Текст книги "My wild Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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"I'll tell you later," Lachlan said in a low voice.

The buxom alewife plunked a full tankard of ale onto the scarred wooden table, some of the brown liquid sloshing over the rim. Lachlan flipped her a silver coin. She thanked him with a wink and bustled away to see to the newcomers.

Kormad and his men took a large table on the other side of the room.

"We need to move," Lachlan whispered, picking up the tankard. "To that empty table behind them. You go first. He's seen me before."

"You better have a good reason for this," Dirk muttered and stood.

Squeezing by the chairs of other patrons, Lachlan followed Dirk to the closer table and sat with his back to the men in question. "Watch my back, will you?"

"When have I not?"

For a time, Kormad and his men talked of mundane matters. Dirk gave him a hard scowl. Lachlan shook his head and sipped the lukewarm ale.

"Any progress with the king?" one of the men at the other table asked.

Lachlan raised a finger at Dirk so he would pay attention.

"Nay," Kormad said in his gruff voice.

"If we take the lass and force her to marry you, the problem is solved."

"I don't want my head lopped off because of the hateful wench."

"You must woo her," one of his men said in a low, teasing voice.

"Aye, make her swoon with your lovely poetry."

The men guffawed.

"'Tis not a laughing matter. To be earl, I must marry her," Kormad grumbled.

"Or you could kill her," another man suggested.

Lachlan clutched the tankard of ale tightly when all he wanted to do was draw his sword and do the lopping off of Kormad's head himself. By the saints, I will protect her. Though he did not know why he should want to protect the thorny, insulting ice queen. Something inside her seemed vulnerable and alone. She reminded him of the wee injured wildcat he had found on his clan's lands when he was a lad. When he'd tried to help, the feline had scratched him, but she was simply protecting herself the only way she knew how.

Dirk frowned, scrutinizing Lachlan's face.

"Shh," Kormad hissed.

The men's voices lowered. "We could steal her away and hie back to Scotland. You can marry her there, legal."

"And have the king string me up like a bleeding boar? Nay, indeed."

"The lass will tell the king she wishes it. I can make certain of it."

"You're too daft to make certain of anything," Kormad snapped. "The Drummagans have been friends of the Stuarts for hundreds of years. I won't jeopardize that."

"Queen Jamie doesn't seem like a friend to you," a slimy voiced man muttered.

"Who is he going to marry her off to, then?" another man asked. "That damned Frenchman bastard?"

"Nay. The clan would never accept him as chief," Kormad said.

"Chatsworth?"

"Too old. And too English."

"The clan will settle for naught but a full-blooded Scotsman," Kormad said with finality.

"You're the best candidate. I say you should meet with the king again."

"He might be thinking of that Lachlan MacGrath what saved Steenie's life," a different man said.

Dirk's frown grew fierce and his glare deadly.

Lachlan was glad his friend finally understood.

"He's a Scot, but a damned Highlander," one of the men said.

"The king detests Highlanders," Kormad growled.

"He knighted MacGrath and took him hunting at Theobalds. He likes that one."

"Might be his bonny face."

"Maybe Steenie should watch his back," slime voice said.

Loud laughter erupted. Bastards. Lachlan wished he could shock them all by making his presence known, but that would not serve his purpose. Pretending to be naught but a skirt-chasing gallant would lull them into thinking he was no threat.

Moments later, the group quieted. "The lass is the only thing in your path, my lord."

"Aye."

"So let's remove the obstacle. 'Accidentally' of course."

"Not yet. Let's see who the king chooses for her first."

Chapter Two

Angelique knelt before the king in the throne room the next afternoon. She blinked against the burning rose water perfume she'd dropped into her eyes and stared at the blurred patterns of the lush carpet.

"You must choose a husband from among these three men," King James said.

"But, Your Majesty, pray pardon. I love Philippe Descartes. He is a good man." Lifting her gaze as far as his royally shod feet, she blotted her faux tears with a silk handkerchief. She hated to resort to such theatrics but she knew her guardian was easily swayed with tears, especially hers, ever since she was a small child. The first time her father had taken her to court in Edinburgh, she'd been terrified of all the strangers. When the king saw her crying, he gave her a priceless gold trinket. She prayed he still had a soft spot for her, because she must convince him she was genuinely in love with Phillipe. This was her only sound argument.

"Philippe is not suitable, my child. He is too young, weak, and the bastard of a Frenchman. The earl of Draughon must be a strong man of legitimate birth, and Scottish. 'Tis what your father wanted. The clan will accept nothing less. Nor will I."

