Текст книги "My wild Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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As a child, she had played in these hidden passageways and learned the dangerous but fascinating art of eavesdropping. No one would ever tell her what was going on, but she always learned the secrets anyway.

She certainly remembered the vicious arguments between her parents about her father's infidelity and mistresses. Her mother had loved him and that's why it had hurt her so much. And now, what if Angelique slid into the same predicament? No, she would never love Lachlan. She couldn't. To do so would be self-destruction of the worst sort.

At the bottom of the stairwell, the stone floor leveled out and the narrow corridor stretched behind two rooms, a guest bedchamber and the library. Further along, it ran behind the upper portion of the high-ceilinged great hall where small apertures allowed full views of the occupants, unnoticeable from floor level. If Lachlan was down there, she would see him. In the old days, the slits had allowed guards to keep an eye on guests and even to shoot arrows if necessary.

No sound came from the guest chamber, and through the crack, she saw that the room was dark. Male voices carried from the library. Pausing behind that room, she set the candle on the floor and peered through the crack.

Lachlan, Dirk, Rebbie and Miles sat at a table, playing cards and drinking amber-colored whisky from small crystal glasses. So, he hadn't lied. Thank the heavens. For a time, she relaxed and simply listened to the rich sound of his voice. How pleasant and persuasive it could be, and that Scottish burr made it even more so. They discussed the clan and things that had happened during the day. A short time later, Dirk and Miles left, headed to their guest quarters.

Rebbie shuffled the cards while Lachlan stirred at coals in the hearth.

"Why are you not with your wee wifey? Surely, you would like to show your gratitude to her for saving your life today." Rebbie snickered.

"I don't find that funny. 'Tis a wonder I'm not a laughingstock after what she pulled."

"Better than being dead."

"I would've put a stop to him soon enough."

She couldn't believe he was so ungrateful for her help; his arrogant pride spoke for him.

"From what I can tell, the men of the clan respect you," Rebbie said.

"They don't trust me."

"'Tis your first day here. Once they get to know you, I'm sure they will be so loyal as to give their lives in your stead."

"I hope they will allow me to lead them. I intend to protect them as well. I only hope Angelique doesn't undermine my authority. 'Tis her clan by birth, I ken, but I am chief."

"I'm sure you know well how to keep her reined in."

"'Tis easier said than done. But indeed, I have her under control for now. I'm starting to understand her a bit more. She loves to pick a fight more than anything. But I don't yet ken whether this fight is with me or herself."

Angelique clenched her teeth so tightly she feared they would break. That lout! Balourd! Goujat!

"Hmm," Rebbie mused. "Why would she fight herself?"

"Though she doesn't want to, she likes me more than she will admit." Lachlan's voice held an amused tone. "And I've made sure she'll be busy planning the second wedding ceremony and the feast for the next week and a half, while I attend to important clan business."

The bastard! Her hands fisted, her nails biting into her palms. Angelique wished she could crawl through the crack so she could throttle him now. She could scarce concentrate on the rest of the damnable conversation for the blood roaring in her ears.

"Your wedding is not important?" Rebbie asked.

"Aye, but we're already married. This wedding will be a formality, for Angelique and the clan."

"She doesn't ken what an indulgent husband she has," Rebbie said in a dry tone.

"Aye." Lachlan turned from the hearth. "'Tis late and I'm off to find my bed."

"Not your wife's bed?" Rebbie opened the door.

Lachlan picked up the candelabra and followed. "The doors of our sitting rooms connect so…" Lachlan's voice trailed off into mumble as they left the room.

Damn him! The beast. He thought he was controlling her? Angelique picked up the candle and rushed up the narrow stairwell. She stubbed her toe on one of the stone steps. The pain near blinded her. "Mère de Dieu," she gasped. Was it broken? The thin leather slipper offered no protection. The poker fell from her hand with a loud clang among the debris on the steps. Holding tight to the candle, she continued up the stairs, limping.

At the top, the door was still ajar. She passed through and closed it. Fighting her way from beneath the heavy tapestry, she rushed forward to replace the rock over the latch at the base of the hearth. She set the candle down and it toppled to the floor, extinguishing the light.

"Parbleu," she whispered and ran for the door through the pitch blackness. Her leg slammed into something large and solid. She fell, cursing and rubbing her shin. Lachlan's damned trunk.

A distant door opened, Lachlan's sitting room door. Merde! I must hide.

Chapter Six

Angelique crawled across the floorboards and a carpet but could see nothing. She found the bed and slid beneath, praying no spiders lived there.

