My Wild Highlander Page 6

  She moved to his side to avoid contact.

  His lips slowly lifted into a smirk. "You have a lovely blush, Frenchie."

  "I am not blushing." But contrary to her words, her face heated furiously.

  "Och! Pray pardon, but you look very virginal. Are you sure you're not one?"

  "Of course."

  "So, you have seen a man naked afore?"

  She thought he must be teasing her, but his voice had hardened a bit. She concentrated on her work, keeping the bandage tight around his ribs.

  "Angelique?"

  Damn him, why could he not leave her be? "No, not completely. Do not most people…couple in the dark?"

  His grin was pure mischief. "If they're Puritans."

  "It is not only the Puritans."

  "Catholics, too, huh? Ah, well. I'm glad then you're not too familiar with men's bodies."

  She tied a knot in the bandage beneath his arm. Her task complete, she stepped away to the window, refusing to look again at his nicely formed body and growing, erect tarse. She had, in truth, never seen one before and found she was more curious than she wished. Was he normal sized? Surely, he was large enough to cause great pain during coupling. But if that were the case, why did women clamor to occupy his bed? Her body felt as if she'd been standing inches from a roaring fireplace. Sweat chilled her skin.

  "I thank you," he said.

  "C'est rien. I thank you for your…blood sacrifice."

  He chuckled and she glanced back at him. He held the plaid before him, but his eyes met hers, the expression wicked, perceptive. Dropping his plaid, he stepped forward, and she stared out the window again.

  Non. Go away. Do not touch me.

  "Angelique." When he traced a fingertip down the sensitive skin of her neck, she stifled a shiver. He placed his large hands at her waist, the strength of them possessive. With seeming affection, he kissed her temple, her ear, feather-light, his warm breath teasing her. He trailed his lips down to nibble at her neck and the bend of her shoulder. His beard stubble lightly rasped her sensitive skin, causing both slight pain and alluring tingles to dart down her arms and to her breasts.

  He pushed his hand around to her stomach and drew her back. The heat of his skin near burned her through the thin silk smock and caused a liquid swirling sensation low in her belly beneath his hand. Sacrebleu! What was he doing to her?

  His body was a solid wall at her back. She had not yet put on her stays and farthingale and his hard shaft prodded her derriere. Her body's primitive instincts urged her to arch her back and wantonly grind her hips against him. Non! She forced herself not to respond.

  But she could not get the image of that part of his body out of her head.

  His other hand splayed on the upper part of her chest, his fingertips stroking her throat even as he teased and seduced the skin of her neck, her jaw line with his lips. She would only need to turn her head a bit to experience another kiss like the one in the chapel.

  "Allow me to give you pleasure, Angelique," he whispered.

  Her traitorous body sang with tingles and strange yearnings. Her lungs locked down and she gasped for breath. He was naught but the god of lust and fornication casting his spell upon her.

  "Saints, you're lovely. Your skin tastes like honey."

  What if he forced her?

  "Non." She pulled away. "I do not want to hear the practiced lies you tell your paramours."

  "I was telling you true, lass." His deep voice was softer than it had a right to be, a bit rough and intimate. He waited quietly. "You're beautiful. As delectable as a puff pastry I wish to taste every inch of."

  She pressed her eyes tightly closed, willing the images away—images of his mouth on her, all over—willing the disturbing arousal to drain from her body and leave her cold. But it was stubborn. And dear heaven, his voice was as persuasive as his touch.

  "We are wed," he said. "There is no shame."

  She forced air into her lungs. "I do not care. You will not touch me." You will not hurt me. You will not take away my control. A tear slipped from beneath her lashes. With her back to him he would not see it, thank the saints.

  He released a tired breath and stepped away.

  "Mayhap one of your paramours will give you a wedding night you will enjoy."

  He muttered blunt words in a language she didn't understand, Erse, without doubt. Good, she had driven him away. Excellent indeed, even though her body was frustrated and restless. She fought down her own irrational desires.

  A loud knock sounded at the door. She jumped and quickly swiped the damnable tears away.

