Текст книги "My wild Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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For one brief moment, she allowed herself the truth. Lachlan appealed to her in a most frightening way. His charm drew her in, against her will. It wasn't only his masculine physical appeal and the raw male beauty of his defined muscles, but the heated look in his eyes, the spellbinding sound of his deep, rich voice. She could not control the rhythm of her own breathing when he was near, observing her closely.

What if she coupled with Lachlan and all the pain and terror of Girard came rushing back to her, in her mind. As if it were happening again now. What would she do? The memory might be too real, too much to endure.

"One wee peck on the cheek," Lachlan said, his tone light, such a contrast to her inner turmoil.

"Very well." Get it over with and go! She could abide this pressure no longer.

Slowly, he approached her, each step closer quickening her heart rate.

She glanced into his dark gold eyes and turned her cheek to him. Please, let him be quick.

Drawing near, he pressed his nose to her hair and inhaled. The release of his warm breath caressed her temple and her ear. She shivered at the tickle and waited.

His breath, softer this time, touched her cheek. She had never felt anything so bewitching. And he smelled appealingly male. What fragrance of soap did he use?

He brushed smooth lips over her cheek, but his rough masculine stubble called to everything in her that was feminine. Immobilizing tingles spread down her neck, across her chest, peaking her nipples. He exhaled against her—hot, sensual, subtle—without touching her.

Disturbing carnal sensations raced over her and her eyes drifted closed. "Go away," she whispered.

"That is what you desire, in truth?" he murmured against her ear, but continued with the seduction. He drew her earlobe into his mouth. The erotic overload drove a shaft of terror through her and she shoved at his chest.

He grasped her wrists and pushed them above her head. Trapped.

Panic seized her. "Arrêtez! Bâtard!" She tried to yank herself from his firm grip.

He paused, restraining her against the wall and staring into her eyes at short distance. "Oui. Je suis un bête. Non? Goujat?" he asked. "A stupid beast, a lout, a bastard?"

Iciness drifted down through her. "Vous ne parlez pas la Francaise."

"Oui, madame, I do speak French. I was in France for more than a year."

"You lied."

"Non." The anger in his expression gave her chills.

"You pretended ignorance."

"I have been called a canny lad. I ken what you have called me when you thought I couldn't understand. How would you like it if I said things about you in Gaelic?"

He did talk about her to his friends, but in English and behind her back. Damn him.

"I wouldn't call you degrading names in Gaelic, neither to your face nor behind your back. I am not as much a bastard as you think."

"Pardonnez-moi." She lowered her gaze, submitting, praying he would release her and not force her. She might go insane and try to kill him if he did.

"I forgive you." His lips quirked and a long moment later, he brushed them against the corner of her mouth—persuasive, determined, fervent. He nipped at her lips, flicked his tongue against the seam. Unwanted arousal shot through her like a bolt of lightning. Such power and control he wielded with his practiced seduction. He used his magic on her as he had many other women.

Her throat closed off. Gasping, she turned her head away and tried to twist from his hold. "Release me!"

"Not until you kiss me properly as a wife should kiss her husband."

"Bastard!"

"I was born well within wedlock. As our bairns will be."

She shook her head. "Do not touch me. You have been with hundreds of women. I do not want a disease." There, good reason. And Mère de Dieu, what if it were true? She had not considered it until this moment.

Eyes narrowed, he stepped back, releasing her at last. "I have no disease, madame," he said firmly.

"How do you know?" She inched away from him.

"I have no symptoms of any sort. I am always most careful. I have never bedded whores or barmaids."

"Ladies have been known to carry diseases."

"Aye, but word gets around."

"Or maybe debauching virgins is your specialty."

He shrugged. "If they asked nicely. But that is all in the past. My body is yours alone now."

Ha. Did he honestly think she believed that? "Prove you do not have a disease. Have a physician come."

He glowered. "You jest."

"Non. I mean it. I wish a physician to inspect your... member and see that it is healthy."

Chapter Seven

Lachlan laughed, but this shifted to a perplexed scowl. "I assure you, m'lady, my 'member' is healthy."

"I do not know that," Angelique said. A libertine such as him had been with too many women to count. She was glad she had thought of this before it was too late.

"If I am examined and found healthy, I am welcome in your bed, aye? Every night."

Parbleu. She had not considered what would happen afterward. "I shall think about it."

