My Wild Highlander Page 7

  "Aye." The nausea tormenting Lachlan had naught to do with the horrid breakfast he'd eaten nor the choppy water and rolling of the king's small galleon.

  "Is aught the matter?" Rebbie eyed him with concern—or nosiness—he couldn't be sure which.

  "Nay." He had but wanted a few moments alone to think; the few crewmen on deck were easy to ignore. And the chill air helped clear his head.

  "You're pale as January snow—nay—you're looking a wee bit green. Seasickness?"

  "The sea is rough this morn." Lachlan took hold of the wet rail to steady himself, hoping Rebbie would cease his questioning.

  "Indeed. How are the ladies?"

  "Camille improves, but Angelique has seasickness."

  "She will be well once we reach Perth."

  Lachlan nodded.

  "'Haps you should be abed yourself. I believe you are more ill than you will admit."

  "Nay." Lachlan sucked in a deep breath of salt air and tried to slow his racing heartbeat. He wanted no one to ken how he felt at the moment. A frightening realization had snuck up on him in the wee hours of the night and gored his vitals.

  "Too much drink last night?" Rebbie asked.

  "Nay."

  "What then? I'm not good at guessing games."

  "Devil take it," Lachlan muttered. Rebbie would never leave off when he sensed something amiss. "'Tis only that…I'm married," Lachlan said far more calmly than he felt. The blood drained from his head, like a physical weakness washing over him. Saints! He was not weak! He had fought in and survived clan battles and skirmishes. He had traveled across Europe, rubbed elbows with the nobility, and won the favor of his king. How could a vow uttered to one wee thorny lass snatch his equilibrium?

  "You're only now figuring that out?"

  Lachlan should've said naught. Rebbie would never give him peace now.

  "Of course not! But it didn't seem so real yesterday, no different from any other adventure we've been embroiled in. When I woke up this morn, my first thought was 'what the hell have I done?' I even had to take her clan name in order to be chief. I'm a Drummagan now, more fully than a MacGrath."

  A wave hit the hull and a cold mist sprayed onto them.

  "So, you regret it?"

  "Nay. I don't ken how I feel about it. I only know 'tis something I cannot walk away from. 'Tis permanent."

  "Like prison. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen."

  He would not liken it to prison. More, he was simply afraid he'd fail and not be very good at being a chief, earl or husband. Or that he wouldn't enjoy marriage.

  "'Tis only a bit overwhelming at the moment is all. I'm sure 'twill pass. I am responsible for someone besides myself now. Not only a wife, but a whole clan. 'Tis something new to me." He pressed a fist against his aching stomach. "A wife, God's bones. What the devil will I do with a wife?"

  "I wager you'll think of something." Rebbie grinned.

  ***

  "My lady." A knock sounded at the cabin door. "I have food so you may break your fast."

  Lying on the top berth, Angelique groaned, nausea roiling inside her so intensely she couldn't lift her head. With the swaying of the ship, everything spun around. She had already vomited several times and had nothing left in her stomach.

  "Non. I do not want it," she called, hoping the crewman heard her through the door.

  "My lady, you must be hungry."

  "Non!" Damn you, go away.

  The normal wood-against-wood creaking of the ship filled the silence. Thank the heavens he'd left. She drifted to sleep. What seemed only minutes later, something thundered against the door. She sat bolt upright, a pain shot through her head and her stomach rebelled at the sudden movement.

  "My lady," a male voice called outside the door. "'Tis your husband. He's injured and bleedin' severely."

  Cold prickles showered over her. "What? Lachlan?"

  "Aye, he asks for you."

  Mère de Dieu, protect him. She slid from the top berth, down in front of Camille.

  "Qu'est que c'est?" she asked.

  "Lachlan is injured." In her mind, Angelique only saw his smiling eyes. She missed his warm protectiveness. Holding to the table, then the chair, she made her way to the door.

  She unlocked the portal and opened it. A brawny bald man waited outside. His gray eyes bore a hole through her and his expression was odd…leering for a moment, then blank. Had he never seen a woman before?

  "Where is Lachlan?" she asked.

  "In the galley. We were eating midday meal when a fight broke out and he was cut on the arm. He's lost a lot of blood."