  He yanked on his long-tailed shirt and opened the door. After murmuring a few words she couldn't understand, he handed the rolled up, bloody sheet to one of the king's men and locked the door back.

  "We leave on one of the king's smaller galleons for Perth in a half hour." Lachlan finished dressing. He spent so much time glaring at Angelique's rigid back that he did a shoddy job pleating his kilt. The damned cut on his abdomen stung like a bee possessed of a kelpie.

  Devil take having a wife. He should've known this would happen. Luscious, alluring, hell-hated wench.

  God's teeth, he yearned for her. Her skin was like finest ivory silk sheened with honey dust. And her mouth, when he'd kissed her in the chapel, had tasted like—he didn't know what. But he hadn't been able to resist dipping his tongue inside for a fuller taste. He wished to suckle her tongue like a sweet comfit even as he slid himself deep inside her and near drowned in her wet pleasure. He wished to take her hard and fast, while she moaned—nay—screamed his name and begged for more.

  His tarse further hardened at the image.

  "Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!" He should go out and find some willing lady to swive, just as his loving wife had suggested. 'Haps he could even locate Eleanor. But that was exactly what Angelique wanted. He would not prove her right if he had to become a beef-witted monk.

  He slammed the bedchamber door on the way out and hastened down the wide staircase. Plush carpets underfoot and the gleam of gilt from the shadows told him this was an elegant home, far different from the old, but beloved Highland castle he'd grown up in. He joined his friends and the king's retainers in the library.

  They dropped silent and turned curious eyes toward him when he entered. This was nothing new; he was used to being stared at for one reason or another. He proceeded to a table and poured himself a generous helping of sherry.

  Rebbie approached hesitantly. What the hell was wrong with everyone? Was his scowl that fearsome?

  "Should we send for a physician?" his friend asked in a low tone.

  "What for?" Hoping they didn't know he'd cut himself, he glanced down at his shirt. No blood seeping through as of yet.

  "Your wife," Rebbie whispered.

  "Why? She was fit as a shrew-fed badger last time I saw her."

  Rebbie clamped his lips between his teeth for a moment, fighting hard to keep from laughing.

  "What the devil is wrong with you?"

  "We feared you'd killed Lady Angelique when you bedded her."

  "Oh, that. Nay. She's a strong lass, half Scottish, you ken."

  He wouldn't have to keep up the pretense for long. In short order, he'd have her aching for his attentions and clamoring for a goodly piece of paradise betwixt his sheets.

  ***

  The coach lumbered along the rough street, through holes and ruts that jarred the teeth. Angelique sat stiffly, fully clothed this time and tried to avoid Camille's direct gaze.

  "What did he do to you?" Camille whispered in French after a long while.

  "Nothing."

  "But all that blood. The men were talking."

  "I will tell you later but it is nothing to worry about." Angelique tried to sort through her jumbled feelings about her scoundrel of a husband. Though she was loath to admit it, Lachlan had been the epitome of a hero when he'd cut himself. Not only did he not force himself on her, but he'd covered for her lack of virginity to appease the ki
ng. But afterward, the way he'd touched her and the thrilling yet frightening sensations he'd wrought in her body…that was the perplexing part.

  "Did you couple with him?" Camille asked. "Did he force you?"

  "Non. But you must tell no one."

  Her cousin remained silent a long while. "You cannot deny your husband forever."

  Angelique knew that, but she would keep him at bay as long as possible. They would need an heir of course, and she would do her duty. But she dreaded the task.

  Some part of her feared if she let him tear down her wall, she could not re-erect it. If she let him in, he would take advantage of her in every way, walking over her and asserting his control over all aspects of her life, her estate, her clan. She feared he would force his way into her bed and into her body. Worse, she feared he'd use another tactic, a manipulative one, forcing his way into her heart. And then expect her to accept his whoring.

  He wasn't like Girard, the oafish swine. Already, Lachlan's kiss…she could think of little else, except his nude body which he'd proudly displayed, hoping to arouse her, she was certain. He knew of naught but seduction. The man was deluded and full of himself.

  "He will seek out the favors of other women," Camille said.