"But—but I cannot live without Philippe, Your Majesty."

"If you do not choose, then I shall choose for you," the king said in a harsh voice he'd never used with her. "Which will it be?"

Merde! Why had Philippe not requested an audience with the king today and asked for her hand?

Deep down she knew Philippe would've made no progress, because King James had already chosen MacGrath. Giving her a "choice" was but a formality. After all, the king could not be suspected of forcing a woman to marry against her will.

Angelique glanced aside at each of the swine vying to be her future husband. The first, her fifth cousin, the baron of Kormad, was near twice her age with a bushy dark beard and a protruding stomach. Though his face was not grotesquely ugly, she detested the incensed look in his eyes. When he had talked with her once before, the animosity surrounding him had repulsed her. He treated her as if she were a mouse he wished to stomp into the earth. Marriage to him would be a descent into hell.

The second man, Lord Chatsworth, half English, half Scottish, was old enough to be her grandfather. Likely he would not live long. He might not even survive the wedding night. When his eyes met hers, he licked his cracked lips and gave her a toothless grin. She grimaced when she imagined one moment of his attentions.

The third man, the Highlander. He was not difficult to look at. In fact, once her gaze landed on him she felt compelled to keep staring, taking in each detail of his appearance. A crisp, white linen shirt beneath a dark green doublet fitted flawlessly over his wide chest. A green, blue and red tartan kilt was belted above his narrow hips and the top portion of the plaid secured over his left shoulder with a silver brooch. The basket-hilt of his sword gleamed at his side.

Mischief danced in Sir Lachlan's eyes and he smiled more than any man she'd ever encountered. Indeed, he had even, white teeth. More importantly, he had not displayed any true anger toward her, despite her resistance to marrying him. He had an easy-going manner the other two men lacked. Perhaps he would be simple to command. Once they married, he would likely grow bored with her and return to London for more adventurous pursuits, leaving her to run her estate alone. Exactly what she wanted—a marriage in name only with an absentee chief.

"Très bien. I choose Sir Lachlan MacGrath," she said in what she hoped was a strong voice.

The grinning scoundrel winked at her. She wanted to kick his bare shins.

"Splendid, my child," King James proclaimed.

Her future husband stepped forward, the two disappointed suitors glowering after him. Lachlan helped her stand and kissed her gloved hand. "I thank you for choosing me, m'lady. Don't worry, I shall protect you," he whispered. Leaning close, he sniffed. "You smell lovely. What is that, rose water?"

Her eyes burned. Likely they were hideously red and swollen. But she did not care whether he found her attractive or not. And what was he talking about—protect her from what, or whom? The only thing she needed protection from was his lascivious ways…unless Girard had crossed la Manche. No, he would never come to England, if he still lived. He had too many enemies here.

"You two shall be married four days hence," King James said. "The Archbishop of Canterbury is granting a special license."

All bowed and curtsied before the monarch as his courtiers escorted him from the room.

The baron of Kormad approached, his eyes blacker than jet and his face flushed above his beard. "Sir Lachlan, Lady Angelique, I'm wishing you both well. We'll be neighbors and I'm sure we'll oft be seeing each other in Scotland." He bowed.

Angelique's stomach knotted at the malevolence emanating from him.

"Kormad." Lachlan extended his hand.

Staring down at Lachlan's hand, Kormad stilled for a moment, then turned and stalked away with a stiff posture.

"I'm thinking we shall see trouble from him," Lachlan whispered. "He appears to be coveting his neighbor's future wife."

"You mean his neighbor's future estate and title. He cares naught for me." And neither will you.

"Come, let's talk." Lachlan offered his elbow.

"If you insist."

Her fingers surveyed the well-developed muscles beneath his sleeve. She could not recall touching such a large, solid arm before—like iron. Ma foi! I do not find him nor his arm appealing! She loosened her grip.

Though she had to marry the goat, she did not have to like him.

They strolled through two lavish rooms and out into one of the gardens. The odor of the nearby Thames kept the air from being pleasant. Now mayhap she could leave London for the clean country air. Though she hadn't been to Scotland since she was a child, she remembered the air had always been fresh at Draughon Castle.

She brushed by the mint sprawling onto the cobblestone path, releasing its fragrance. Warm sunlight beamed down upon them, gilding strands of Lachlan's tawny hair.

His arm tensing, he glanced about in all directions.

"Is something amiss?" She released him.

