Текст книги "My wild Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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His body was a solid wall at her back. She had not yet put on her stays and farthingale and his hard shaft prodded her derriere. Her body's primitive instincts urged her to arch her back and wantonly grind her hips against him. Non! She forced herself not to respond.

But she could not get the image of that part of his body out of her head.

His other hand splayed on the upper part of her chest, his fingertips stroking her throat even as he teased and seduced the skin of her neck, her jaw line with his lips. She would only need to turn her head a bit to experience another kiss like the one in the chapel.

"Allow me to give you pleasure, Angelique," he whispered.

Her traitorous body sang with tingles and strange yearnings. Her lungs locked down and she gasped for breath. He was naught but the god of lust and fornication casting his spell upon her.

"Saints, you're lovely. Your skin tastes like honey."

What if he forced her?

"Non." She pulled away. "I do not want to hear the practiced lies you tell your paramours."

"I was telling you true, lass." His deep voice was softer than it had a right to be, a bit rough and intimate. He waited quietly. "You're beautiful. As delectable as a puff pastry I wish to taste every inch of."

She pressed her eyes tightly closed, willing the images away—images of his mouth on her, all over—willing the disturbing arousal to drain from her body and leave her cold. But it was stubborn. And dear heaven, his voice was as persuasive as his touch.

"We are wed," he said. "There is no shame."

She forced air into her lungs. "I do not care. You will not touch me." You will not hurt me. You will not take away my control. A tear slipped from beneath her lashes. With her back to him he would not see it, thank the saints.

He released a tired breath and stepped away.

"Mayhap one of your paramours will give you a wedding night you will enjoy."

He muttered blunt words in a language she didn't understand, Erse, without doubt. Good, she had driven him away. Excellent indeed, even though her body was frustrated and restless. She fought down her own irrational desires.

A loud knock sounded at the door. She jumped and quickly swiped the damnable tears away.

He yanked on his long-tailed shirt and opened the door. After murmuring a few words she couldn't understand, he handed the rolled up, bloody sheet to one of the king's men and locked the door back.

"We leave on one of the king's smaller galleons for Perth in a half hour." Lachlan finished dressing. He spent so much time glaring at Angelique's rigid back that he did a shoddy job pleating his kilt. The damned cut on his abdomen stung like a bee possessed of a kelpie.

Devil take having a wife. He should've known this would happen. Luscious, alluring, hell-hated wench.

God's teeth, he yearned for her. Her skin was like finest ivory silk sheened with honey dust. And her mouth, when he'd kissed her in the chapel, had tasted like—he didn't know what. But he hadn't been able to resist dipping his tongue inside for a fuller taste. He wished to suckle her tongue like a sweet comfit even as he slid himself deep inside her and near drowned in her wet pleasure. He wished to take her hard and fast, while she moaned—nay—screamed his name and begged for more.

His tarse further hardened at the image.

"Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!" He should go out and find some willing lady to swive, just as his loving wife had suggested. 'Haps he could even locate Eleanor. But that was exactly what Angelique wanted. He would not prove her right if he had to become a beef-witted monk.

He slammed the bedchamber door on the way out and hastened down the wide staircase. Plush carpets underfoot and the gleam of gilt from the shadows told him this was an elegant home, far different from the old, but beloved Highland castle he'd grown up in. He joined his friends and the king's retainers in the library.

They dropped silent and turned curious eyes toward him when he entered. This was nothing new; he was used to being stared at for one reason or another. He proceeded to a table and poured himself a generous helping of sherry.

Rebbie approached hesitantly. What the hell was wrong with everyone? Was his scowl that fearsome?

"Should we send for a physician?" his friend asked in a low tone.

"What for?" Hoping they didn't know he'd cut himself, he glanced down at his shirt. No blood seeping through as of yet.

"Your wife," Rebbie whispered.

"Why? She was fit as a shrew-fed badger last time I saw her."