  "Oui, he will anyway, sooner or later, whether I lie with him or not. Men like him tire of one woman easily."

  "Hmm. Maybe you will also find a brawny Scottish lover once we reach Draughon," Camille purred.

  "I do not want one," Angelique snapped.

  "Very well, but I do."

  Angelique wished she could be so blasé about the coupling. And she knew her cousin was but trying to erase some of her fears about it.

  An influx of galloping and neighing horses surrounded their coach. The conveyance sped up. Pistol shots rang out.

  "Mère de Dieu!" Heart lodged in her throat, Angelique held on. Had Kormad caught them?

  "Halt!" a male voice outside yelled.

  More shots popped; burning gunpowder filled the air. Shouts in English and Gaelic echoed off the buildings. The coach slowed to a stop.

  "Merde! This cannot be good." Camille blew out the lamp and bolted onto the bench seat with her. They flattened themselves against the back, away from the windows.

  "Kormad will kill us if we do not do something," Angelique said.

  More pistol shots exploded and swords clashed. What if he'd already killed Lachlan. No, she could not bear to think of it.

  "Ready yourself." Angelique removed the dagger from her pocket. This would not be the first time she and Camille had fought for their lives.

  "I will shoot their stones off," Camille whispered, drawing a small pistol from her pocket.

  "I did not know you had that." Angelique wished she hadn't left her own pistol in her trunk, now on top of the coach. "Is it loaded?"

  "Oui. Why would I have it otherwise?"

  Angelique peered out the window, saw no one, and stretched her neck further. She recognized the poor man lying on the ground as their driver. Another man crawled from beneath the coach and sidled toward the front.

  Angelique ducked back inside. "They've killed our driver and now someone is trying to make off with this coach. We must get out and hide."

  Camille nodded and opened the opposite door. They both slid out into the muddy darkness. Clutching Camille's hand in hers and dragging her along, Angelique crossed behind the coach and searched for a safe place to hide. The shadows of the buildings were pitch black.

  "Get back inside!" yelled a man sitting atop a large horse.

  She didn't know whether he was one of Lachlan's men or one of Kormad's.

  "Damnation," the man muttered and glanced away. "MacGrath!"

  The stolen coach started rolling away. Another horse galloped by. The rider leaned down and snatched Camille off her feet. She screamed and dropped her pistol.

  Chapter Four

  Angelique snapped up Camille's pistol, aimed at the fleeing abductor's back and pulled the trigger. A shot exploded from the small weapon, jarring both her arms, the scent of gunpowder burning her nose. The man cried out and dropped Camille from the horse. She toppled to the ground.

  "Sacrebleu!" Ignoring her stinging hand, Angelique rushed forward and knelt by her cousin, touched her face. "Camille?"

  Horseshoes clattered on cobblestones, but she could not take her eyes off Camille's still face.

  "God's bones! Why did you not stay in the coach?" Lachlan demanded with thickening burr. He dismounted and crouched beside her with a torch. The heat from it near scorched her skin.

  Camille's blood painted the cobblestones red. Mère de Dieu, have I caused her to die? Angelique crossed herself, vile nausea coiling in her stomach. "They killed the driver!" she told Lachlan. "Another man was going to steal our coach. I saw him."

  "And now he's dead, too. We wouldn't have let them take you." His voice was rough, almost a growl.

  "You were outnumbered."

  "Nay, we were not. We had the situation under control."

  She pressed her eyes closed, forcing the burning tears out. "I did not know. Pray, forgive me, Camille." Bending, Angelique placed her ear before Camille's mouth and nose. Breaths puffed out, warming her ear.

  "She lives! Thanks be to God. Help me with her."

  Lachlan handed the torch to his English friend, Miles, then gently slipped his arms beneath Camille and lifted her. Angelique followed him to the coach and helped him position her cousin comfortably on the seat.

  "Merci."

  "Do not leave the coach again until I tell you to!" Lachlan slammed the door.

  She wanted to fling a sharp retort at him, but she deserved a much worse scolding for hurting Camille. The coach lurched forward, knocking Angelique to the floor. Damnable driver.

