My Wild Highlander Page 15

  "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 at 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 her cousin.

  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 shal
l 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."