Текст книги "My wild Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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"Aye, m'laird."

"Send ten archers onto the roof."

Bryson nodded and hastened away.

Two of Lachlan's personal bodyguards followed him through the exit. He peered beyond the courtyard toward the gates. The sun was setting, casting Kormad and his party in silhouette outside the gates. Several Drummagan guards stood firm on this side.

"What's this about?" Rebbie asked, joining him. Dirk and the rest of the men filed onto the castle steps.

"We have uninvited guests." Lachlan nodded toward the gate. "Kormad, with a dozen men."

The chief of Clan Buchanan shouldered his way into the small space. "Is Kormad looking for trouble?" he asked in a gruff voice.

"We don't ken yet. They're not wearing armor."

"Appearances can be deceiving."

"Indeed."

Several more men joined them, Drummagans and men from the other clans, all carrying swords or pistols. En masse, they approached the gates.

"Kormad, how kind of you to pay us a visit," Lachlan said, staring hard into Kormad's malevolent dark eyes.

"MacGrath—er, I guess I should call you Draughon now since you're the earl—good to see you again." His sneer didn't pass for a smile. "I wasn't invited to your weddin' feast. I'm hurt."

"I didn't ken you were yet returned from London," Lachlan said, pretending he didn't know who had rained arrows upon them and injured Dirk.

"I posted some of my men here to keep the Drummagan clan and Draughon Castle safe until a new laird arrived. I'm wonderin' what happened to them. Are they in your dungeon…or dead?"

"Neither. I sent your men home to you with a message. Did you not receive it?"

Kormad was silent a moment, frowning, his gaze darting about before landing on Lachlan again. "What message?"

"The leader of your men refused us entrance. I challenged him to a duel and won. But I let him live so he could tell you that if you wish to possess Draughon Castle, you would have to come and try to claim it yourself. Is that what you've come for?"

Kormad eyed Lachlan, then the men behind him—several powerful men including another earl, a baron, and three chiefs. Not to mention all their bodyguards and the armed Drummagans.

Kormad laughed, fake and loud. "Nay. Of course not. My men were acting under their own foolish notions. I never told them to keep you or Lady Angelique out, only outlaws so the castle wouldn't be looted."

"Well, I thank you for your concern. The castle is safe and in good hands now. You and your men are welcome to partake of the feast if you turn over all your weapons."

Kormad hesitated. "I thank you for your hospitality, but I must be on my way. I only returned yesterday and I have much work to do."

"I'm sure you do." More plotting and conniving.

"A good eve to you, Draughon. And congratulations again on your marriage."

"I thank you."

Kormad and his men mounted, turned their horses about and rode away.

"You should take one of his men or family members hostage. That would keep him in line," the Buchanan said.

"He doesn't give a damn about his men," Rebbie said. "I wager that's why they ran away when you sent them packing, rather than face him with failure."

Lachlan nodded. "Without doubt."

"That one bears close watching," Buchanan said and returned inside. Most of the other men followed.

Lachlan called Bryson aside. "See that all guards are at their posts. Tell me immediately if you see aught amiss."

"Aye, m'laird."

Lachlan mounted the steps.

"I'll stay out here and keep watch," Dirk said, standing by the portal, his left arm in a sling and a sword in his right hand.

"You'll do no such thing," Lachlan said. "You're still recovering from that arrow. Only last night you had fever."

Dirk cast a suspicious glance about in the gloaming and lowered his voice. "How do you ken you can trust all the Drummagans? You don't even ken what kind of men some of them are."

"I don't trust them. All we can do is be on guard at all times 'til they prove their loyalty." Nay, indeed, he suspected some of them were stealing from Draughon's coffers.

Dirk nodded. "Still, I'll stay out here a while. 'Tis too loud in there."

The wild, wary look in Dirk's eyes concerned Lachlan. "Do you ken something you're not telling me?"

"Nay. I just don't like the feel of the air."