  "Sacrebleu. He's a free-bleeder. Take me to him."

  She clasped the smelly man's elbow and allowed him to escort her from the stern and along the deck. The strong, chill wind pierced her clothing with icy needles. She wanted to run, but her skirts clung fast to her legs, hampering her movements. Shivering, she realized she had forgotten her cloak. Surely they would be below deck in a moment and away from the wind.

  She had to see Lachlan. Why did she care? I do not know; I just do. He'd protected her and now she must do the same for him. "I hope he does not lose too much blood."

  The man grunted and quickened his pace.

  The ship tossed and she near lost her footing on the wet decking. Her stomach ached, a new bout of nausea rising.

  No, go away. I cannot be sick now! She pressed a hand to her throat. The gag doubled her over and she could not stop it. Retching, she fell to her knees.

  "Come!" The man jerked at her arm, dragging her up. "We got to hurry."

  A pain shot through her shoulder. What the devil was he doing?

  "Non." He yanked her into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder, panic clawing through her. "Mère de Dieu!" She screamed.

  Running footsteps approached. "You, there! Unhand her!"

  "Whoreson bastard!" someone else shouted. More running.

  Upside down, she could see little. The blackguard's shoulder drove into her aching stomach. Someone else grabbed her upper body and a tug of war ensued. She kicked. The bald man released her and fled.

  "Catch him!" Was that Lachlan's voice? It sounded too harsh. "Angelique?" Someone lifted her high into his arms. "What the devil happened?"

  "Lachlan?" Head spinning, she looked into his eyes.

  "Aye."

  "Are you bleeding? How is your arm?"

  "What? Nay, I'm not bleeding. Is that what he told you?"

  "Oui. That you had lost a lot of blood. And you wished to see me. You are a free-bleeder."

  "Och. I'm not injured." Lachlan turned with her and everything whirled around. She slammed her eyes shut against the illness. "Is he one of your crew, Captain?" Lachlan asked.

  "No. Never seen him afore," a deep, rough voice said.

  Yelling and curses sounded from several yards away. She opened her eyes a crack. Rebbie, Dirk and members of the crew fought the bald man and tried to restrain him.

  "Who is he?" Angelique asked, shivering, trying to snuggle closer to Lachlan's body heat.

  "I wager he's Kormad's man. How did he get on board?"

  "I know not, my laird," the captain said.

  The blackguard broke away from the other men and jumped overboard.

  "God's teeth, he's getting away! Shoot him!" Lachlan yelled.

  Rebbie and two other men fired pistols into the water.

  "We're too far out for him to reach shore, even if he can swim," the captain said.

  "I'm not taking any chances. Keep firing!" Lachlan told the men, then carried Angelique toward the captain's cabin. "What happened to the two guards I stationed by her door?" he called back.

  The captain cursed and trotted away, shouting orders.

  "I bet the bastard killed them or knocked them out. You must be half frozen, Angelique." Once inside the cabin, Lachlan closed the door.

  She nodded, still appreciating the warmth of his skin.

  "What happened to her?" Camille came forward.

&
nbsp; "Some knave tried to throw her overboard. Kormad's man, no doubt."

  "Sacreblue! Put her here." She motioned to the lower berth.

  "What are you doing up, Camille?" Angelique asked. "How is your head?"

  "I have pain but it improves."

  "And how are you feeling?" Lachlan lay Angelique on the berth, covered her with a thick blanket, then knelt by her side.

  "Terrible. So sick." She pressed a fist against her stomach, praying the nausea would diminish.

  He smoothed her hair back and stroked the side of his thumb along her cheek, his gaze intense and concerned. "Did he hurt you, lass?"

  "Only my shoulder a little. I shall be fine."

  Frowning, he gently massaged her tender shoulder with strong, warm fingers. "That bastard. He got his just due. I'm going to see if he resurfaced." He kissed her forehead and stood. She closed her eyes and savored the lingering tingle from the kiss that did much to assuage her discomfort.

  "When I leave, lock the door and don't open it for anyone save me, Rebbie or Dirk. More of his men could've slipped aboard."