"No thinking. I want your word." His eyes had become those of a hardened warrior again. "A signed contract."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Nay. 'Tis only fair. I meet your demands; you meet mine. And to sweeten the deal, I will allow you to accompany me as I meet with some of the clan chiefs we have alliances with in the surrounding area, and their wives, within the next few days."

She stiffened. How dare he? "I will go whether you 'allow' it or not. I am the countess."

"Nay. Our marriage vows said you must obey me. I always must do what is best for the clan. And for your safety."

What a ridiculous excuse. "I think your seduction skills are slipping, monsieur. You are having a problem seducing your own wife and have to resort to contracts, deals and blackmail."

"I haven't yet begun to try seducing you. But if that's what you wish..." He shrugged. "I thought you valued honesty above all. Seduction doesn't always involve honesty and forthrightness. Seduction is a game, manipulation, pleasure for both players. Is that what you desire?"

"Non."

"What do you want then?" In the firelight, his golden gaze was too perceptive, prying into her very soul. "What are your deepest desires, Angelique?"

She would never tell him her deepest desires. If she had any, they were hidden, buried beneath the rubble of her heart where Girard had shattered it. She had not the will nor strength to go a second round, to entrust her dreams to another seducer. No, in truth, her dreams were dead.

"I want nothing of you." Though she tried, her voice would not raise above a whisper.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you. You want something or you never would've picked me."

"I had no choice."

"Aye, you did. If you'd chosen Chatsworth, you probably would've been a widow soon."

She shook her head. "I could not abide him, even one night."

"Can you abide me one night?"

"I do not know. Mayhap."

"One night then." At her desk he took out a piece of paper, dipped a quill into the inkpot and started writing.

"What are you doing?"

"Drawing up a contract. If I get my 'member' approved as healthy by a physician, then you must give me a whole night in your bed. Or you can come to mine. And not for sleeping. Is my meaning clear, or do I need to spell it out?"

"If this is part of your seduction, it is sorely lacking."

"Do you want seduction or honesty?"

"Both," she blurted. Merde! She covered her mouth.

"Ah." His eyes sparkled with mischief. "Well then, the lady has made her desires known. Duly noted."

"I spoke in haste. I did not mean it."

"No need to explain." He continued writing and the realization struck her that he must indeed be well-educated if he could scribe with such speed. "I only need your signature here." He presented her with the paper and pointed to the bottom.

She read his scratchy script. I, Angelique, wife of Lachlan, agree to one full night, from nine in the evening until nine in the morning in the same bed with Lachlan for purposes of sexual pleasure, under any name, coupling, swiving, procreation, if he brings signed documentation of his sexual health and absence of any diseases, signed by a physician. And if I spend the night with him as described above, I may accompany him to visit neighboring clan chiefs and their wives. He had signed as a witness.

"Damn you," she muttered, strode to the desk and signed. "Là. C'est fini." She shoved the paper toward him and threw the quill onto the desk.

He smiled like a fox with a hen in its jaws. "Merci, belle ange." Blowing the paper to dry the ink, he approached the door.

"I want a signed and sealed testimony from the physician, the one in the nearby village."

Lachlan bowed. "Anything else, my queen?"

"Hmph."

***

"What the hell is going on at Draughon?" Kormad stood before the fireplace in the drafty, dark great hall of Burnglen.

MacFie, who'd just returned from scouting, strode across the worn out rushes. "I didn't see the men you left there, m'laird."

"Damnation!" Those had been some of his bravest, most canny men. He had few left. Pike was out of his head with fever. Several of the others were witless, good for no more than mucking out stalls. What he needed were the Drummagan men as his own. And if he were their chief it would be so. "Did my men flee the castle like rabbits? Are they dead? In Draughon's dungeon?"

"I don't ken, sir."

"Send out Murray and Rusty to look for them. Keep three men posted to watch Draughon at all times. If they get a chance to kill MacGrath or the wench tell them to do it!"

"Aye, m'laird."

Something thumped off to the side. Kormad turned to find his wee, fair-haired nephew partially hidden behind a chair, wide curious eyes locked on him.

"Timmy." Kormad crossed the room, sat down in the chair and held out his hand. The lad rose and crept to him. He looked so much like Kormad's sister, each glimpse of those innocent blue eyes was like a kick in the gut. "Don't fret, Timmy. I'll put everything to rights. You will inherit the title and lands your father denied you. You will one day be earl of Draughon and chief of Clan Drummagan." But I will be first, so that I can secure it for you.

And the Drummagan wench would pay for her father's sins.