Rebbie clamped his lips between his teeth for a moment, fighting hard to keep from laughing.

"What the devil is wrong with you?"

"We feared you'd killed Lady Angelique when you bedded her."

"Oh, that. Nay. She's a strong lass, half Scottish, you ken."

He wouldn't have to keep up the pretense for long. In short order, he'd have her aching for his attentions and clamoring for a goodly piece of paradise betwixt his sheets.

***

The coach lumbered along the rough street, through holes and ruts that jarred the teeth. Angelique sat stiffly, fully clothed this time and tried to avoid Camille's direct gaze.

"What did he do to you?" Camille whispered in French after a long while.

"Nothing."

"But all that blood. The men were talking."

"I will tell you later but it is nothing to worry about." Angelique tried to sort through her jumbled feelings about her scoundrel of a husband. Though she was loath to admit it, Lachlan had been the epitome of a hero when he'd cut himself. Not only did he not force himself on her, but he'd covered for her lack of virginity to appease the king. But afterward, the way he'd touched her and the thrilling yet frightening sensations he'd wrought in her body…that was the perplexing part.

"Did you couple with him?" Camille asked. "Did he force you?"

"Non. But you must tell no one."

Her cousin remained silent a long while. "You cannot deny your husband forever."

Angelique knew that, but she would keep him at bay as long as possible. They would need an heir of course, and she would do her duty. But she dreaded the task.

Some part of her feared if she let him tear down her wall, she could not re-erect it. If she let him in, he would take advantage of her in every way, walking over her and asserting his control over all aspects of her life, her estate, her clan. She feared he would force his way into her bed and into her body. Worse, she feared he'd use another tactic, a manipulative one, forcing his way into her heart. And then expect her to accept his whoring.

He wasn't like Girard, the oafish swine. Already, Lachlan's kiss…she could think of little else, except his nude body which he'd proudly displayed, hoping to arouse her, she was certain. He knew of naught but seduction. The man was deluded and full of himself.

"He will seek out the favors of other women," Camille said.

"Oui, he will anyway, sooner or later, whether I lie with him or not. Men like him tire of one woman easily."

"Hmm. Maybe you will also find a brawny Scottish lover once we reach Draughon," Camille purred.

"I do not want one," Angelique snapped.

"Very well, but I do."

Angelique wished she could be so blasé about the coupling. And she knew her cousin was but trying to erase some of her fears about it.

An influx of galloping and neighing horses surrounded their coach. The conveyance sped up. Pistol shots rang out.

"Mère de Dieu!" Heart lodged in her throat, Angelique held on. Had Kormad caught them?

"Halt!" a male voice outside yelled.

More shots popped; burning gunpowder filled the air. Shouts in English and Gaelic echoed off the buildings. The coach slowed to a stop.

"Merde! This cannot be good." Camille blew out the lamp and bolted onto the bench seat with her. They flattened themselves against the back, away from the windows.

"Kormad will kill us if we do not do something," Angelique said.

More pistol shots exploded and swords clashed. What if he'd already killed Lachlan. No, she could not bear to think of it.

"Ready yourself." Angelique removed the dagger from her pocket. This would not be the first time she and Camille had fought for their lives.

"I will shoot their stones off," Camille whispered, drawing a small pistol from her pocket.

"I did not know you had that." Angelique wished she hadn't left her own pistol in her trunk, now on top of the coach. "Is it loaded?"

"Oui. Why would I have it otherwise?"

Angelique peered out the window, saw no one, and stretched her neck further. She recognized the poor man lying on the ground as their driver. Another man crawled from beneath the coach and sidled toward the front.

Angelique ducked back inside. "They've killed our driver and now someone is trying to make off with this coach. We must get out and hide."

Camille nodded and opened the opposite door. They both slid out into the muddy darkness. Clutching Camille's hand in hers and dragging her along, Angelique crossed behind the coach and searched for a safe place to hide. The shadows of the buildings were pitch black.