The bedchamber door opened and candlelight flowed into the room. Lachlan hummed a bawdy Scottish song, then whistled part of it. She watched his booted feet as he crossed to the hearth. A clunk sounded as he set his lit candle on the mantel. He stopped whistling, bent down and picked up the extinguished candle she'd dropped. Sacrebleu.

Silence followed. His feet turned slowly. Metal hissed against leather. She could scarce breathe. She didn't want to reveal herself, nor did she want him to take his sword or dagger to her, thinking she was a thief.

The light from his candle descended as he set it on the floor. He knelt, then peered beneath the bed. He squinted. "Angelique? Is that you?"

"Merde," she muttered and scooted from her hiding place.

"What the devil are you doing beneath my bed? I'd much rather find you in it."

Face burning, she rose and hobbled toward the exit, her shin and toe throbbing. He was faster, running to stand before the door. "Are you limping?"

"I slammed my shin against your damnable trunk." She tried to reach the door latch, but he blocked it. "I am tired and I wish to go to bed," she snapped. Control her, would he? A string of foul names formed in her mind.

"Let me see." He sheathed his sword, then swept a hand toward the chair near his bed. "Have a seat over there so I can see to your injury."

"Non. It is nothing, I assure you." Balourd! How dare he think to "keep her busy" with their wedding while he did "important" things?

He tilted his head and observed her with a charming, seductive expression. It only made her want to throttle him.

"You're angry with me," he said.

"Non. Why should I be?" Nullard!

"Why, indeed?" His grin lingered, as did his perceptive gaze. "So…you were paying me a wee visit."

"I only wished to look around this room to see if anything of my father's remained." Good lie, she congratulated herself.

"Aye, lots of his things are here. What would you like to see?"

"Très bien. I will look at them tomorrow. Excusez moi, s'il vous plaît. I must bid you good night."

"Angelique, tell me true. Why were you in here? I won't be angry."

No, but she was angry as Hades. She yearned to confront him about the arrogant and callous things he'd said to Rebbie without him knowing she'd eavesdropped, but that was impossible. She didn't want him to suspect the presence of hidden passages so she could further spy on him in the future. She must get to the bottom of his deception and manipulation.

Besides that, one of the reasons she'd married him was because she thought he would be easy to control. And he thought he was controlling her? Merde! She would show him!

"Angelique?" His voice this time came out low and intimate, stirring. And though she was ready to clout him, her thoughts scattered.

She tried to think of a lie quickly, but her mind went blank. "I but wondered where you were."

"You wanted to see me?"

"I wondered if…" She closed her eyes, wishing she had said anything else.

"What?"

"If you had a…companion with you."

"Companion? You mean a woman?" He spread his arms toward the room. "As you can see, nay, I don't." His voice dropped an octave to deep and seductive. "You have me all to yourself."

A pleasant, thirsty heat spread over her face and body. She hated him because he easily broke past her defenses despite her best efforts to remain cold and unaffected. "I wish to go to my room now."

"If you want to pass through this door, you must pay the penalty."

"How much?" she blurted, then realized he couldn't have meant coin.

"Hmm. Let me see." He lifted a brow. "Three."

"Three what?"

"Three kisses, madame," he murmured.

She backed up a step, then two, desperate to escape his magnetism.

"'Twill be painless, I vow."

She wasn't worried about the kiss being painful, but anything that might follow, the coupling, the control he would gain over her. Which she could not allow. Besides that, she still wanted to strangle him.

"You look like a trapped hart, love. I would never hurt you. Why can you not trust at least one small thing I do?"

Love? Trust? After what he'd told Rebbie in the library? Trying to manipulate her.

Lachlan leaned a shoulder casually against the door and observed her too closely. "Why do you fear me?"

"I do not fear you. I'm sleepy," she said through clenched teeth.

"You don't appear sleepy. Instead you're angry, but you weren't earlier, when I came to your room. 'Haps you didn't wish me to leave," he said in an enticing tone. "You wanted me to sleep in your bed."

Her mouth dropped open, but no words would emerge. The image of him sleeping in her bed was too overwhelming.

"Aye. That's the reason." A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes.

"You are wrong, monsieur!"

"Well then, explain your mood change."

She wanted to punch him.

"Ah. Mayhap you suspected I had gone off to meet another woman. Which tells me…you are jealous."

"I am not jealous," she ground out.

"In any case, you cannot leave this room until you pay the penalty. And if you have a weapon, put it down."