***

Early the next morn, Lachlan passed Dirk, Rebbie and several clansmen breaking their fast in the great hall. Too late, he realized he should've made good his escape through the servants' back entrance so as to not rouse curiosity.

"A good morn to you," Lachlan called when they spotted him, then headed toward the exit.

"Where are you off to with such haste?" Rebbie called, his voice echoing off the high ceiling.

Lachlan paused. They awaited his response, all their eyes upon him.

He refused to let them know he was going to the physician or what rubbish Angelique demanded of him, blast her hide. He was a supreme, shining example of an indulgent husband, and she should be thankful for him and his leniency.

He gave a tight grin. "I shall be back in a trice."

Rebbie rose and followed him to the door, curious eyes locked upon him.

"'Tis naught but an errand for my lady wife," Lachlan said in a low voice. Hell, if Rebbie got wind of this, Lachlan would never live it down.

"What sort of errand?"

"Naught to worry about. Continue with your meal."

Rebbie shrugged and returned to the table. Lachlan hurried to the stables and saddled a horse, while the stable lads scurried about bringing him what he required. He hoisted himself into the saddle, kicked the horse into a gallop and rode away from the castle.

Twenty minutes later, after cursing Angelique the whole way, he dismounted before the physician's cottage in the nearby village. 'Twould be easier to get this over with here than have Doctor Ellis come to the castle where everyone would want to know the purpose of his visit. A light rain misted his hair and he glanced up at the low-hanging gray clouds. Aye, 'twas good to be in Scotland again.

Fast hoof-beats approached on the castle road and he curled a hand around his sword hilt.

Dirk and Rebbie raced around the curve toward him.

Damnation!

They drew up even with him, their mounts snorting and kicking up clumps of black mud. "What the devil are you doing riding out alone?" Dirk asked. "Kormad would like naught better than to ambush you."

"I am always on guard against such. And I don't fear him." Lachlan had two pistols and a sword on his belt.

"What are you doing here, at the physician? Are you ill?" Rebbie asked.

"Nay. Never mind. Just don't tell anyone I came here."

"Only if you tell us the truth."

"Damn you," Lachlan muttered, turning away.

Rebbie laughed. "Come on then, out with it. Are you needing a potion to enhance your virility?"

Dirk snickered.

"After the thorough bedding you gave her in London, I would've never guessed." Rebbie was determined to grind salt into his wound.

"Nay, I have no need of a potion," Lachlan growled. He released a long breath. "Angelique kens of my reputation with the ladies so she wishes assurance I don't have... a disease."

Dirk and Rebbie guffawed and almost toppled to the ground. Their horses stamped and danced about.

"'Tis not funny. Now, don't be telling anyone or I'll no longer associate with the two of you bastards." Lachlan knocked on the door.

***

A half hour later, Lachlan closed the same door behind him on the way out, feeling more violated than he had in his life. He cringed. Doctor Ellis had examined his member beneath a magnifier. And checked every other part of his body while he was at it. The man had inspected the hair on Lachlan's head for thickness and sniffed his breath. With some of the prodding and squeezing he did, if the man hadn't been a professional, Lachlan would've cut off his fingers.

Lachlan stuffed the damnable signed and sealed document into his doublet, glad to see the rain had stopped.

"And are you carrying the French pox, then?" Rebbie asked, standing by his horse.

"Nay. Officially healthy." As he knew he was. Angelique would have to pay the piper now and spend the night in Lachlan's bed. He couldn't wait.

Rebbie hoisted himself into the saddle. "How much did you have to bribe him with?"

"To hell with you!"

Rebbie laughed.

"You haven't had a wedding night yet, have you?" Dirk's tone was understated but his question pointed.

As if that was any of his business! Lachlan scowled.

"What of the bloody sheet?" Rebbie asked.

"'Twas mine own blood. I cut myself. But don't be telling anyone. The king wanted the marriage consummated but Angelique wasn't in the mood."

"He beds all the ladies in London but cannot bed his own wife," Dirk said with exaggerated amazement.

"You're daft. I didn't bed all the ladies in London." Lachlan mounted. "And 'twill not be long afore mine own wife drags me to her bed and refuses to let me leave."

"Would anyone care to place a wager on that?" Rebbie rubbed his hands together eagerly.

"Aye," Dirk said.

"Don't you dare even think about it." Lachlan nudged his horse into a trot and they raced up the road toward Draughon, passing beneath the trees. He couldn't wait to see Angelique's face when he showed her this document. Nor could he wait to have her naked betwixt his sheets.

