My Wild Highlander (17 page)

"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
superseded 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.

"It is time for supper." She dabbed one last
ink spot. "There now, all gone."

"I thank you." The unhappy look in his eyes
clutched at her heart. He seemed... not himself at all. Not
arrogant.

"C'est rien."

"Damnable books." He slammed the ledger
closed, rose and paced toward the window.

"What is wrong?"

He stared out the window into the twilight a
long moment. "Naught."

"Stubborn," she murmured.

"That's the pot calling the kettle
black."

His bitter words made her want to scowl, but
she didn't. She knew he was right. Her mother had called her
stubborn on more than one occasion. And Lord knew she'd been
stubborn with him. But she had no choice.

"So, where have you been these last two
nights?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Here and there."

She had peeked into his room each night two
or three times. Once, she found him asleep in the early morning
hours. Other times she wondered if he had done as she expected and
found a paramour. Camille had warned her countless times he would
find someone else to slake his lusts, and urged her to go to him.
Even though she knew Camille was right, she could not make herself
crawl into his bed. Every time she considered it, she froze up,
recalling the pain.

She pushed the fear away and focused on
something she could control. "Is something wrong with the estate
books?"

He released a long breath and turned to her.
"I'm good with languages, not numbers."

"Languages?"

"Aye, I can speak and read six languages.
Pick them up easily in a short time. But the estate accounts... I
simply want to cast them into the fire."

"I am good with numbers," she said, proud of
her education and abilities.

"You are?"

She nodded. "My cousin taught me in
France."

"Then 'haps you can help me look these over.
I'm not sure I trust Fingall, or the treasurer, and a few of the
other servants. Anyone who's dealt with the funds."

"I will help you on the morrow. Supper is
being served and they are waiting for us."

He exhaled as if tired. "Are you certain you
wiped all the ink off my face? If Rebbie sees that, he'll have
something else to needle me about."

She suppressed a grin, but feared he noticed
it anyway when his gaze sharpened on her. "
Oui
, it is
clean," she said. At times like this she could actually see herself
enjoying being in Lachlan's company. Not because he was in a surly
mood, but because he was showing her he could be real and humble...
and a bit unsure of himself—the way she felt all the time. "What is
Rebbie needling you about?"

"What do you think?" He gave her an
accusatory look.

"Oh." Her face heated. "Well, that is none of
his concern."

"Do you think he cares? He's the nosiest man
on God's earth."

"He is not married so he cannot possibly
understand."

Lachlan snorted. "I doubt every married
couple is like us."

"Probably not."

"Likely, we are bizarre beyond measure."

She glared at him. Did he have to exaggerate
everything?

"What?" he asked. "I tell you true."

A crash sounded in the far corner of the
room... from the crack between the stones. Someone lurked in the
hidden passage behind the room.

Chapter Eight

Angelique dashed toward the break between the
stones, the same one where she'd eavesdropped on Lachlan and Rebbie
several nights ago. "Who is there?" She peered into the crack. No
candlelight escaped.

Silence.
Sickening shivers covered
her.

"What the hell is going on?" Lachlan stood at
her elbow.

"Someone was listening to us."

"How?"

"See the crack between the stones? It is wide
enough to see and hear through. There is a hidden passage behind
this room."

"God's blood! Why did you not tell me?" He
turned a dark scowl on her.

"I... I'd forgotten." She had wanted to keep
the passage a secret so she could eavesdrop on Lachlan again, but
if a traitor was using it, that would no longer be safe.

"How does one enter the passage?"

"I shall show you when we have more time."
She headed toward the exit and he followed.

"Aye. You must show me all the hidden
passages and entrances to them. 'Tis vital to the safety of the
clan. And our home."

"Who do you think was listening?" she
whispered.

"'Haps Fingall, the treasurer, or any of
their cohorts. I hate to say it, but we cannot trust our own
clan."

***

After supper when the fiddler struck up a
lively jig and most of the clan was busy watching the lasses dance,
Lachlan escorted Angelique to her sitting room. He had to find out
more about this secret passage and who had been spying on them.
Their four personal bodyguards followed but waited outside in the
corridor.

"Is it safe to talk in this room without
anyone eavesdropping?" he whispered in her ear.

"Oui." She drew back and appeared to stifle a
shiver. Her eyes were darker green when they met his. "I'll show
you the easiest way to enter the secret passageway."

Carrying a candle, he followed her to his
bedchamber. "You jest. My room?"

"Indeed. 'Tis the laird's bedchamber, after
all." She barred the door from inside. "My great-grandfather had
the newer section of the castle designed this way so he could keep
an eye on his guests." She moved a stone from the base of the
hearth, then pressed a lever. Metal clanged behind the
tapestry.

He had not even thought to lift the tapestry
to see what was behind it.

"Have a care with the candle." She burrowed
behind the heavy tapestry. After lighting another candle on his
mantel, he followed, holding the material out like a tent.

He had his sword sheathed at his side, as
well as a small dirk, in the event they ran into the clan
traitors.

She pushed open the door.

"Allow me to lead since I have the candle."
He ducked his head and took a step down onto the steep stone
stairs, barely wide enough for a man his size to squeeze through.
Debris crunched beneath his boots. He enjoyed the feel of
Angelique's hand lying lightly on his shoulder for support as she
crept behind him downward into the depths of darkness. But that was
the only appealing thing about the situation. Hell, he did not like
this eerie place. He carefully unsheathed his sword and held it at
the ready.

"Could someone sneak up this way and murder
me in my sleep?" he whispered, imagining a horrid scenario.

"No." Angelique said quietly, close to his
ear. Her warm breath fanning his hair sent a curl of arousal
through him. "No one can open the door from this side... at least
not without making a lot of noise. Which would wake you, no? We
left it open and that is the only reason we can go back through.
Only one of the passage doors opens from this side and it is in the
armory."

"Ah. 'Tis a good thing then." On the next
tread, his foot landed on something. He sidestepped it and lowered
the candle. "What the devil is this? A fire poker?" He pushed at it
with his toe to see it better. "Is that mine? I noticed it was
missing and had one of the servants bring me another."

"I do not... know." Angelique whispered,
sounding a bit unnerved.

"Careful you don't step on it." They reached
the bottom of the stairs and the passage stretched ahead, how far
he couldn't tell. Pitch blackness surrounded them beyond the
candle's glow.

"The castle's finest guest bedchamber is on
the other side of this wall," she whispered. "And here is the
fissure to look through."

"Your ancestors spied on their guests in
bed?"

"I suppose so. Several Stuart kings and
queens have slept in that room, even our own King James many years
ago. Dukes, an assortment of earls and other nobility have also
stayed here. Did your clan have nothing like this to spy on
guests?"