to devour her like a juicy plum. "Say my name."

"Lachlan."

He took possession of her mouth, kissing her deep as shivers coursed through him. He must have her now. Lifting his kilt and her skirts, he anchored the material between them and picked her up. Urging her to wrap her legs around his waist, he positioned himself and slid into her. So tight she squeezed the control right out of him.

"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…Angelique'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."