Something whizzed past Lachlan's head. "What the hell? Arrows!"

Dirk yelled curses.

Lachlan kicked his mount into a gallop and ducked low, scanning the bushes off to the left but seeing nothing. Cowardly bastards! An arrow struck his saddle. Where was his targe when he needed it?

The hooves of Dirk's and Rebbie's horses thundered behind him. Lachlan glanced back. Rebbie fired a pistol toward the bushes. An arrow protruded from Dirk's shoulder, a fearsome scowl on his face.

Damn Kormad and his men! If he wanted war, he would have it.

***

An hour later, Lachlan himself had removed the arrow from Dirk's left shoulder and helped hold him down while the blacksmith cauterized the flesh wound. No easy task; Dirk was strong and mad as two scalded oxen.

"You're fortunate 'twas not your sword arm." Lachlan handed him a bottle of peat-colored whisky.

"Aye, cause then you'd kick me out on my arse." He drank a hefty swallow of the water of life.

"Indeed." Lachlan grinned and strode from the room. Dirk was one of his best and oldest friends and he prayed he didn't suffer fever from this wound. While he rested, Lachlan would deliver the signed document to a certain lady.

Angelique waited outside the guest chamber door, her eyes wide and worried, skin pale. "How is he?"

"He'll be well in a few days. Come. I wish to speak with you." He motioned her toward the spiral stair and waited for her to precede him up.

In the corridor, he opened his sitting room door and motioned her inside. Looking wary, she passed him and entered, her silken skirts brushing his legs.

After closing the door, he gave a formal bow and presented the paper to her. 'Twas unfortunate he didn't have a gleaming silver tray to place it upon. "'Tis what you requested, m'lady."

With a tight expression, she broke the red wax seal and read the document... very slowly. Nay, she was reading it twice.

"As you can see, my 'member' and every other part of me is healthy."

"One moment." She passed into her sitting room and opened a box on the table. He followed. She withdrew another document and compared the physician's signatures.

Damn her. She did not even believe him. When would she begin to trust him?

"Now you're thinking I forged Doctor Ellis's signature? I am not a liar, Angelique. If I said I went to the physician, I did. He examined me head to toe. You can ask Rebbie and Dirk if you need further witnesses."

Angelique's cool green eyes assessed him.

"Shall we meet in your chamber or mine tonight?" he asked.

"Neither."

His temperature blazed. Rage clawed its way up his chest, near choking him. He'd known she'd somehow try to get out of it despite giving her word and signing a contract. He was known to have a very balanced temperament but she destroyed his patience. "Your word means naught then!"

"Your contract does not say when I am to spend the night with you. And I will, but after the second ceremony. I am glad you are healthy in every way, but I am not yet ready to... do this. We should get to know each other better first."

Remain calm, he told himself over and over. "The night of the ceremony you will be in my bed. And every damned night thereafter."

Deep breath.

She did not respond, merely stared at his doublet. If she feared him, his anger certainly wouldn't help matters. Why couldn't she be reasonable?

"Angelique, I risked my life to get you that ridiculous signed document. I ken you wish Kormad's arrow had gone through my heart instead of Dirk's shoulder. What would you do then? Do you think you can lead these men and this clan by yourself? Do you think they can protect you from Kormad with me out of the way? Nay. You would either be married to him or dead yourself. That's how ruthless he is."

Tears glistened in her eyes. "I am glad... you were not hurt," she said in a tight whisper. She turned and fled the room, disappearing into her chamber.

Entering his own sitting room, he slammed the door, picked up an iron candelabra and flung it against the stone wall. The loud clang reverberated. "Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!" Damn the ice in her heart. He dropped into the chair behind the desk. Several more days until their second wedding ceremony.

He had never worked this hard to get a woman into bed, and this his own wife—something he had never wanted to begin with. He knew marriage would be disaster for him.

She hated him. That was it. She did not want him, and was completely immune to his charms. Witch!

Still, he yearned for her. Each time she made the challenge more difficult, he got even harder for her.

Slamming the door on his way out, he strode downstairs. Not only had his wife declared war on him, so had his neighbor. Now he had to meet with the other clans in the surrounding area to make sure Drummagan alliances were strong. If Kormad wanted a feud, he'd get one.