"Get back inside!" yelled a man sitting atop a large horse.

She didn't know whether he was one of Lachlan's men or one of Kormad's.

"Damnation," the man muttered and glanced away. "MacGrath!"

The stolen coach started rolling away. Another horse galloped by. The rider leaned down and snatched Camille off her feet. She screamed and dropped her pistol.

Chapter Four

Angelique snapped up Camille's pistol, aimed at the fleeing abductor's back and pulled the trigger. A shot exploded from the small weapon, jarring both her arms, the scent of gunpowder burning her nose. The man cried out and dropped Camille from the horse. She toppled to the ground.

"Sacrebleu!" Ignoring her stinging hand, Angelique rushed forward and knelt by her cousin, touched her face. "Camille?"

Horseshoes clattered on cobblestones, but she could not take her eyes off Camille's still face.

"God's bones! Why did you not stay in the coach?" Lachlan demanded with thickening burr. He dismounted and crouched beside her with a torch. The heat from it near scorched her skin.

Camille's blood painted the cobblestones red. Mère de Dieu, have I caused her to die? Angelique crossed herself, vile nausea coiling in her stomach. "They killed the driver!" she told Lachlan. "Another man was going to steal our coach. I saw him."

"And now he's dead, too. We wouldn't have let them take you." His voice was rough, almost a growl.

"You were outnumbered."

"Nay, we were not. We had the situation under control."

She pressed her eyes closed, forcing the burning tears out. "I did not know. Pray, forgive me, Camille." Bending, Angelique placed her ear before Camille's mouth and nose. Breaths puffed out, warming her ear.

"She lives! Thanks be to God. Help me with her."

Lachlan handed the torch to his English friend, Miles, then gently slipped his arms beneath Camille and lifted her. Angelique followed him to the coach and helped him position her cousin comfortably on the seat.

"Merci."

"Do not leave the coach again until I tell you to!" Lachlan slammed the door.

She wanted to fling a sharp retort at him, but she deserved a much worse scolding for hurting Camille. The coach lurched forward, knocking Angelique to the floor. Damnable driver.

"Camille?" She patted her cousin's face, wishing she had cold water to bathe it in. Camille was the person she cared about most in the world, like a sister, and she'd endangered her life. "I pray you will forgive me. Please wake up."

Shots rang out again.

Merde! She ducked low over her cousin.

An onslaught of clomping horses' hooves approached from an alley and the coach sped up, jostling along rutted streets. The new driver shouted commands at the team and snapped a whip in the air. When the pistol shots echoed further away, she peered out. The king's guards were thick around them.

"Grâce à Dieu," she said when the coach ground to a halt. The salt scent of the ocean, the clanging of a bell, and the water slapping the hulls of the creaking ships told her they'd reached the wharf.

Lachlan wrested open the door. "Come. We must hurry."

***

A half hour later, Camille, still unconscious, lay in the captain's cabin on the lower berth. A small hanging lantern provided illumination. Angelique fingered her Rosary beads and paced, praying her cousin would awaken. She had bathed her face in water over and over but it proved of no benefit.

"O Marie, s'il vous plaît—" A sharp knock sounded at the door. She jumped. "Qui est-ce?"

"Lachlan."

She opened the narrow door.

"The ship's barber surgeon went ashore earlier and cannot be found. I sent for a physician but he hasn't yet arrived. The captain says we must leave forthwith because of the tide." Lachlan glanced at Camille. "Och! She has awakened?"

Angelique spun around and rushed to her. "Camille, are you well? Thanks be to God."

She placed a hand on her head and groaned. "Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?"

"You fell off a horse."

"I remember now. Did you shoot the bastard who grabbed me?"

"Oui. Do you want us to wait for the physician?"

"No, I hate them. I am well."

"If you're sure, we shall set sail," Lachlan said. "'Tis not safe for us to stay here."