He stopped. "I thought I heard something." After a moment, he turned to her. "You're in danger, mademoiselle. From Kormad. You must not say anything about it. And you must never be alone for a moment. He is planning something."

A chill coursed through her. "How did you learn of this? Did he say this to you?"

"I heard him talking with his men. Have you a guard you trust?"

Feeling completely alone and exposed, she shook her head. She and Camille had been protecting each other since the year before. This was no different.

"I shall speak to Buckingham about it. Once we're married, I'll guard you myself."

She appreciated the solemn look in his eyes. She would never trust him to be faithful, but perhaps she could trust him to fend off Kormad.

"Merci."

"Have you any inkling why your father didn't wish Kormad to succeed him?"

She felt shamed in how little she knew of her father and his wishes, but she could not be at fault since her mother was the one who'd taken her away. "I only know they did not get on well."

Lachlan nodded, scrutinizing her until a wave of discomfort warmed her face. "I wish you to know, Lady Angelique, I only have the best of intentions concerning you, the estate and the title. And I thank you again for choosing me."

Her heart sprang up with his gallant words. But, in truth, he was trying to steal his way into her affections. The intimate murmur of his voice, the way he lowered his lashes against the sunlight, his mere presence, all contrived to charm her, seduce her into believing he was the noblest of men. But she knew differently.

"King James already made his decision. I had no choice in the matter because I am a woman. You have pleased the king and so he gives me to you, along with everything that is mine. I am but an object to be owned."

Lachlan frowned. "I don't see you that way at all. You are a lovely lady who deserves only the best."

"We are to be married. There is no need to pay courtship to me with your silver-tongued compliments."

"I am not—" Irritation glinting in his eyes, he glanced away. "Never mind."

She immediately regretted her harsh words. After all, the man had offered to protect her from danger, but he was being paid handsomely for his services—a title, an estate. Still, he could be a lot worse. He could be Kormad or Chatsworth or Girard. All bastards.

"I'll never lie to you," Lachlan said. "You cannot trust me now and that is fine, but in time you'll see."

"You are a man who cannot control his baser urges. I do not want a husband who will make me a laughingstock."

He sent her a brittle stare. "What are you speaking of?"

"Lady Eleanor." The name turned her stomach.

"Aye, you caught me with her, but I was not betrothed to you then."

"And you were with Lady Catherine the night before."

He appeared a bit sheepish for a moment, glancing away. But then his dark gold gaze found her again, challenged her. "Indeed, but I hadn't met you yet, in either case. How can you hold that against me?"

"Now that we are betrothed, do you suppose you are instantly a different person?"

You will always want many women, a different one for each night perhaps. I will never be enough for you. Her eyes burned and she stared at the lacey handkerchief in her hand. What did she care? She did not want him touching her anyway.

He remained silent and stiff beside her.

"But that is the way of men, non? I must accept it. Accept my place and do my duty." Her throat ached. Not for the first time, she wished she'd been born male so she would have control of her own destiny.

"No matter what I say now, 'twill not make a difference," he muttered. "You won't believe me. All we can do in this situation, m'lady, is our best. We don't yet ken what tomorrow holds. There are many possibilities."

Oui, the possibilities of new lovers for him. And loneliness and embarrassment for her.

A year ago, her girlhood dream of finding true love and happiness died. Never would she dare resurrect such a dream with this deceptive man.

"In any case, I intend to protect you. You may believe that, if naught else." Lachlan switched his gaze to the doorway. She turned to see if Kormad had followed them. Instead, Philippe Descartes waited there.

"Philippe!" She rushed to him and clutched his hands in hers, instantly feeling the calming sensation he always inspired. He was her only genuine friend here, besides Camille.

Philippe was short enough that looking up into his face did not hurt her neck. His pale skin was flushed.

"Mademoiselle Angelique." Bowing over her hands, he kissed her gloved fingers. "I'm sorry I could not request an audience with the king again this morn," he said in French. "I feared he would have me hanged. He does not like me."

Angelique nodded, her heart softening with understanding. Philippe was her own age, still a youth really, rather than a man.

"Do not worry over it. I will have to marry the Highlander, but he is better than the other two. At least, I think he is."

Philippe glanced toward Lachlan and his eyes widened. He immediately dropped her hands and stepped back.

"What is it?"

Philippe shook his head. "I must be going. I wish you good luck. Au revoir." He turned and fled into the palace.

Lachlan approached and indeed he did look fearsome, a bit like one of the young male lions King James kept in the Tower for fighting mastiffs and bears.