"I have no weapon."

"'Twill be the first time, then. You were not going to murder me and this imaginary woman you thought was in my bed?"

"Non."

His gaze trailed down over her. "'Haps I should search you to be sure. A man can never be too careful, especially when his wife has a fondness for daggers and pistols."

She took another step away from him and found her back against a wall. Surely he would not do as he suggested.

He cocked his head and watched her. "Come. I won't search you." He held out his hand. "I shall tell you a secret."

She shook her head, her pulse running away, as she wished to do. Heavens, she did not want to touch him. That would too easily distract her and give her those disturbing and frightening carnal urges again. He was so alluring, his deep voice rumbling gently over the words.

He moved in front of her and she committed the error of letting him trap her against the stone wall.

His seductive eyes darkened in the dimness and his lashes lowered. His tall body and the entrancing scent of masculinity enveloped her. She wondered if his tawny hair felt as silky as it looked.

He brushed his warm lips over her forehead, then kissed her there, an affectionate gesture such as she had not received in many years. She could not resist the persuasion of his fingers beneath her chin and did what they compelled her to do, lift her chin. He breathed hot against her mouth. Touched the corner with his. The shape and fullness of his lips aroused her, robbed her mind of rational thought. Her nipples tingled. He pressed his mouth fully to hers, tilted his head and flicked his tongue against her upper lip. A bolt of something dangerously sensuous shot through her. She opened, from shock or from obeying him, she didn't know. He stroked one finger along her cheek and slid his tongue briefly into her mouth. Excitement flowed through her like a searing river of sensation.

"Mmm. The secret is—" He kissed her again, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, wet and erotic, and toying with hers, then leaving before she was ready. "—you're the only one I want."

Her heart gave a lurch. Some deep, hidden part of her wished his words to be true, craved them to be true as one craves air. For one radiant moment, she imagined they were. While she wasn't paying attention, her hands had buried themselves in the warm silk of his hair and her fingertips grazed his neck. He felt wondrous, his hard chest flattening her breasts.

His talented lips nipped and ate at hers. His tongue ignited a hunger she had never imagined. Sorcerer.

His hands skimmed down her sides to her derriere. Only her thin silk smock and wrap separated their skin, and the heat of his hands burned through. He tugged her against his body. The granite hardness of his male member pressed against her stomach, startling her out of the sensual daze. He will force me! He will hurt me.

A shock wave jolted her. She tore herself away and dashed out the door.

***

Damnation! Lachlan almost had Angelique calmed and aroused. But he'd gone too fast. What the devil had scared her? Not the kisses; she liked kisses. Mmm, she'd tasted like heaven, sweeter than a honey-drizzled tart he wanted to sink his teeth into.

He pressed a hand against his erection to ease his frustration. Maybe that was it. Maybe his aroused shaft frightened her. Though she had seen it in London. He didn't know what would be frightening about that part of his body. Women had told him his tarse was of a large size, compared to most men, but they always seemed to like and appreciate that. But maybe the size did scare Angelique, if she hadn't much experience. She might not be a virgin, but he would wager, she was almost so.

She'd been in his room to see if a woman was in here. What a jealous lass she was. She didn't wish to occupy his bed nor would she allow another woman to occupy it. She wanted him to become a monk in truth.

Not since he'd been a lad of fourteen had he needed to relieve his frustrations himself. Women had spoiled him. He wanted sex and he wanted it a lot. But now, none. Cut off from one of his favorite activities because of his wife. A wife he had erotic dreams about. And waking fantasies of soothing the hellcat, making her purr in his ear and sink her claws into his back to hold him in place on top of her. Between her legs.

Cursing at the intense need plowing through him, he paced. 'Twas easy to see she wanted him, from the languid, curious look in her eyes to the way she'd held onto him and accepted his kisses moments ago.

A fantasy formed in his mind… she would straddle his thighs and impale herself upon him. Sliding up and down... so wet. Mmmm. How he would love for her to ride him fast and hard as if possessed by some erotic demon. He would give her so much pleasure, if only she would allow him.

Tomorrow. Indeed, he would seduce her tomorrow.

***

Three days after Kormad and his men had left London, they sat in the drab common room at The Ram's Head Inn in Perth. The bones and remains of their meal littered the table before them.

"Where the hell is Pike?" Kormad muttered. "He said he would meet us here this day. The ship's already come in and he should've been here by now." He hoped Pike had thrown MacGrath and Angelique overboard into the deep, chill waters of the Channel.

