My Wild Highlander (22 page)

Oh God, no! That burning hot, liquid
sensation grew more intense. She ached in the core of her
being.

Her body craved something her mind hated. And
she was no longer in control of herself; Lachlan was.

A half moan escaped before she smothered it.
Her body tightened, rigid like a bow, straining for something. She
arched toward him, then forced herself to stop.

Slowly, he trailed kisses over her lower
belly and down toward her mound. She tried to squeeze her thighs
together but he had inserted his knee between.

Her legs trembled, her strength vanished.
Pushing her knee up, he kissed her inner thighs, both of them,
opening her to his view. She was utterly at his mercy.

"Oh." He was scandalous. She whimpered,
praying it would not hurt.

"Mmm, you smell like heaven."

That most feminine part of her wept and
ached…and yearned for something…he touched her there with his
fingers, parted her female lips, blew his hot breath upon her, and
licked between. "Mmm."

"Mon Dieu!"
She gasped and her body
did what it wanted, her hips thrust toward him, her legs widening
like a wanton's, giving him complete access.

"Aye." He took full possession.

Her sole focus was on what he did, spreading
her with his fingers, lapping with his tongue. He closed his lips
around some part of her and drew on her, sucking. A sharp ache
speared her. Not a painful ache, but one that yearned for something
more. Not his member, no, she did not want it.

His tongue slid inside her, in and out. How
could he do such a thing? Surely that was immoral and sinful…the
most erotic thing she could imagine.

"Mmm, you are sweet as a plum tart," he
murmured, his breath heating her skin.

A moan slipped out without her
permission.

"You see? You like this."

She shook her head vehemently. "I hate
it!"

"Liar. I love to hear you moan. Do it again."
He slid his tongue inside, deeper, no…it was his finger. Before she
could protest, he suckled at her flesh again, licked a most
sensitive spot fast and hard. The sensations were blinding,
mind-stealing. He would drive her to lunacy. Her body suddenly
became possessed with something, taken over, bombarded and
smothered with intensity.

Pleasure? No, something beyond pleasure.

His finger felt larger inside her, two
fingers, stroking in and out. And she rode, hating him for making
her crave it so badly. He tugged at her hair, exposing her more
completely, licking faster, making the erotic sensation extend and
magnify. She knew she was crying out, screaming, but was helpless
to stop it. Her body clutched at his fingers, but wanted something
more, something that wasn't there. Whatever invisible demon
possessed her made her jerk violently beneath him, shoving her body
more firmly to his mouth.

The possession released her and she felt she
dropped back to the bed, her flesh tender and most sensitive. She
wanted to draw away from him, fold into herself and hide
completely.

"Mmm, Angelique. There you have it." Lachlan
licked his lips, savoring her sweet, sensual flavor. Saints, that
was the best sex he'd ever had and he hadn't even been inside her
yet. Near to the edge of climaxing himself, he sat back on his
heels.

Angelique sobbed and turned her head aside,
crying into the pillow.

"Nay, don't cry." He stroked a hand over her
hip. "Did you not enjoy that?"

"
Non. Va-t-en!
Leave." Tears glistened
on her lashes.

He had seen women brought to tears during
climax, especially their first, but not in this way. He was used to
joyful tears of awe, or maybe an outburst of laughter. But not
distraught as Angelique was. "Don't be afraid, lass. I wouldn't
hurt you."

"I'm not afraid.
Que vous êtes
brute!
"

"What's wrong, then?" He could not understand
her, still hostile after such an obviously pleasurable release.

"Men.
Je les déteste
."

So she hated men, not just him? "Why?"

"None of your concern."

"Did someone hurt you? Your first lover, the
man you had planned to marry?"

She nodded slightly, surprising him.

Dear God, no. Why had he not realized? "Tell
me his name."

"Girard," she whispered.

Poisonous jealousy and rage snaked through
Lachlan, sickening him. "Girard? He was the man you had wanted to
marry? The man who you fear is here now, threatening you? Why did
you not tell me this before?"