  "Camille?" She patted her cousin's face, wishing she had cold water to bathe it in. Camille was the person she cared about most in the world, like a sister, and she'd endangered her life. "I pray you will forgive me. Please wake up."

  Shots rang out again.

  Merde! She ducked low over her cousin.

  An onslaught of clomping horses' hooves approached from an alley and the coach sped up, jostling along rutted streets. The new driver shouted commands at the team and snapped a whip in the air. When the pistol shots echoed further away, she peered out. The king's guards were thick around them.

  "Grâce à Dieu," she said when the coach ground to a halt. The salt scent of the ocean, the clanging of a bell, and the water slapping the hulls of the creaking ships told her they'd reached the wharf.

  Lachlan wrested open the door. "Come. We must hurry."

  ***

  A half hour later, Camille, still unconscious, lay in the captain's cabin on the lower berth. A small hanging lantern provided illumination. Angelique fingered her Rosary beads and paced, praying her cousin would awaken. She had bathed her face in water over and over but it proved of no benefit.

  "O Marie, s'il vous plaît—" A sharp knock sounded at the door. She jumped. "Qui est-ce?"

  "Lachlan."

  She opened the narrow door.

  "The ship's barber surgeon went ashore earlier and cannot be found. I sent for a physician but he hasn't yet arrived. The captain says we must leave forthwith because of the tide." Lachlan glanced at Camille. "Och! She has awakened?"

  Angelique spun around and rushed to her. "Camille, are you well? Thanks be to God."

  She placed a hand on her head and groaned. "Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?"

  "You fell off a horse."

  "I remember now. Did you shoot the bastard who grabbed me?"

  "Oui. Do you want us to wait for the physician?"

  "No, I hate them. I am well."

  "If you're sure, we shall set sail," Lachlan said. "'Tis not safe for us to stay here."

  "Oui. Allez-y. Go."

  ***

  Kormad glared at his men who stared at the worn floor planks within his room at the inn. Six imbecilic failures, they were. The damned MacGrath bastard had sto
len away Angelique and married her. Worst of all, he'd become chief, earl and now held Draughon Castle and lands.

  "'Tis mine by birthright!" Kormad slammed his fist against the table. The candle flickered wildly.

  "Y–you mean Timmy's, m-my lord," Arnie said.

  "Aye! And mine until he comes of age. I have waited to take my place at Draughon the whole of my life." At least he had yearned for and coveted the rich estate the whole of his life. It was so close he could almost touch it. "I will not let some whoring, kilt-wearing MacGrath snatch it from me! He is all that stands in my way."

  "She chose him," Rufus said.

  "I know that, you whoreson! And she'll regret that decision. I intend to make sure of it."

  If she would not choose Kormad, he would not suffer her to live. She was naught but a pebble in his path and he would kick her out of his way. The bigger obstacle was King James himself and this damnable Highlander he chose for Angelique.

  "What are you going to do?" Arnie asked.

  "Go back to Burnglen and rally support amongst the Drummagans and the neighboring clans."

  A fist wrapped at the door.

  "Come!"

  One of his men, MacFie, burst through the door, breathing hard. "I came as quickly as I could, my lord. I had to hide for hours, but Pike got on board their ship."

  "You jest." A thrill passed through Kormad.

  "Nay. 'Tis true."

  "Pike. Now there's a man what knows how to get things done!" Kormad laughed and let loose a hoop of victory. "Where is the ship headed?"

  "Direct to Perth. Pike said he would meet you there at the Ram's Head Inn three days hence. Likely MacGrath and the lady will be dead by then."

  "Aye!" A sudden bloodlust came over Kormad. Too bad he couldn't spend it on MacGrath and his bitch. But Pike would make short work of them. "Secure us passage on a merchant ship to Perth. A swift one!"

  ***

  "There you are," Rebbie called.

  The wind whipping his hair, Lachlan turned from surveying the turbulent sea and the waves crashing onto the distant rocky shore as they made their way up the English coast. Rebbie approached along the rocking deck, his hair stark black against the orange dawn light.