***

Trying to ignore Lachlan's large warm hand lying on her shoulder as they sat together at high table, Angelique tugged the red satin ribbon, releasing the bow of the tartan wrapped gift. Two silver and brass, jewel-encrusted daggers lay within, one large and one small.

"How lovely!" she said, running the pads of her fingers over the smooth rubies and emeralds studding the hilts of each. The sheaths were also decorated in the same manner.

"Rebbie, you bastard." Lachlan grinned. "I cannot accept my portion of this gift."

"You don't like it? Well then, 'haps I'll send it to Miles."

"Nay, 'twould be sacrilege! I thank you, Rebbie." Lachlan shook his friend's hand with much enthusiasm. "You are too generous by far."

She passed the daggers to Lachlan, then decided to keep her own. "Merci, Laird Rebbinglen. You honor us with this gift."

"My pleasure, madame. I thought you might need something to help fight off this rogue."

The men guffawed at that.

Angelique's face felt scalded and she wondered if they knew exactly how hard she had fought him off. And now feared her reprieve was over. Turning her attention to the next gift, she untied the bow around a carved oak box and lifted the lid. Two silver goblets rested inside on dark green velvet. "Oh." She removed one. An oval onyx stone and an engraved dragon decorated the side.

She had seen and touched this custom-made goblet before. In France. Girard. A sensation like ice water trickled through her body and she could scarce breathe. She glanced about the hall, skimming the dozens of faces. Where was he? Where was Girard?

Chapter Nine

"What's wrong?" Lachlan murmured in Angelique's ear.

The goblet slipped from her fingers and he caught it.

"Who is this gift from?" she whispered, her gaze darting into the back corners of the hall. No tall, vicious dark-haired man. No card or note inside the box.

"Who shall we thank for this lovely gift?" Lachlan asked the large group filling the great hall.

Murmuring followed and several heads shook. Some distance away, Camille's face paled.

Angelique's hands trembled and nausea rose within her. Lachlan took the box from her and passed it to a servant.

Mère de Dieu. Girard had come to kill her.

"What happened to the music?" Lachlan called, motioning to the musicians. "Dance, everyone. Excuse us." He rose and held his hand down to Angelique. "Come," he said to her in a low voice. "I'm thinking you need a break from all the celebrating."

She searched for Girard as Lachlan led her to the nearby solar. He lit candles and checked the room for guests. She had to speak with Camille immediately. Neither of them was safe.

"What upset you so much about the goblets?" Lachlan asked, stopping before her. His tone was compassionate, but his amber eyes fierce. "You turned pale as a banshee and looked terrified of a sudden."

As if he might see the answer in her eyes, she lowered her gaze and shook her head. "Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Angelique. I promised I wouldn't lie to you, and I expect you to promise me the same."

She squeezed her eyes closed, fear climbing within her. "I cannot tell you."

"Why?" he asked, his tone harsher now.

She could not trust him with her deepest secrets. "I can only say... I have seen the goblets before. They were custom-made for a certain family. And the person who owned them is... not a nice person."

"Is he French or English?" Lachlan demanded.

"French."

"And you last saw the goblets in France?"

"Oui."

"What was this man to you?" Lachlan's voice was now that of a hardened warrior.

Her heart lurched. If she wasn't careful he would figure it out on his own. "I did not say this was a man."

"You also failed to correct me when I asked if he was French or English."

"I cannot tell you."

"Cannot or will not?"

She could not think what to say and wished only to escape this room and his questioning. During the silence, Lachlan inhaled a deep breath as if tired. Or perhaps he was trying to calm his anger.

"You can tell me anything, Ange," he continued, his voice gentler now. "I am your husband. We will have no secrets between us."

She shook her head, unable to trust anyone with her horrid secrets, save Camille.

"After I have protected you this long, you still refuse to trust me?" He sounded perplexed, perhaps even a bit hurt.

"I trust you to protect me," she whispered. Indeed, she did for he was a strong, skilled warrior.

