My Wild Highlander Page 12

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, her 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 a 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 wa
nted 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 su
perseded hers. She didn't know whether to curse Lachlan or appreciate his concern for her safety.

  In the great hall, she approached high table but no one was seated.

  "Where is the laird?" she asked Fingall.

  The steward bowed. "Working in the library, m'lady. He didn't wish to be disturbed."

  "What is he working on?" she muttered, striding down the corridor. "Wait here. I wish to speak to the laird alone," she told her guards. Opening the library door, she found Lachlan with his head laid on the desk, his face toward her. Softly, she shut the door and tiptoed closer.

  Breathing deep and even, he didn't move. With his eyes closed and his expression relaxed, he looked like a precocious little boy... except for his manly square jaw, beard stubble and those sensual lips. At the moment, he was not trying to seduce her with his calculated, too-knowing eyes. Nor was he angry. She would not mind sitting and staring at him like this for a while. He was indeed pleasing to the eye.

  A half empty bottle of sherry sat by his elbow, along with a glass containing a sip.

  "Bien entendu," she muttered. Of course, that explained it.

  Lachlan jerked awake and sat up. Blinking rapidly, he shook his head as if trying to clear it.

  "You are, as they say, cupshoten," she said, enjoying his befuddled expression, a rare sight.

  "Nay. 'Twould take more than a wee dram of sherry."

  Black ink numbers dotted the side of his face. She snickered, then covered her mouth.

  His expression turned most serious. "What?"

  She withdrew a clean linen handkerchief from her pocket and dipped it into the sherry. "You have ink on your face."

  He glanced down at the books. "Hell, I smeared it."

  "Here, let me wipe the ink away." She pressed a palm against one side of his face, his beard stubble prickling her skin, his breath warming her wrist, and wiped at the smudged ink numbers. Her hands tingled from touching him; sensations raced up her arms.

  Lachlan gazed at her with sleepy seductive eyes that held a hint of petulance. In that moment, she figured him out. He was naught but a spoiled, overgrown lad used to getting whatever he wanted from the ladies. But not from her, and he didn't know how to handle that. Biting her lip, she suppressed a grin.