"Oui. Allez-y. Go."

***

Kormad glared at his men who stared at the worn floor planks within his room at the inn. Six imbecilic failures, they were. The damned MacGrath bastard had stolen away Angelique and married her. Worst of all, he'd become chief, earl and now held Draughon Castle and lands.

"'Tis mine by birthright!" Kormad slammed his fist against the table. The candle flickered wildly.

"Y–you mean Timmy's, m-my lord," Arnie said.

"Aye! And mine until he comes of age. I have waited to take my place at Draughon the whole of my life." At least he had yearned for and coveted the rich estate the whole of his life. It was so close he could almost touch it. "I will not let some whoring, kilt-wearing MacGrath snatch it from me! He is all that stands in my way."

"She chose him," Rufus said.

"I know that, you whoreson! And she'll regret that decision. I intend to make sure of it."

If she would not choose Kormad, he would not suffer her to live. She was naught but a pebble in his path and he would kick her out of his way. The bigger obstacle was King James himself and this damnable Highlander he chose for Angelique.

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

"Go back to Burnglen and rally support amongst the Drummagans and the neighboring clans."

A fist wrapped at the door.

"Come!"

One of his men, MacFie, burst through the door, breathing hard. "I came as quickly as I could, my lord. I had to hide for hours, but Pike got on board their ship."

"You jest." A thrill passed through Kormad.

"Nay. 'Tis true."

"Pike. Now there's a man what knows how to get things done!" Kormad laughed and let loose a hoop of victory. "Where is the ship headed?"

"Direct to Perth. Pike said he would meet you there at the Ram's Head Inn three days hence. Likely MacGrath and the lady will be dead by then."

"Aye!" A sudden bloodlust came over Kormad. Too bad he couldn't spend it on MacGrath and his bitch. But Pike would make short work of them. "Secure us passage on a merchant ship to Perth. A swift one!"

***

"There you are," Rebbie called.

The wind whipping his hair, Lachlan turned from surveying the turbulent sea and the waves crashing onto the distant rocky shore as they made their way up the English coast. Rebbie approached along the rocking deck, his hair stark black against the orange dawn light.

"Aye." The nausea tormenting Lachlan had naught to do with the horrid breakfast he'd eaten nor the choppy water and rolling of the king's small galleon.

"Is aught the matter?" Rebbie eyed him with concern—or nosiness—he couldn't be sure which.

"Nay." He had but wanted a few moments alone to think; the few crewmen on deck were easy to ignore. And the chill air helped clear his head.

"You're pale as January snow—nay—you're looking a wee bit green. Seasickness?"

"The sea is rough this morn." Lachlan took hold of the wet rail to steady himself, hoping Rebbie would cease his questioning.

"Indeed. How are the ladies?"

"Camille improves, but Angelique has seasickness."

"She will be well once we reach Perth."

Lachlan nodded.

"'Haps you should be abed yourself. I believe you are more ill than you will admit."

"Nay." Lachlan sucked in a deep breath of salt air and tried to slow his racing heartbeat. He wanted no one to ken how he felt at the moment. A frightening realization had snuck up on him in the wee hours of the night and gored his vitals.

"Too much drink last night?" Rebbie asked.

"Nay."

"What then? I'm not good at guessing games."

"Devil take it," Lachlan muttered. Rebbie would never leave off when he sensed something amiss. "'Tis only that…I'm married," Lachlan said far more calmly than he felt. The blood drained from his head, like a physical weakness washing over him. Saints! He was not weak! He had fought in and survived clan battles and skirmishes. He had traveled across Europe, rubbed elbows with the nobility, and won the favor of his king. How could a vow uttered to one wee thorny lass snatch his equilibrium?

"You're only now figuring that out?"

Lachlan should've said naught. Rebbie would never give him peace now.