Lachlan paced. "So, since the goblets are here, I assume that means this man who is not so nice is here in our home. Aye?" Pausing, he looked to her for confirmation.

"I did not see him; he might have sent someone."

"Are you thinking the gift is a message?"

"Perhaps."

"What does the message mean?"

She was silent. But inside, she was screaming. The message meant something too horrible to utter.

"Angelique, if you don't tell me what is happening, or what happened in the past, I cannot protect you and our clan. Is this man dangerous?"

"Oui, very dangerous."

"What has he done?"

No, she could not reveal that. At her continued silence, he sighed.

"Why are you making this so damned difficult? The whole clan could be in danger this very moment."

Perhaps she could tell him a bit. "His name is Girard. Guy Laurent, comte de Girard... a very dangerous man."

"What does he look like?" Lachlan's gaze became piercing, like that of a golden eagle ready to strike a rabbit with his talons.

"Tall and thin with dark hair. He used to have a mustache and short beard." She moved toward the exit.

"What did he do? Why is he here?"

"That is all I can tell you... but indeed, he is extremely dangerous. He wishes to see me and Camille dead." She yanked open the door and ran to find Camille.

Lachlan yelled a curse behind her. She dashed up the stairs to her sitting room where Camille waited.

"Where have you been?" Camille grabbed her arm. They raced into the bedchamber.

Angelique slammed the door and barred it from intruders. "Lachlan questioned me about the goblets," she whispered, her voice shaking.

"What did you tell him?"

Knees weak, she lowered herself to the settle. "That they must be from Girard and he is dangerous. I gave him a description. That is all. I cannot tell him about..."

"What will Lachlan do?"

"I do not know. Increase security, I assume."

"He will not give up until he knows the whole story."

Angelique's stomach pained her. "I know. But what if Girard is here? Either inside the castle or waiting outside the walls?"

Camille knelt before the hearth and stirred at the glowing fire coals with a poker, sending sparks shooting upwards. "We should have made sure the viper was dead when we had the chance." She almost growled the words.

"We are not murderers."

"No, we are not. But the bastard deserves to die. It would be justice."

***

After Lachlan made sure Angelique entered her guarded chambers, he headed toward the great hall. He would find this Girard or his messenger. The bastard would not get away with invading his home and frightening his wife. Damnation, but she vexed him when she refused to reveal the whole truth to him. Why did she mistrust him?

"My laird," called a female voice from the shadows.

He halted, hand on his sword hilt, his gaze searching the dark corners of the corridor.

Eleanor stepped from behind a column and smiled. "Would you like to practice your swordplay skills?"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Surprised?"

"Aye. How did you gain entrance?"

She giggled. "Your guards were easily swayed with a glimpse of my noble cleavage."

He ignored the way she thrust her breasts toward him, jeweled pendants and necklaces dandling about them, her bodice barely covering her nipples. "Who did you travel with?"

"No one but my servants."

"You must go. I'm married now." He headed toward the great hall, determined to find out the implications of the mysterious gift and search for the French knave.

When he glanced back, Eleanor was gone. He despised it when the past came back to haunt him. He motioned to his friends and Bryson, then led them to the solar. Once they were inside, he posted a guard and closed the door.

"We have a problem," Lachlan said in a low voice.

"Another one?" Rebbie asked.

"Aye. Angelique and I have good reason to think a dangerous Frenchman is here, a nobleman named Guy Laurent, comte de Girard. Somehow he sent her a wedding gift, the goblets. And it could be a veiled message or threat. Angelique said the man wanted to kill her and Camille."

"Damnation! What does he look like?" Rebbie asked.

"Tall and lean with dark hair, perhaps a mustache and beard. He may be in disguise. I haven't yet determined why he is here, but he poses a serious threat to Angelique. We must protect her at all costs."

"If we find any Frenchmen, we'll detain them," Bryson said.