Kormad's men, sitting around the table, shook their heads and shrugged. He had just bought them a fine meal, and this was what he got for it?

"Well, go look for him, you louts! Search the other inns and taverns."

"Aye, sir." All his men sprang up and headed toward the door.

"MacFie, you stay!"

The most intelligent of his men returned to the table.

"I've got another job for you," he said in a low voice. "Snoop around and see if there is any news about a laird and lady dying or drowning on their way here. You ken how to do it without raising suspicion."

"Aye, m'laird." MacFie hurried away.

Kormad grunted and downed another swallow of warm, stout ale. He had a few loyal men he'd sent to guard Draughon a month ago, and he hoped they still held their posts. They did if MacGrath and his lady-whore were no longer in the land of the living.

An hour later, MacFie returned. "Word is the earl of Draughon and his lady arrived yesterday in sound health."

"Damn!" Kormad smashed a fist onto the table, rattling everything upon it. Could no one get anything right? Not even Pike? What was the world coming to when you couldn't even hire a good mercenary?

Kormad cursed, fumed, and paced for another hour, fantasizing about killing MacGrath and Angelique in a dozen different ways, without implicating himself, of course. Aye, he could get inventive. Draughon would be his—and Timmy's—soon. Very soon.

Arnie and Rufus struggled through the doorway with the brawny, limping Pike supported between them. His filthy trews and doublet were ripped and his leg bloody. Even his bald head was covered in blood and dirt.

Kormad charged forward. "What the hell happened to you?"

His face black and blue, Pike raised unfocused, bloodshot eyes. He smelled strongly of whisky and fishy seawater. "MacGrath's men ganged up on me. Had to... jump ship. Almost drowned. Fishermen... hauled me out, then... robbed me and beat me up."

"Bastards! Did you do the job?" Kormad growled.

"Nay." He clenched his teeth, body quaking. "But I'm ready to take my revenge on MacGrath for all my pain and sufferin'."

"Aye, there's the spirit!" Kormad grinned. Why couldn't he have ten men like Pike? "Well, what are you whoresons waiting for? Help Pike into a coach. We go to Burnglen." The healer there would patch him up, then Kormad and his men would charge into Draughon when least expected.

***

The next evening, Lachlan sank into the wooden tub of hot water in his bedchamber before the fireplace. Light from the dancing flames glowed upon the stone walls. The deep scratch on his arm stung and his muscles ached from the full day of punishing training he'd given his body.

His friends and the Drummagan clansmen hadn't fared much better. They didn't have to know he was working out a monumental sexual frustration, something he had never before experienced. He feared the Drummagan men might hate him for the demands he made on them, but the contrary appeared to be true; their expressions showed more respect, trust and admiration after the hours of bruising exercises.

His muscles relaxed in the heat and his mind drifted to Angelique. He hadn't seen the wee hellion all day. She hadn't joined him for breakfast, nor midday meal, sending a servant with some excuse about being too busy with planning the wedding and feast.

He was glad she occupied herself with household duties, but he missed seeing her. Thinking how Angelique had sought him out in this room the night before, suspecting him of seducing another woman, he smiled. She was a possessive little hedgehog. Which meant, she liked him and wanted him on some level. Perhaps a level she couldn't face yet, but it was a start.

Why couldn't she have crawled into bed with him last night? 'Twas but a fantasy. Never had he experienced such a hard time seducing a woman.

A knock sounded at the door.

He lifted his head. "Who is it?"

"Bryson, m'laird."

"Come." Since Bryson had been the former chief's sword bearer, Lachlan had given him the same position. It was hereditary, after all, and the man seemed skilled.

"Sorry to disturb you, chief." Bryson, dark-haired and stocky with muscle, stopped before the door and executed a brief bow.

"I asked you to. What of Kormad?"

"He is home. Arrived by coach this eve. You mentioned a tall, bald man."

"Aye?"

"They carried a man like that on a litter into Burnglen Castle. He appeared to be awake but in pain."

So the bastard had survived jumping into the Channel. Astonishing, given that few people knew how to swim. Someone that tough and hardened, he'd have to watch out for. "What did Kormad and his men do after that?"

"He sent two men to spy on us from a hilltop, but they didn't set foot on Drummagan land. Everything else was as normal. Same amount of guards at their usual posts."

"Good. I thank you, Bryson. You're a good man."

"M'laird." He bowed and left.