  Camille nodded, obeyed his orders and returned to the berth. "Pour l'amour de Dieu, Kormad is persistent is he not?"

  "Oui," Angelique said. "The beast wanted to drown me, I'm sure of it. I fear Kormad will not give up until I am dead."

  ***

  Angelique had never been so thankful in her life to set foot on solid ground in Perth. She had crossed le Manche twice before in her life and always became ill. Even more, she was thankful to be far away from that bald brute who'd tried to kill her. The men on deck had spotted him swimming for shore, but couldn't tell if he'd made it.

  She prayed he wouldn't come after her again.

  Now she and Camille rode in a coach that lumbered north from Perth toward her childhood home. She pushed the curtain back and took in the familiar Scottish Lowlands outside the window. The rolling green and brown fields and the tree covered hills brought back memories of long ago. She drew in a deep breath of the cool, fresh air but could find no comfort in it. What if her clan didn't like or accept her? What if she was more French than Scottish now and could not make a connection to them? What if Lachlan found a buxom serving wench to warm his bed?

  He and his friends rode before the coach, and others along with the king's retainers followed on the narrow, winding road.

  Camille cradled her injured arm—the one she'd landed on when she fell from the horse. Her eyes were swollen and the skin around them blackish-blue. Thankfully she had washed all the blood from her hair and it now shone fair blond.

  "I still feel terrible that you fell," Angelique said.

  "We did what we had to do, as always. Do not regret it. I thank you for saving my life."

  "But I put your life in danger to begin with by having you leave the coach."

  "Do not worry, Ange. I saved your life one time, and now you have saved mine."

  Angelique pressed her eyes closed, hating that memory. Hating to even think of Girard. She would've prayed he was dead if such a prayer did not seem like sacrilege.

  She shoved the thought from her mind. "We are a pair, no?"

  Camille smiled. "And now we go on our grandest adventure yet, with several handsome Scotsmen."

  Angelique snorted. Indeed her husband was handsome, but she was not certain that was a good thing. Women everywhere, from all classes, either stared at him outright or slipped him covert glances and smiles. To his credit, he pretended not to notice.

  A huge boulder beside the narrow lane caught her eye. She remembered her father lifting her onto it when she was a small girl.

  "We are near Draughon." Her pulse rate increasing, she gazed out. Through the trees, the wide River Tay glistened, reflecting afternoon sunlight. All seemed familiar to her, but like something from another life.

  The coach drew to a halt, and she craned her neck out the window. The tall black iron gates stood before them, and beyond, the great stone medieval castle, Draughon. A large group of unfamiliar armed men swarmed in front of the gates. A shiver passed through her.

  ***

  "Halt!" yelled a short, armored guard.

  This one wee man didn't concern Lachlan, but the additional men did. They carried all manner of swords, axes, pikes, and pistols forming a line before the gates.

  "Who are you?" the guard demanded.

  "Lachlan MacGrath…Drummagan, the new chief of Clan Drummagan and earl of Draughon."

  "Ba ha ha," the guard bellowed in a mock laugh. "'Tis a funny jest."

  Lachlan tensed at the derision. A sickening feeling tightened his stomach. In truth, he felt like a fraud. Him an earl? A chief? But no one had to know of his doubt. He could bluff until dawn.

  One of the king's retainers strode forward and unrolled a legal document containing the king's seal. "The countess of Draughon, Lady Angelique Drummagan, is in the coach and we are sent by His Majesty, King James. This man tells you true. He is the new earl of Draughon and your chief."

  The force of armed, leather-clad men increased to two or three dozen behind the main guard.

  "No one such as yourself will be entering this gate afore Laird Kormad returns," the guard growled.

  Did Scots always have to be such a rebellious lot? At times like this he wished to throttle his own countrymen. "Kormad?" Lachlan asked. Damn the whoreson.

  "Sorley MacGrotie, Baron of Kormad, rightful heir to the earldom."

  "I ken who he is, but about the earldom, you are wrong. I am earl of Draughon. 'Tis official."

  "In the name of King James, lay down your weapons, open this gate and stand aside!" ordered the king's retainer.