***

Two days later, Angelique's additional trunks arrived from London, including her trousseau and wedding gown. In her chamber, she took out the pale blue French lace and silk confection and spread it upon the bed. "Exquisite," she breathed, then gathered it to her with reverence and pressed her nose to the folds. Her mother's perfume lingered upon it.

I miss you, Maman.

Her mother had given her the gown in France five years ago. Angelique remembered clearly the sound of her mother's rich voice, as if she now spoke in her ear. "I was so in love with your father when I wore this to marry him," she'd said. "We met at King James' court, at Holyrood Palace. Everything was so elegant. I was a young girl, not much older than you are now, filled with hopes and dreams." Her mother's wistful smile had turned bittersweet. "My dreams were shattered but that does not mean yours have to be, Angelique. Each woman must find her own happiness in her own way. I soon learned your father did not love me in the way I loved him. That is why you must choose your husband very carefully. Do not fall in love with him until you know he loves you. Do not marry a Scotsman because they are barbarians and know nothing of feelings."

"How do you know all Scotsmen are like Father?" Angelique had asked.

"I knew several when we lived in Scotland and, in my experience, they are all alike. They love the excitement of war and fighting above all. They only wish to exert their power over others, especially women. And they desire a different woman each night. They care not whether the woman is a lady or a common servant. They will take them all."

Angelique believed her mother. How could she not? Her mother's ideas were all she knew. Thus far Angelique had noted that most men fell into the barbaric, power-hungry, lust-obsessed category, not just Scotsmen. Women's feelings meant nothing to them.

"Why could you not be here, Maman?" Angelique whispered to the empty room. Wearing the precious diamond pendant Maman had given her, hidden beneath the gown, would make her feel her mother was close in spirit on her wedding day.

A knock sounded at the door. Angelique spread the gown upon her bed, wiped her eyes and swung the door open.

Camille rushed in, her cheeks flushed and her breathing elevated. "Lachlan and his men have returned. You wanted me to inform you."

"Merci. Where has he been?"

"Visiting a neighboring family—er clan, I mean."

Annoyance flashed through Angelique. "He visited another clan? Without me? He promised to take me. And even if he hadn't promised, it is my right to go."

She well knew he was doing this because she'd refused to allow him into her bed and she would tell him what she thought of that. If not for her, he would own naught but the clothes on his back. He owed everything to her. And he would treat her with more respect!

The door to the chamber burst open and Lachlan barged in, his long, tawny hair loose and windblown, a light of excitement in his gold-brown eyes. He smelled like the fresh outdoors. "M'lady." He bowed deeply and presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers.

"My laird, merci." The mingling scents of daisies, roses and green sap distracted her for a moment, as did his unexpected romantic gift. No man had given her flowers in long time. But maybe that was his intention… to distract her.

"So, the wedding gown has arrived at last." He swept a dramatic hand toward her bed.

"Where have you been?" Angelique asked, returning to the heart of the matter. "Visiting neighboring clans?"

His gaze held a bit of spite when it landed upon her. "Pray pardon, Camille. I need to have a word with my wife."

Angelique did not care for the derisive way he'd said that.

Camille scuttled out the door and closed it behind her. Silence reigned for several moments. The tension was so pervasive Angelique could hardly breathe.

"Well?" she demanded. "Where?"

"Ask nicely and I'll tell you." He bestowed a mock grin.

"Where have you been, my laird?" she asked with the utmost sweetness. She held the bruised flower stems in a stranglehold, wishing to throw them at him.

"Better, but still needs a bit of work. I was visiting with the chiefs of Clan Robertson and Clan Buchanan. They will attend our wedding."

"I have every right to visit neighboring clans with you," she snapped.

"And I have every right to have my wife in my bed at night. We don't always get what we have a right to. Do we, madame?"

"If not for me, you would have naught but the sword at your side and your damned plaid."

He surveyed her with a deadly gaze. "And if not for me, Kormad would've already murdered you."

"Hmph. You are a well-paid bodyguard, monsieur."

"Or 'haps I am but an expensive stud whose services you cannot handle."

Did he always have to bring sex into everything? Stubborn heartless barbarian. "We lead this clan together. I am the countess!" She flung the bouquet at him. It bounced off his chest, blooms scattering.

He but acknowledged her attack with a blink and a clenching jaw. "And I am the earl. As well as the chief."

"Thanks to me."

"And thanks to King James. As well as my own cunning which garnered the king's favor." One corner of Lachlan's lips quirked up. "I'm glad we both remember how this debacle came about," he said in a dry tone.