Lachlan laid his head back against the tub again, thinking how proud and happy he was to be given the privilege of leading these Drummagan men. They were sturdy, strong and intelligent. Proficient fighters already. Their skills but needed a bit of honing.

He was grateful to his father and his older brother, Alasdair, for showing him how to lead men and train them. What would Alasdair think of him now that he was an earl and chief? He would send him a missive and relay the news.

The door burst open without warning. Lachlan's hand shot down to his sword behind the tub. Angelique stepped into the room.

Releasing a breath, he relaxed back with a grin. "What a pleasing surprise, my angel."

Her expression stern, she strode forward, then halted abruptly in the center of the room, her gaze darting down his chest and back up. "My maid said you were cut today during practice. Why must I hear about your injuries through gossip? Why do you not tell me when you are hurt?" she demanded. "You are a free-bleeder!"

He almost chuckled. "Naught to fash your bonny head over. 'Twas but a scratch. I am well."

"Let me see."

"You must come closer, then." Why did he feel a bit wicked saying those words to his own wife?

She inched forward.

"Right here." He pointed at his forearm, resting on the tub's edge.

She rushed to him and knelt. Surprising him, she lightly stroked a finger over his forearm alongside the injury. "Scratch? Mère de Dieu. You call that a scratch?"

"Aye. 'Tis not bleeding now, and did not require stitching."

"What were you doing?" Angelique's vibrant green eyes sparkled in the firelight, bewitching. Her intense concern for him made his heart ache and yearn... for what, he didn't know. He only knew she cared about his health, and deep down that meant she cared about him. Why wouldn't she let him touch her? Kiss her? Make love to her?

"Training the men, as I mentioned last night," he said.

"Sword fighting?"

"Aye. Practice."

She pushed to her feet and her gaze drifted down his body beneath the water. She slammed her eyes closed, turned her back and paced to the other side of the room. He couldn't help that he got an erection every time she was near. How he would love to drag her into this tub and get her all wet. But likely that would turn her into a clawing hellcat again. He must be far more subtle.

"I thank you for your concern. What did you do today?" he asked.

"Met with Mistress Mayme and planned a menu for the wedding feast. Made a long list of supplies we need."

"I can hardly wait to see what delights you have in store."

She flicked a glare at him. He bit his lip to keep from grinning. What fun to tease her!

Again her gaze lingered a bit too long on his chest. That was definitely a spark of interest. He pretended to ignore her, took the soap and stroked it over his chest and neck. Lifted an arm and washed underneath.

She appeared spellbound by his actions for several moments before she snapped to attention. "I bid you a good night, monsieur."

"I wish you wouldn't call me monsieur." Too cold and distant.

"Très bien. My laird."

"Lachlan," he corrected.

A moment of silence stretched out in which she stared at the floor. "Lachlan," she murmured.

Had she ever said his name before? The sound of it in her husky voice and beguiling accent made his blood heat like mad. His shaft hardened more fully, tingling, and he wished she'd take another peek at it. Stroke it. He hungered for her soft, smooth hands on him.

"Would you care to join me?" he asked.

She stiffened and took a step toward the door. "Non. I have already bathed. I must go."

"Would you like to sleep in here? I'd like it if you would." Nay, I would love it. Saints, what he would do to her. Kissing, licking, caressing. The slowest, most tantalizing seduction he had ever indulged in... if he could keep himself under control. Aye, he could. For her, he would go to great lengths to ensure her enjoyment. Great lengths. He almost smiled.

"Non. I am not ready," she said in a quiet voice.

"'Tis understandable to be nervous," he said mildly. Hell, he was growing a smidgen nervous himself. And eager. He rubbed the soap down his abdomen as if they were discussing naught more significant than what to have for supper.

"I do not care for... the coupling," she said.

"What happened?" he asked. And who was the whoreson who turned you against the most pleasurable experience on earth? Some bumbling, selfish imbecile, no doubt. Over the years he'd changed more than one woman's opinion of sex, usually after their much older or unskilled husbands had died. 'Twas a crime they'd never satisfied their wives nor given them a jot of pleasure.

Angelique exhibited that trapped hart look again. "Nothing. I simply detest it."

"I shall remedy that as well, for never have I been with a woman who didn't enjoy it."

Her glare speared him with pure hatred. She turned and strode from the chamber, slamming the door.

"God's blood! I'm daft," he muttered to the quietness of the room. Could he never learn to guard his tongue?

He quickly finished his bath and dried off. He wrapped the damp piece of linen around his hips, stalked across the sitting rooms to her chamber door and knocked.