"Good. Increase security tonight. Allow no one else inside the walls. I want all the guards to watch the guests carefully. Tomorrow, the guests we do not know well will need to be sent on their way."

"Aye, m'laird." Bryson bowed, took the other clansmen and left.

"Rebbie, Dirk." Lachlan closed the door. "Eleanor is here."

"Who?"

"An English countess who does not need to be here. I don't trust her."

"Oh, a lady you dallied with?" Rebbie grinned.

"Aye. Angelique kens of our association. She's jealous, and I don't want Eleanor causing trouble between Angelique and me."

Dirk frowned. "What do you want us to do about it?"

"Distract her. Seduce her. I don't care so long as 'tis not a hanging offense. Tomorrow we'll send her away, as well, along with most everyone else."

"Are you thinking we want your castoffs?" Rebbie asked.

"You haven't complained before."

His friends scowled at that.

"Besides, she's a widow, deprived, eager, and quite adventurous in the bedchamber. She has dark hair, fancy clothing, jewels, and large breasts. You'll spot her easy enough."

"You take her," Rebbie told Dirk.

"Nay, you."

"You're acting like a couple of green lads. She is a wanton and she's looking for a man. Why are you complaining?" Lachlan passed them on the way to the door. "Now, by the saints, 'tis time for my wedding night."

"You'd think 'twas his first time," Rebbie scoffed.

"If you don't mind, please make sure Eleanor isn't hiding in my rooms. She had a habit of that in London."

Moments later, after a detour to the kitchens for a fresh bottle of Brabant, Lachlan knocked at Angelique's bedchamber door.

"Who is it?" Camille called.

"'Tis me. Lachlan."

Camille opened the door a crack and peered out.

"Is Angelique well?" he asked.

She glanced back.

Angelique whispered in French in the background. Something about telling him she was ill. While Camille was distracted, he pushed his way inside.

"You are unwell, Angelique?" he asked.

Her eyes wide, his wife drew back, further away from him. Was she frightened of him?

"Monsieur?" Camille's voice rose in concern.

"I wish to speak to my wife alone."

"Camille, stay." Angelique's voice was uneven, panicked.

Lachlan's glare shifted from his wife to her companion, and he hoped his meaning was clear. Besides, he would tolerate no more lies, about illness or aught else.

"Ange, pardonnez-moi. I shall wait in the sitting room," Camille said and hastened out.

Wise lass. He closed the door and barred it.

Angelique stood stiff by the fire, her face blanched. Fists clenched.

Just what he needed—someone terrifying his wife on their official wedding night. It would take every shred of his seduction skills to calm her now.

"You are ill? What is amiss?" he asked in a calm voice, glad to see she had changed into a lacy smock and silk wrap.

"My stomach is queasy and upset."

"I'm sure 'tis only nerves…and completely understandable. I have increased security throughout the castle. All the clansmen are guarding and looking for this Girard knave or any Frenchmen."

"Very good."

"I told you from the first I would protect you and I mean to," he said in what he hoped was his most soothing voice. "There is naught to worry about now. You're safe."

"Merci." She gave a stiff curtsey and watched him with suspicious eyes.

He placed the wine on a table by the settle, then slowly moved toward her and held out his hands. Hesitantly, she took them. He kissed her bare fingers, savoring the feel of her smooth, cool skin. Too cool. He had to distract her from her fears.

"Come." He led her to the settle close to the fire. When she tried to sit on the opposite end, he tugged and she toppled to his lap. She tried to scramble away but he held her tight.

"Shh. All is well. We are not in bed. I just wish you to sit here for a moment so I can talk to you."

She perched rigidly on his lap, holding her breath.

"Take a deep breath, love, afore you pass out."

She flicked a glare at him but did as he asked, inhaling audibly.

"Good. Just relax. I'm doing naught but sitting here…and drinking wine." He uncorked the bottle of Brabant and offered it to her.

She took a delicate sip.