  "I think…" The guard pretended to consider. "Nay! I'm a Drummagan and I won't be havin' a damned MacGrath Highlander as my chief. King James detests you lawless wild Scots so he wouldn't send one to lead us."

  "We are on the edge of the Highlands here. 'Tis not as if we live in different countries. We're both Scotsman," Lachlan said, acting his most calm and civil.

  "You're naught but a barbarian. I can tell by the look of you." The guard eyed Lachlan's plaid, thrown over his shoulder. At least he wore trews instead of a kilt this day. Better for riding a horse.

  "I was educated in Edinburgh, just as your former chief, John Drummagan, was. My brother is a Scottish earl and a chief as well. I have noble blood flowing through my veins."

  "But you don't have Drummagan blood."

  "My wife is Drummagan through and through."

  "Pah!" The man spat on the ground. "She's a Frenchie."

  "We shall have a contest, you and me. Whoever is the victor will claim the castle, aye?" Lachlan said.

  The retainers eyed him as if he were a lunatic. Rebbie grinned and Dirk frowned.

  Lachlan dismounted and strode forward. "What say you?" He towered over the guard and glared down at him.

  "Um, what sort of contest?"

  "One on one, man to man sword fight." Lachlan drew his basket-hilted sword, stepped back and held it at the ready.

  The guard hesitated.

  "Come, wee man. I wish to get this over with. We have been traveling a long while and we wish a bite to eat. My wife is ill and requires a bed to rest upon."

  "What is causing the delay?" demanded a female voice with a French accent behind him. He glanced back to find Angelique striding forward, her eyes blazing wrath and her blue silk skirts swishing.

  She held a small pistol in her hand.

  "God's blood," Lachlan muttered.

  "My lady! You must not." Two of the king's men chased her.

  "Watch my back," Lachlan told Dirk and Rebbie as he started toward her. What a wee angel of vengeance she was. He sheathed his sword, plucked the pistol from her hand and escorted her back to the coach. They halted by the door.

  "Listen to me, Angelique," he whispered in her ear. "You will stay within the safety of the coach until I settle this." Her floral female scent startled his senses and stirred his body with lust at a very bad moment.

/>   "But—"

  "I am the laird here and I will protect you, the lady. Not the other way around." He kept his tone firm but gentle.

  "But this is my home. I grew up here and they cannot keep me out!"

  "Nor can they keep me out. I alone must show them who is leader. You must trust me on this. I will send a message to Kormad he cannot ignore."

  She grasped his sleeve and appeared as if she might argue further, but her mouth became a firm line. "Have a care," she said and released him.

  "Always." He winked, leaned quickly forward and gave her a peck on the lips. Her jaw dropped.

  Smiling, he opened the door and motioned her inside. She obeyed but held out her hand for the pistol, giving him a stern look.

  "Put it away before you kill yourself with it," he whispered, relinquishing the wee weapon. "Don't allow her out," he told the royal guard. Lachlan wanted to continue smiling because she worried about his safety but he forced it away. That kiss had been too brief and he was in need of more.

  He again faced the "leader" of this ragtag group of rebels, praying the whole of the Drummagan clan did not side with them and Kormad.

  ***

  Angelique peered out the coach window, Camille beside her, watching Lachlan and his swaggering, confident stride. He had kissed her, damn him, and distracted her, seized control. Now what if he got hurt in this ridiculous sword fight?

  "We could've settled this peacefully if he'd listened to me."

  "You were brandishing a weapon just as he is," Camille said.

  "Oui. But I was not going to use it." Well, only if she had to.

  "A man always prefers to show force alone. And look how well he does it."

  Angelique snorted. But yes, he did do it well. She admired the commanding way he brandished a sword. "Are you observing my husband?"

  "No more than anyone else." Her friend gave her an innocent look. "Are you jealous?"

  "Non. But make sure you do not become his mistress or I will have to disown you and find a new companion."

  "Do not worry, Ange. I much prefer his friend."

  "Which one?"

  "Look." Camille pointed.

  Lachlan moved with skill and grace as he engaged the shorter man in swordplay. They parried and thrust. A hint of a wicked grin played upon Lachlan's mouth. To him this was but a game. Did he not realize his life was in danger?