"Of course not! But it didn't seem so real yesterday, no different from any other adventure we've been embroiled in. When I woke up this morn, my first thought was 'what the hell have I done?' I even had to take her clan name in order to be chief. I'm a Drummagan now, more fully than a MacGrath."

A wave hit the hull and a cold mist sprayed onto them.

"So, you regret it?"

"Nay. I don't ken how I feel about it. I only know 'tis something I cannot walk away from. 'Tis permanent."

"Like prison. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen."

He would not liken it to prison. More, he was simply afraid he'd fail and not be very good at being a chief, earl or husband. Or that he wouldn't enjoy marriage.

"'Tis only a bit overwhelming at the moment is all. I'm sure 'twill pass. I am responsible for someone besides myself now. Not only a wife, but a whole clan. 'Tis something new to me." He pressed a fist against his aching stomach. "A wife, God's bones. What the devil will I do with a wife?"

"I wager you'll think of something." Rebbie grinned.

***

"My lady." A knock sounded at the cabin door. "I have food so you may break your fast."

Lying on the top berth, Angelique groaned, nausea roiling inside her so intensely she couldn't lift her head. With the swaying of the ship, everything spun around. She had already vomited several times and had nothing left in her stomach.

"Non. I do not want it," she called, hoping the crewman heard her through the door.

"My lady, you must be hungry."

"Non!" Damn you, go away.

The normal wood-against-wood creaking of the ship filled the silence. Thank the heavens he'd left. She drifted to sleep. What seemed only minutes later, something thundered against the door. She sat bolt upright, a pain shot through her head and her stomach rebelled at the sudden movement.

"My lady," a male voice called outside the door. "'Tis your husband. He's injured and bleedin' severely."

Cold prickles showered over her. "What? Lachlan?"

"Aye, he asks for you."

Mère de Dieu, protect him. She slid from the top berth, down in front of Camille.

"Qu'est que c'est?" she asked.

"Lachlan is injured." In her mind, Angelique only saw his smiling eyes. She missed his warm protectiveness. Holding to the table, then the chair, she made her way to the door.

She unlocked the portal and opened it. A brawny bald man waited outside. His gray eyes bore a hole through her and his expression was odd…leering for a moment, then blank. Had he never seen a woman before?

"Where is Lachlan?" she asked.

"In the galley. We were eating midday meal when a fight broke out and he was cut on the arm. He's lost a lot of blood."

"Sacrebleu. He's a free-bleeder. Take me to him."

She clasped the smelly man's elbow and allowed him to escort her from the stern and along the deck. The strong, chill wind pierced her clothing with icy needles. She wanted to run, but her skirts clung fast to her legs, hampering her movements. Shivering, she realized she had forgotten her cloak. Surely they would be below deck in a moment and away from the wind.

She had to see Lachlan. Why did she care? I do not know; I just do. He'd protected her and now she must do the same for him. "I hope he does not lose too much blood."

The man grunted and quickened his pace.

The ship tossed and she near lost her footing on the wet decking. Her stomach ached, a new bout of nausea rising.

No, go away. I cannot be sick now! She pressed a hand to her throat. The gag doubled her over and she could not stop it. Retching, she fell to her knees.

"Come!" The man jerked at her arm, dragging her up. "We got to hurry."

A pain shot through her shoulder. What the devil was he doing?

"Non." He yanked her into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder, panic clawing through her. "Mère de Dieu!" She screamed.

Running footsteps approached. "You, there! Unhand her!"

"Whoreson bastard!" someone else shouted. More running.

Upside down, she could see little. The blackguard's shoulder drove into her aching stomach. Someone else grabbed her upper body and a tug of war ensued. She kicked. The bald man released her and fled.

"Catch him!" Was that Lachlan's voice? It sounded too harsh. "Angelique?" Someone lifted her high into his arms. "What the devil happened?"

"Lachlan?" Head spinning, she looked into his eyes.

"Aye."

"Are you bleeding? How is your arm?"

"What? Nay, I'm not bleeding. Is that what he told you?"