"What did you do?" she demanded. "Draw your sword? Show him your dagger?"

"Nay. I did naught but look at him. He is a cowardly lad, that one. He couldn't protect you from Kormad even if he tried. You should be thankful the king won't let you marry him."

"Forgive me if I disagree. And I shall always remain very fond of Philippe no matter what."

***

Hours later, after the evening meal at the palace, Lachlan requested three armed royal guards placed before Angelique's bedchamber door, and made sure they were on the job. Whether Angelique appreciated his protection or not, she was getting it. Her comment about how fond she was of the whey-faced Frenchie lad still irked him. But what did he care? Philippe was not the problem. Kormad was.

After dark, Lachlan left Whitehall Palace in search of friends he trusted and strode down King Street. As he approached Charing Cross, footsteps echoed behind him. Hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, he halted and turned, his gaze searching along the shadowed buildings and the mist off the Thames.

Silence. Nothing moved. Damnation, he hated having no one to watch his back on these dark and deadly streets.

With more purpose, he continued on his way.

A form leapt from the shadows beside him.

"'Slud!" He dodged aside and drew his sword.

Two more men rushed in behind him, grabbed his arms and pulled him off balance. Determined not to lose his grip on the sword, Lachlan lowered his body and yanked at his captors. They clung to him like tenacious wolfhounds, rendering his arms useless.

"A mhic an uilc!" Lachlan yelled.

The first attacker punched him hard in the stomach. His breath whooshed out, leaving suffocating pain.

He kicked the man and tried to twist away from the other two, but the bastards were strong. He stomped the toes of the man on his right, freed his sword arm and lashed out.

The man recovered and both of them tackled him to the street. One struck his arm, causing him to lose his grip. The sword clattered away.

"Damnation!" He struggled against them, tried to throw them off.

"Come now, grab his arms and drag him! This is the quickest way to the river," their leader ordered in a Lowland Scots dialect.

"We need to knock him in the head first, else he'll just swim out."

"Then do it!"

"And what are you doing but playing boss?"

Still lying on the ground, Lachlan shoved a knee toward the whoreson's bent head, but he dodged aside.

"You mewling jolthead. Hold him still."

One of the men grabbed for Lachlan's hair.

Evading him, Lachlan kicked the man in the stomach and he back-flipped into the ditch. He then jammed his elbow against the other man's stomach and punched him in the face.

"Omph!"

Their leader advanced, carrying a massive stick. Lachlan sprang from the ground, snatched the stick and landed a quick blow to the man's face with his fist. His nose made a satisfying crunching sound before he staggered backwards and fell on his arse.

Ha! Now he was getting somewhere. Lachlan hauled him up by his doublet. "Who sent you? Who do you work for?"

"To hell with you!" The ruffian tried to kick Lachlan in the groin.

He stepped aside and shoved the man to the ground.

The blackguard leapt up and fled. His cohorts scrambled from the ditch, sewage and foul water dripping from their clothing, and ran after.

"Bastards!" Lachlan retrieved his sword, gleaming from the shadows, followed a short distance but lost them to the fog.

Kormad's men—he would place silver on it.

"Iosa is Muire Mhàthair," he muttered and proceeded to The Golden Cross Inn.

Upon entering the sizable main room lit by lanterns, Lachlan sheathed his sword and scanned the patrons eating and drinking at the many tables. His stomach ached where the ruffian had landed two punches. He straightened his hair and clothing as he made his way toward the table where Robert "Rebbie" McInnis, earl of Rebbinglen, future marquess of Kilverntay, sat swilling ale.

Lachlan dropped into a chair, glanced down at his burning, bloody knuckles and cursed.

"What happened to you, then?" Rebbie asked, black brows lowered.

Lachlan wrapped a handkerchief around his hand. "I was in a fight outside. Three bastards jumped me from the darkness, then attempted to drag me to the river and drown me. I sent them scurrying like wee mice."

"What was their dispute with you?"

Suddenly thirsty from the exertion, Lachlan held up two fingers at the tippler. The barrel-chested man nodded.

"Well, I'm waiting," Rebbie said.

"I'm thinking they object to my future bride."

Rebbie coughed, almost choking on his ale. "What the devil are you speaking of?"

"You may congratulate me, my friend. You're looking at the next earl of Draughon. I'm getting married." Though he still wasn't sure how he felt about marriage, other than confused, Lachlan knew he had to protect Angelique. This was serious business, but he had to laugh at his friend's mouth hanging agape.

"Another royal reward?" Rebbie asked.