Silence.

"Angelique?" He knocked again.

"Va-t-en!"

"I'm sorry for what I said, and I won't be leaving." He lifted the latch and opened the door. Why had she not barred it if she truly wanted him to stay out?

She stood by the fireplace, glaring icicles at him. "You may not enter my bedchamber unless I give you permission."

"I am your husband and I will enter whenever I wish." He closed the door behind him.

"C'est que tu es goujat!"

She thought him a lout, huh? "I take it that was not a compliment. We are wed. Get used to it, Angelique."

"Need I remind you it is a marriage in name only? You agreed to this."

"Nay, I did not."

"You did! Does your word mean naught?"

"Don't question my honor. What I said was, 'whatever you desire.' And what you 'desire' has not been established yet."

Her eyes narrowed further, her expression militant. "I have made my desires quiet clear, monsieur. We will not share a bed."

"And how do you propose to have an heir for this illustrious estate? Immaculate conception?"

"Do not mock me."

"'Tis an honest question."

With big eyes, she watched him. "Do you intend to force me?"

He drew back, feeling as if he'd been slapped. "Nay! How can you ask such a thing? I would never force you, or anyone."

She turned away, facing the small fire in the hearth.

"Angelique. I wish you wouldn't fear me so much. I would never hurt you, or make you do aught against your will. I but wish to show you how it can be between a man and a woman. Believe it or not, the bedding can be quite fun, pleasurable and astonishing."

"For you, I'm sure it is."

"And for you. I would ignore my own needs and fulfill yours first."

"I do not have those kinds of needs." Her gaze was cutting.

"Aye, you do. You just don't ken it yet. Either that or you're lying about it."

"Non, believe what I say."

"I'm thinking you protest too much. I've seen the way you look at me. You enjoyed the kisses." And so had he. In fact, he craved another now. He would cover her sweet, delectable body in kisses if but given the chance.

Her face reddened but her mouth appeared sealed tight.

"I'm also thinking no man has ever pleasured you." Deep down, he was glad for that because he wanted to be the only one to teach her about pleasure. And he wanted her addicted to the carnal delights he would dole out.

"I told you, I am not a virgin."

"That makes no difference. 'Haps you have been with a man but you didn't enjoy it. A woman deserves as much pleasure as a man." And for her, he'd endeavor to give her twice as much.

"I am not interested," she said in a small voice. But, like a light caress, her curious gaze slid down his chest, over the thin material draping his hips and becoming tented at his groin.

Not interested? What a terrible liar she was. "One kiss," he said.

"What?" The ambivalence—fear and desire—in her eyes made him ache to the depths of his soul. How could she think he'd hurt her?

"One kiss is all I ask of you this night."

"I do not wish it."

"You enjoyed the one last night. I didn't think you feared anything."

"I do not fear you." Her tone was almost like a wee wildcat's growl. So fragile, yet so fierce.

"Aye, I'm thinking that's why you chose me over those other two men." He needed to remind her it was her decision to marry him. And remind her of the bastards she could be married to at this very moment instead. Neither man would be so lenient as Lachlan.

"I did not wish to marry a man old enough to be my grandfather."

"Understandable. And Kormad?"

"Him I detest beyond anything."

Lachlan nodded. "What of Philippe? Did he give you pleasure?"

She remained silent, staring into the fire.

"I didn't think he had."

"He did."

Och! Another lie. "Indeed? Then I deserve a chance to wipe him from your memory."

"You cannot. I shall never forget Philippe."

What the hell did she see in the cowardly laddie? Likely, that was another lie to keep Lachlan at bay. "A kiss, Angelique. 'Tis all I'm asking. If you'd married Chatsworth or Kormad, either of them would've already forced you into bed. But I wouldn't do that. I ask you to come of your own free will."

The fire crackled in the long silence.

Stomach aching, Angelique clenched her sweaty hands, unable to forget the pain and humiliation she'd suffered at Girard's hands... and body. The way he forced his erect member inside her, like a battering ram, making her flesh bleed, even as he slapped her and hit her. Tears stung her eyes. She turned away from Lachlan, hoping he would not see.

Lachlan was not Girard, not a rapist, nor was he angry. Everything about him was different from Girard, but he was still a man who wished to take her body, control her life. Sex was a dangerous instrument, whether done violently or gently, it was meant to bring her under his command. Bend her to his will. And clearly, he intended to be in charge, marching into her chamber whenever he pleased.