"More." He did not wish to get her sotted, but she did need the heat of it in her veins to calm her a wee bit.

Once she'd had three sips, he took a hearty swallow of the delectable honey and clove flavored wine, then returned it to the table by his elbow.

Taking his time, he feasted his eyes upon her beauty. Her flawless ivory skin was still far too pale, and her vivid green eyes too wide and fearful. Her lips, which he craved, were dark pink and lush. And her flaming ginger-colored hair remained in tight coiled braids, as it had been during the ceremony. He yearned to run his fingers through her silken curls and spread them upon a pillow. He almost cursed at the powerful arousal hardening his shaft and tensing his muscles, but he held his tongue. First, he would help her calm down and forget her troubles. 'Twas his responsibility to ensure she enjoyed their wedding night as much as he would.

"You were exceptionally lovely today, as you are now," he murmured, stroking her palm.

"Merci," she whispered.

"And how do I look?"

Her expression moved from surprise to the beginning of a grin. "Lovely."

"Och. Lovely? I was thinking you might say handsome or dashing."

The hint of amusement in her eyes grew a fraction.

"What say you?" he asked.

"Oui. You are…handsome, my laird." Her skin now glowed pink in the firelight—far better than her earlier ashen color.

"Lachlan," he corrected.

She turned away. "Oui, Lachlan."

"What? I cannot hear you. Say it in my ear."

Guarded, she searched his eyes.

He tapped his ear.

"You are not deaf."

"Nay, but I like the way you say my name."

"Why?"

"You have a pleasurable French way of saying it, almost purring, with that C sound deep in your throat. Please, indulge me." He tucked his hair behind his ear and waited.

"You are full of nonsense."

"Och! My name isn't nonsense."

She shook her head and leaned toward his ear. "Lachlan," she whispered, her warm breath fanning his skin.

Mmm. Shivers of arousal coursed through his body, making his rigid tarse even harder.

"Very nice."

She pulled away slightly and his chest ached at her desertion. He wanted her to lie on him and whisper in his ear all night.

"Remember how your hair was the first time we wed?"

"A disaster."

"Nay, your fiery curls were loose about your shoulders, hanging near to your waist. 'Twas beautiful beyond measure." He was dying to see her that way again, but without a stitch of clothing hiding her creamy skin from him. But he must be patient.

Her only response was a distrustful glance, her blush still in evidence.

"In truth. Would you allow me to take down your hair now?"

Angelique knew what the seducer was about—leading her toward undress and the bedding, one tiny step at a time. Indeed, Lachlan was clever, but so was she. One thing he possessed, which no other man did in such abundance, was that damnable, disarming magnetism and charm. His relaxed, playful attitude conspired to make her the same, to melt away her defenses.

He wrapped one of her escaped curls around his finger. The gentle tug on her scalp sent a frisson of longing down her neck. Longing for what, she did not know, not the bedding. Perhaps another kiss, but that was all. What drew her attention more was his stone hard shaft beneath her thigh and thin layers of clothing. Heavens! She did not know whether it intrigued her or terrified her. She only knew that part of his body was designed to hurt her, whether he intended it or not.

"Would you let me take the pins from your hair and unbraid it?" he murmured.

That was a question Girard would've never asked. He would simply have yanked the pins out, no matter her wishes.

"Oui." Parbleu. What was she saying? What was she allowing to happen?

"I thank you." Lachlan set about removing the pins with gentle fingers and dropping them to the floor. He appeared patient and didn't pull her hair overmuch, not enough to hurt. All the stimulation on her scalp showered down her body with an equal amount of yearnings and anxiety. He then unbraided the thick rope of hair and spread it in his big hands. Once her hair was loose, he combed his fingers through, and buried his nose in it for a deep inhale. "Mmm."

Mère de Dieu. He was far too sensual. Yet, strangely, she wanted to do the same to his neck perhaps even his hair, and breathe in his scent.