"Oui. That you had lost a lot of blood. And you wished to see me. You are a free-bleeder."

"Och. I'm not injured." Lachlan turned with her and everything whirled around. She slammed her eyes shut against the illness. "Is he one of your crew, Captain?" Lachlan asked.

"No. Never seen him afore," a deep, rough voice said.

Yelling and curses sounded from several yards away. She opened her eyes a crack. Rebbie, Dirk and members of the crew fought the bald man and tried to restrain him.

"Who is he?" Angelique asked, shivering, trying to snuggle closer to Lachlan's body heat.

"I wager he's Kormad's man. How did he get on board?"

"I know not, my laird," the captain said.

The blackguard broke away from the other men and jumped overboard.

"God's teeth, he's getting away! Shoot him!" Lachlan yelled.

Rebbie and two other men fired pistols into the water.

"We're too far out for him to reach shore, even if he can swim," the captain said.

"I'm not taking any chances. Keep firing!" Lachlan told the men, then carried Angelique toward the captain's cabin. "What happened to the two guards I stationed by her door?" he called back.

The captain cursed and trotted away, shouting orders.

"I bet the bastard killed them or knocked them out. You must be half frozen, Angelique." Once inside the cabin, Lachlan closed the door.

She nodded, still appreciating the warmth of his skin.

"What happened to her?" Camille came forward.

"Some knave tried to throw her overboard. Kormad's man, no doubt."

"Sacreblue! Put her here." She motioned to the lower berth.

"What are you doing up, Camille?" Angelique asked. "How is your head?"

"I have pain but it improves."

"And how are you feeling?" Lachlan lay Angelique on the berth, covered her with a thick blanket, then knelt by her side.

"Terrible. So sick." She pressed a fist against her stomach, praying the nausea would diminish.

He smoothed her hair back and stroked the side of his thumb along her cheek, his gaze intense and concerned. "Did he hurt you, lass?"

"Only my shoulder a little. I shall be fine."

Frowning, he gently massaged her tender shoulder with strong, warm fingers. "That bastard. He got his just due. I'm going to see if he resurfaced." He kissed her forehead and stood. She closed her eyes and savored the lingering tingle from the kiss that did much to assuage her discomfort.

"When I leave, lock the door and don't open it for anyone save me, Rebbie or Dirk. More of his men could've slipped aboard."

Camille nodded, obeyed his orders and returned to the berth. "Pour l'amour de Dieu, Kormad is persistent is he not?"

"Oui," Angelique said. "The beast wanted to drown me, I'm sure of it. I fear Kormad will not give up until I am dead."

***

Angelique had never been so thankful in her life to set foot on solid ground in Perth. She had crossed le Manche twice before in her life and always became ill. Even more, she was thankful to be far away from that bald brute who'd tried to kill her. The men on deck had spotted him swimming for shore, but couldn't tell if he'd made it.

She prayed he wouldn't come after her again.

Now she and Camille rode in a coach that lumbered north from Perth toward her childhood home. She pushed the curtain back and took in the familiar Scottish Lowlands outside the window. The rolling green and brown fields and the tree covered hills brought back memories of long ago. She drew in a deep breath of the cool, fresh air but could find no comfort in it. What if her clan didn't like or accept her? What if she was more French than Scottish now and could not make a connection to them? What if Lachlan found a buxom serving wench to warm his bed?

He and his friends rode before the coach, and others along with the king's retainers followed on the narrow, winding road.

Camille cradled her injured arm—the one she'd landed on when she fell from the horse. Her eyes were swollen and the skin around them blackish-blue. Thankfully she had washed all the blood from her hair and it now shone fair blond.

"I still feel terrible that you fell," Angelique said.

"We did what we had to do, as always. Do not regret it. I thank you for saving my life."

"But I put your life in danger to begin with by having you leave the coach."

"Do not worry, Ange. I saved your life one time, and now you have saved mine."