"Aye. Seems Buckingham's life is worth more than a knighting."

"Never thought I'd see the day." Rebbie appeared as if he had a bellyache.

"What's wrong, man? 'Tis me that's getting married, not you."

"Aye, but who will I go about wenching with now? You always find the best ones."

Lachlan grinned. He did have a talent for finding beautiful, willing ladies. "You could get married, too."

"Och! Not for a long while yet. Not while my dear da still draws breath. And he's in fine health."

The tippler delivered the fresh ales and Lachlan raised his glass in toast. "'Tis time to think of settling down. We've had more than our share of fun these ten years past."

"Aye, and they're over now."

A week ago, if someone had suggested that Lachlan settle down and get married, he would've had the same reaction as Rebbie. But now, he was excited about the prospect—a new adventure of sorts, in a whole different direction. Something he had never attempted. And he felt, for the first time in ages, a sense of purpose. A need to accomplish much and succeed in this new venture.

"You must join me when I go to Perth," Lachlan said. "I need your help. And Dirk's as well."

"Dirk, aye. He isn't married yet." A ray of hope gleamed in Rebbie's dark eyes. "I cannot see you married. Are you thinking you'll be happy?"

Lachlan shrugged and stared into his ale. Would he? He wished to be, but his future bride was more wasp than butterfly. "Probably not, but I'll be somebody."

"What are you blathering on about? 'Tis not as if you're a nobody. Your da was an earl."

"Aye, but I'm the second son, with no lands or titles. Until I marry."

"I never kenned you were greedy and would exchange your freedom for a marriage noose and some coin."

"I'm not greedy! You ken me better than that. But I'm not a wee lad anymore either. I'm thinking I need a purpose in life. Some respect."

Rebbie sputtered. "Respect?"

"Aye, my brother has much respect, a noble chief and earl, the leader of our clan. I have naught. I am a jest." Though he had never uttered those words before, they always hovered in the back of his mind.

"Who have you been listening to?"

"Everyone. I ken well what people think of me."

"So you like the wenches. 'Tis not a crime…unless you get caught by an enraged father or husband." Rebbie grinned. "Well, then…what is your future bride like?"

"A wee lass of a score years, flaming, curling, ginger colored hair. Eyes, green as the hills of Scotland in summer." She did have lovely eyes. And an adorable but too stern mouth that desperately needed his attention to soften it up a bit. He had a fantasy about kissing her, parting those lush lips and sliding his tongue between to sample her, without being bitten. Well, he'd always loved danger, so 'twas fitting.

"Och, God's bones, would you listen to yourself?" Rebbie scoffed. "You'll tire of her in a fortnight."

"'Haps." Indeed, what if he did? He would make the best of it.

"Is she smitten with you, then, like all the other lasses?"

"Nay, she's a prickly wench who thinks she's naught but French silk. She detests me. Would rather stab me than kiss me." Imagining his fire-breathing nymph wielding a weapon, Lachlan smiled. She was different, and that held his interest.

"'Tis clear. You're a bedlamite."

"She fancies herself in love with a wee French laddie named Philippe."

"You're not wantin' a happy marriage then?" Rebbie asked in a dry tone.

Lachlan sipped his ale. "I am a man in need of a challenge."

"You're bored so you get hitched?"

"Not bored, exactly. Just tired of wandering. Tired of being shiftless with no plan or purpose. I want something for my lads. I'm thinking she could be a good mother to them."

"Pray pardon, but a lady such as herself will not take to raising your bastards. She'll be wanting bairns of her own."

"Aye, and I'm all for it—the bairns, that is. She'll learn to accept Kean and Orin as well." Lachlan imagined his two endearing, fair-haired sons, wee versions of himself. Och, how he missed them. He was thankful to his brother for acting as guardian of them in his absence.

Rebbie shook his head. "You've gone daft as a sheep."

Lachlan leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. "The lass isn't the problem. Sorlie MacGrotie is."

"Who?"

"Baron Kormad. Her distant cousin, next in line to inherit. He is covetous of the title and lands. He sent his ruffians after me tonight, and he has plans to hurt Lady Angelique. Dirk and I heard him talking."

A maniacal glow lit Rebbie's eyes. "You need help?"

"Aye. I'd like it if you would join me at court and watch my back. Dirk has already agreed. I'm to meet him at the Black Spur shortly."

"Count me in."

After glancing about to make certain no one was watching, Lachlan drew his jewel-hilted dagger—the one his father had given him—from its scabbard within his doublet and placed it on the table. "How much will you give me for this?"