"Aye, 'tis the most bonny sight I have ever seen." He trailed his fingers from her hair to her neck and his attention shifted to her face. His eyes were the color of whisky in firelight and thrice as potent.

He moved his face closer to hers, his gaze dipping to her lips right before contact with his. She didn't know why she didn't jump up and run. His kiss was gentle, easy and tentative. Highly tantalizing. His tongue grazed her upper lip lightly. It was a dreamy kiss that snatched her rationale, like indulging in the most sinfully sweet dessert—honey and clove flavored. His tongue stole into her mouth, driving deep with sudden, compelling possession. Her nipples ached.

He slid his hand up the outside of her thigh, beneath the smock, higher and higher. His other hand rested upon her hip, holding her tight to his iron-hard shaft.

His kisses grew more passionate, his muscles harder, his embrace more tense.

Panic gripped her throat. She turned her face away, straining for breath, trembling with the realization of how far this had gone.

"Dear God, Angelique," he rasped. But he halted, his forehead resting against the side of hers, his breath harsh in her ear. "Mmm, you are delicious and…saints! I want you so bad I hurt with it." His voice was a fierce whisper.

Tears burned her eyes. She ached, too, her whole weakened body, the very core of her where he wanted to claim and possess her. But that ache would increase a hundredfold when he did take what he wanted.

She pushed at his shoulders but found them immovable, his arms locked around her, not painful but imprisoning.

"Do not," she said in a ragged whisper. She hated the tears dripping from her eyes.

"Angelique." He swallowed hard. "Don't do this. Please."

"No."

"You want me, too. I feel your desire. In your kisses, in your hands. You pulled me tight against you."

Her throat closed. She could do naught now but shake her head. She was caught, captured in his trap.

"Angelique." Her name was a pleading rasp. "Don't fear me. I won't hurt you. I swear it."

"You cannot help but hurt me…whether you mean it or not." He was not a woman; he did not know the pain of it.

He breathed deeply for a few moments. "You said you were not a virgin. Are you?"

She shook her head.

"Losing your virginity is what hurt, lass. After that, the pain is gone. There is only pleasure."

Maybe that was true for most women but… "No." She could not imagine pleasure, only the opposite.

"You think I'm lying?"

Perhaps not lying, but he simply did not understand her side. "You are a man like all others. I do not like coupling."

"Why?"

"It is painful…and demeaning." Heat and cold rushed through her.

"Who did you lie with before?" he asked, his voice harsher.

She could not tell him that. She could not say the name Girard.

"Or was that a made up story?" he asked in challenge. "Were you lying?"

She shook her head. "With a man I had planned to marry in France."

"Was he a bastard and didn't make it pleasurable for you?" Lachlan's breath fanned against the hair by her ear.

She shook her head.

"I'm not like him."

"Can you not understand? You have a very large…member. It could only hurt." Surely, rend her in two.

He let out a long breath. "Very well. We won't couple right now. I won't use my 'member' until you tell me to."

A bit of relief seeped into her tense muscles. "What will you do?"

"Give you pleasure," he murmured.

"How?" Her stomach knotted. How she wanted to relax and trust that he was telling her the truth. But in her experience, what a man saw as pleasure, she knew as pain.

"I'll touch your body with my hands and my mouth. Stroking you, kissing you all over." All over? Goodness! His voice was exceptionally heated, enticing.

"You will not receive any…satisfaction from that," she said.

"You don't know me at all, do you?"

She feared she did not. But she knew how men were; their desires sometimes overcame them. He might lose control. "When I least expect it, you will drive your shaft into me."

"Not until you tell me to, Angelique. Saints, at least trust me one time."

No. She could not let go. Already he was losing patience. She could not trust him enough for that. If he was lying, he would shatter her inside.

He stood, lifting her, and carried her toward the bed. Panic closed off her throat and the need to flee seized her.

"Non!" She struggled to escape him.