He was right of course. Despite being a countess in her own right, she was naught but a woman stripped of any real power. And yet, she refused to give up anything to him. He was merely helping her lead the clan. "I wish to be informed about the clan's affairs."

"I'll inform you. What would you like to know?" he asked with sugary politeness.

"Do not mock me. It is my right to stand beside you and help make decisions that affect the clan and estate. Those men think you alone lead them."

His expression turned serious. "If you undermine my authority, you will only be causing more conflict. Do you wish peace or strife? Have you any inkling how vicious Scots are when a conflict arises? A simple disagreement can turn into a massacre. I don't wish any bloodshed."

"I don't want bloodshed either, but I want to go with you to visit the next clan."

"There is no need. I sent a messenger to invite two other clans to the wedding and the feast. You can meet them then."

"Très bien, but I have a right to know what's going on. The disputes, the judgments and agreements. My father would wish it if he were here."

"I'll tell you in private if that's all you wish. But I won't allow you to order me about before my men."

"Your men?"

"Aye, the Drummagans are my men now. When you chose me and married me before the king's men and God, you gave me that right." He turned and slammed the door on the way out.

***

"M'laird?" The male servant's whiney voice and the scratch on the library door grated on Lachlan's nerves.

"I'm working! I need quiet," Lachlan yelled.

"Aye, m'laird." Footsteps retreated.

Lachlan took another long swallow of sherry. In the candlelight, he squinted at the lines of numbers on the book in front of him. God's blood! He was losing his mind. The laughter in the great hall made him want to take a cannon to it. 'Twas not like him. He used to enjoy revelry. Never had he been in such a despicable mood.

The king's retainers, along with his English friend, Miles, had departed that morning, leaving Lachlan in complete control of the estate and the clan.

Ha! "Control," he muttered. Indeed, he was in command of the men, the clan members, the security of the castle—that was easy—but controlling Angelique and bending her to his wishes was like trying to cuddle a fiendish wildcat.

Then, Rebbie and Dirk had convinced him they all needed a day off because they'd trained hard for a week and the men were too sore to move. Never mind they'd had a reprieve when they'd visited the two other clans. Soft as lasses, they were.

If he couldn't train or travel, then by the saints, he would drink. Anything to take his mind off Angelique, daughter of the devil. He wanted to throttle her! But at the same time, he knew if he got his hands on her pretty, delicate neck he'd be too busy appreciating her smooth, silken skin and end up running his lips over it instead, and down toward the bodice of her dress. Trailing kisses. Biting. Her female scent would fill his nose and he would become intoxicated with it.

"Saints!" What would her breasts smell like? Taste like? Lower, between her legs, she would be luscious as a plum tart. Sweet, tangy. He wanted to dine on her whole body, licking, nibbling. His erection growing beneath his kilt, he moaned and poured another finger of sherry.

He hoped she wondered if he had been with another woman the past couple of nights he hadn't spent in his chamber. He hoped like hell she was so jealous she couldn't sleep. Trouble was, it wouldn't matter if ten women were in the room with him at the moment. He wouldn't want any of them... unless one was Angelique.

Lack of sex had turned him into a lunatic and he'd become obsessed with his maddening wife. Once he had her, he'd probably tire of her. At least, he feared he would. But since she was the only woman he'd ever wanted who was able to resist him this long, he knew not what to expect. Without doubt, he was losing his grasp on reality in this pursuit. He didn't even want to want her. Blast her! He wished she wasn't so feminine, beautiful and appealing. He wished he could give her nary a thought.

Rebbie and Dirk couldn't understand. No one could, except maybe his brother, Alasdair, but he was too far away to visit, deeper in the Highlands. Of course, Alasdair would probably rub his nose in it and tell him this whole hellish situation was no more than he deserved.

Lachlan let his head drop to the desk. What could he do about Angelique? How could he earn her trust? What would he do if she refused him on their wedding night? He almost dreaded it more than he looked forward to it because he knew what would happen. Another argument. Another fight. And he would go mad. He would fail at being a chief, an earl, and a husband, just as he feared he would.

***

Angelique dressed in a fine green gown and descended toward the great hall for supper, her two guards behind her. She felt like a prisoner in her own home. They had taken to following her while Lachlan was visiting with the other clans. When she'd ordered them to leave off, they'd said the laird's orders superseded hers. She didn't know whether to curse Lachlan or appreciate his concern for her safety.