"What, you're wanting to sell it now? I'm not believing it." His friend scrutinized him.

God's blood! How he wished he had enough coin not to worry about things like this. "I would like to buy her a gift."

"How much? I shall loan you the money."

"Nay. You ken I don't borrow money," Lachlan snapped.

"You can pay it back after you're married."

"I won't buy her a ring with her money, but mine own. So, do you want to buy the dagger or not? I wager Dirk will. Or 'haps Miles."

"I'll be damned if the Sassenach will get such a valuable Scottish weapon. I'll give you ten pounds for it." Rebbie opened his sporran and covertly withdrew some coins. "A ring, eh? Must be a fancy one."

Lachlan shrugged. Earlier that day, he'd spoken with a goldsmith at a booth in Britain's Burse who would custom-make the ring, and it should be ready on the morrow. Though 'twould be a small token, he hoped it would say to Angelique that he was trustworthy and honorable.

Watching Rebbie take possession of the dagger felt like someone ripping out his spleen. His father had given him the weapon on his deathbed, and Lachlan had sworn never to part with it. But at the moment he had little choice. He couldn't risk gambling, nor could he part with his sword.

"Don't worry, man. 'Haps I'll let you buy it back someday…if I don't get too attached to it." Rebbie sent him an evil grin. "And if you can afford my price."

"To hell with you. I will not want it back."

"Bah! You're a terrible liar."

Lachlan drained his ale tankard. "Time to meet Dirk."

***

The next day, Angelique sat in the richly appointed drawing room with the other ladies who had accompanied her from the queen's court, but she was in no mood for conversation. She would rather be in bed with her head covered. Camille was the only person who understood her, but she was not entirely welcomed into these social gatherings.

How Angelique wished she could have married Philippe or another biddable man before her mother had passed away. Maman would not have approved of the Highlander as a husband. She would say Angelique was headed for a repeat of her parents' marriage. And she knew this to be true. Scotsmen knew not how to remain faithful—her mother had said it many times.

"'Twas in this very room where you intruded upon Sir Lachlan and me…" Eleanor whispered and took a seat beside her on the burgundy velvet settle.

Disgust rising within, Angelique glared at the other woman.

"In the throes of passion."

"I understand your meaning, Eleanor." The putain was worse than a cat in heat. "And where was it you crawled away to hide that night?"

Eleanor's smugness disappeared. "At least you have bagged yourself a man who is proficient in the bedchamber. My late husband was not."

"A pity."

"You may not care now, but you shall one day."

Angelique ignored that. 'Twas true, she didn't care now. She had experienced naught in the coupling she was fond of. It was a painful and loathsome activity.

"Was your lover in France very gifted?" Eleanor asked.

"I had no lover. Merely a faithless fiancé." Few people knew of her compromised virtue. Some believed it only a rumor and she didn't wish King James to know the truth of it. Though Girard had asked for her hand in marriage, and she had thought to marry him before his fit of violence, they were not formally betrothed because her father would not permit it. She and her mother had written to him in Scotland to ask. His answer was a resounding nay and a demand that she return to Scotland. She, of course, had not gone. Besides, Girard had turned out to be a bumbling, cruel oaf who'd forced himself on her in the end, and she was relieved she hadn't married him. But now she must marry the Highlander.

Eleanor chuckled. "And soon you shall have a faithless husband."

Indeed. Nausea took Angelique's appetite and she put down her puff pastry.

"Lachlan told me two nights ago in his bedchamber he knew his faithfulness was not required. You may have to share him, but believe me, he's worth it." Eleanor sighed.

The ruttish varlet. "I am fortunate, no?" Angelique wanted to toss her wine onto Eleanor's head and watch it ruin her perfect dark curls.

"Indeed, you are most fortunate. His broadsword is long and stiff and—"

"Enough." Angelique knew exactly what the other woman spoke of.

Eleanor giggled.

"We all know you have sampled most every male member at court," Angelique said.

Eleanor smirked, dropping her gaze to Angelique's chest. "Well, Sir Lachlan is rather fond of large breasts, so I don't imagine he will be overjoyed with you."

Angelique stiffened and forced herself not to draw her wrap closer about her body and hide. "I do not care what sort of breasts he fancies." He will not be touching mine. She wondered if she could lure the bitch into an alcove and squash her nose like a Scottish bannock. Instead, she sipped her wine in a very collected manner.

"Perhaps I shall pay him a visit one day to alleviate his frustrations," Eleanor said.