"Damnation, Angelique, I am at my wit's end. If you won't trust me, I'll have to prove it to you." He laid her on the bed, his big, hard body holding her down.

"Non! Arrêtez, bâtard!" She was trapped, suffocating beneath his weight. Her struggles against his strength were futile.

Camille pounded on the door. "Angelique?"

"Camille!"

"Be quiet," Lachlan said. "I won't hurt you." He shoved her arms above her head, quickly wrapping something around her wrists.

"Non!" She yanked at the bonds, but he had already tied the material, the belt of her wrap, around the headboard post. Stark terror paralyzed her.

"Don't look at me like that. I said I won't hurt you."

Scalding tears leaked from her eyes. Her throat constricted. Dear God, he was going to rape her.

He moved away for a moment, then came back with a wide ribbon. He wrapped it around her ankle.

Her senses returned and she kicked at him with all her might. But it was not enough; he secured her ankle to the footboard. "Untie me at once, you brute! You are nothing but a vile animal," she said in French.

"I ken it well, m'lady." He sat beside her. She kicked at him with her one free foot but he caught it and removed her slipper. His lustful gaze lingered on her legs where her smock had ridden up. "Now what are you going to do, hell-cat?"

Any affectionate feelings she'd had toward him were now dead. She had known she could not trust the knave. "You will have to rape me, you bastard! Because I will never willingly let you touch me."

"Nay. I have never raped a woman, nor will I ever," he said in a calm tone. "You, on the other hand, will be begging me to make love to you afore 'tis over."

"Never! I'll kill you while you sleep," she said through clenched teeth.

"You're a bloodthirsty lass. I like that." He glanced aside. "You ken about the torture, do you not?"

"Torture?" Mère de Dieu. What was he going to do to her? Torture, then rape.

He moved to the dressing table, then returned to the bed. "Aye." Something stroked over her bare foot. A feather.

The tickle was a shock. She squealed and jerked away. "Do not!"

Holding her free foot in place, he slowly trailed the feather up the inside of her calf. He paused at her knee, caressed in a circle, then went higher, up the inside of her thigh. She squirmed and yanked at her bonds, wishing to escape the stimulation but could not.

She tried to make herself numb for indeed it was a twisted torture. Not painful, but she could not tolerate tickling. "I hate you!" She kicked.

He drew the feather down the length of her leg again to her foot, tingles scattering outward, then, feather forgotten, lightly traced his fingers along her calf. That did not tickle half as much. Some part of her liked his hands, while another part hated them.

She turned her face away, wishing to hide. Slowly, he ran his palms up the outside of her legs. Bastard. She clamped her thighs together and twisted her lower body sideways. No, she would not let him touch…

He slipped his hand up the back of her thigh, pushing the smock upward. Continuing, he ran his palm over her derriere. Shocked, she sucked in a sharp breath, turned onto her back again and kicked at him.

He crawled over her, holding himself above her in dominating mastery. Breathing hard, she turned her face aside. "Get off, you beast!"

"Am I hurting you?" he whispered, lightly stroking his lips over her ear. Some sensation she hated spiraled through her. Not fear, but arousal. He lifted himself and waited for her to look at him. When she did, he drew close to her mouth. She thought he would kiss her, but he didn't; he merely breathed upon her. Hungry for his mouth, she parted her lips, perversely craving his tongue invading and possessing, the sinful, addictive taste of him. No, I do not!

He brushed his cheek against hers gently, his beard stubble rasping. Again, his lips hovered less than an inch above hers. Mère de Dieu, kiss me!

No, do not!

Her breath caught and her eyes closed. Her body felt as if a trembling fever had taken it over. Surely, this was some horrid illness that caused delirium and lunacy.

He drew away, climbing off the bed. Where was he going? She glared after him through the mist of tears. Oh dear heaven, he was undressing, unpinning the brooch at the top of his kilt.

"Je te déteste," she muttered.

He unfastened his belt, removing his plaid. "Non, mon ange. You hate yourself for liking me."