Angelique pressed her eyes closed, hating that memory. Hating to even think of Girard. She would've prayed he was dead if such a prayer did not seem like sacrilege.

She shoved the thought from her mind. "We are a pair, no?"

Camille smiled. "And now we go on our grandest adventure yet, with several handsome Scotsmen."

Angelique snorted. Indeed her husband was handsome, but she was not certain that was a good thing. Women everywhere, from all classes, either stared at him outright or slipped him covert glances and smiles. To his credit, he pretended not to notice.

A huge boulder beside the narrow lane caught her eye. She remembered her father lifting her onto it when she was a small girl.

"We are near Draughon." Her pulse rate increasing, she gazed out. Through the trees, the wide River Tay glistened, reflecting afternoon sunlight. All seemed familiar to her, but like something from another life.

The coach drew to a halt, and she craned her neck out the window. The tall black iron gates stood before them, and beyond, the great stone medieval castle, Draughon. A large group of unfamiliar armed men swarmed in front of the gates. A shiver passed through her.

***

"Halt!" yelled a short, armored guard.

This one wee man didn't concern Lachlan, but the additional men did. They carried all manner of swords, axes, pikes, and pistols forming a line before the gates.

"Who are you?" the guard demanded.

"Lachlan MacGrath…Drummagan, the new chief of Clan Drummagan and earl of Draughon."

"Ba ha ha," the guard bellowed in a mock laugh. "'Tis a funny jest."

Lachlan tensed at the derision. A sickening feeling tightened his stomach. In truth, he felt like a fraud. Him an earl? A chief? But no one had to know of his doubt. He could bluff until dawn.

One of the king's retainers strode forward and unrolled a legal document containing the king's seal. "The countess of Draughon, Lady Angelique Drummagan, is in the coach and we are sent by His Majesty, King James. This man tells you true. He is the new earl of Draughon and your chief."

The force of armed, leather-clad men increased to two or three dozen behind the main guard.

"No one such as yourself will be entering this gate afore Laird Kormad returns," the guard growled.

Did Scots always have to be such a rebellious lot? At times like this he wished to throttle his own countrymen. "Kormad?" Lachlan asked. Damn the whoreson.

"Sorley MacGrotie, Baron of Kormad, rightful heir to the earldom."

"I ken who he is, but about the earldom, you are wrong. I am earl of Draughon. 'Tis official."

"In the name of King James, lay down your weapons, open this gate and stand aside!" ordered the king's retainer.

"I think…" The guard pretended to consider. "Nay! I'm a Drummagan and I won't be havin' a damned MacGrath Highlander as my chief. King James detests you lawless wild Scots so he wouldn't send one to lead us."

"We are on the edge of the Highlands here. 'Tis not as if we live in different countries. We're both Scotsman," Lachlan said, acting his most calm and civil.

"You're naught but a barbarian. I can tell by the look of you." The guard eyed Lachlan's plaid, thrown over his shoulder. At least he wore trews instead of a kilt this day. Better for riding a horse.

"I was educated in Edinburgh, just as your former chief, John Drummagan, was. My brother is a Scottish earl and a chief as well. I have noble blood flowing through my veins."

"But you don't have Drummagan blood."

"My wife is Drummagan through and through."

"Pah!" The man spat on the ground. "She's a Frenchie."

"We shall have a contest, you and me. Whoever is the victor will claim the castle, aye?" Lachlan said.

The retainers eyed him as if he were a lunatic. Rebbie grinned and Dirk frowned.

Lachlan dismounted and strode forward. "What say you?" He towered over the guard and glared down at him.

"Um, what sort of contest?"

"One on one, man to man sword fight." Lachlan drew his basket-hilted sword, stepped back and held it at the ready.

The guard hesitated.

"Come, wee man. I wish to get this over with. We have been traveling a long while and we wish a bite to eat. My wife is ill and requires a bed to rest upon."