"I did not wish you to find out," she said in
a small voice.

"What else are you keeping from me? What
secrets?"

"None."

What the hell have I gotten myself
into?
"Saints! What did the bastard do?"

She shook her head.

"Tell me. Did he hit you?"

She nodded but kept her eyes shut tight.

"What else?"

"C'est rein."

"Nay, I don't think 'tis naught."

Tears leaked from beneath her long
lashes.

"Did he force you?" He tried to ask gently,
but his voice came out a growl.

She turned her face into the pillow, her
curls hiding her face.

"Ange, did the whoreson rape you?"

Chapter Ten

Damnation! Girard had raped her. Lachlan
wanted to run the bastard through, nay, slit his throat and hack
him to bits!

Angelique cried silently, her body shaking
with the sobs.

Lachlan untied her hands and her ankle. Once
free, she curled into a ball, and he covered her with the blanket.
He knelt beside the bed and stroked a hand over her head, pushing
the curls back from her face…trying to soothe her and make up for
some of his own callous behavior.

"I will kill him," he said in a soft, rough
voice. "By the saints, I swear it. When did this happen?"

Finally, she opened her eyes but would not
hold his gaze. "A year ago, in France. The first time, after he
asked me to marry him, he did not force me. I thought I was in love
with him and, against my better judgment, agreed to become lovers.
I hated the painful, humiliating act. Then I caught him with
another woman, a serving maid. I told him I never wanted to see him
again and this angered him. That is when he raped me."

A killing rage, nay, a dark bloodlust such as
Lachlan had never felt speared him. He rose and moved away, fearing
she'd feel the violence radiating off him. He wanted to smash
something. "If I ever see him, I shall kill him. I swear it!"

She pressed her eyes closed and more tears
leaked out.

Lachlan yanked on his clothes, imagining the
hell she'd endured, trying to control his anger. No wonder she had
not wanted him to touch her. And he'd tied her up. He'd terrified
her beyond reason, probably made her think he was going to rape
her, too. Though his only intention had been to give her pleasure,
he'd been a bastard.

Once dressed, he again knelt by the bed and
slid a hand over her hair, offering what comfort he knew how. "I'm
sorry I tied you up. I didn't know."

"It is nothing."

"Nay, I was wrong to do it. I never meant to
frighten you."

She remained silent. He knew naught else to
say. How could he offer her comfort when his mere presence likely
scared her worse?

"I hope you can forgive me. Sleep now, and
I'll see you on the morrow."

He did not want to leave her like that. He
wanted to crawl in bed beside her, pull her against his chest and
stroke her, kiss her, 'til she felt better. 'Til she was happy. But
that would not happen. Feeling helpless and in the darkest mood
ever, he closed the door on the way out. In the sitting room,
Camille glared at him with tear-filled eyes, her fists clenched at
her sides.

"I didn't hurt her. I frightened her
unintentionally…but I didn't hurt her." He stalked through to his
own chamber.

The sounds of music and dancing carried up to
him from the great hall, but he was in no mood to celebrate. Hell,
he wanted to fight someone named Girard and seek vengeance for what
he'd done to Angelique.

"Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!"

Lachlan had never encountered a woman who'd
been raped before. The ladies who came to him enjoyed sex or wanted
to; he knew not how to deal with one who hated it, feared it.

But he hadn't hurt her. In the end, she
should see he wished her no harm.

After pacing about the room for a while, he
knew he wouldn't sleep. He exited and descended the steps. He'd
find that French bastard or whoever had brought the goblets.

***

Angelique woke from a shocking dream such as
she'd never had before. Her eyes were swollen and scratchy from
crying. One candle and a glow in the hearth provided the only
light. Had a dream or a memory wakened her? The heated, prickly
sensation of Lachlan softly kissing her body, rubbing the slight
stubble of his face upon her belly. He pressed her legs apart and
kissed between, stroking her in forbidden places. Licking her and
igniting a strange compelling fever within her. This was passionate
arousal, the first she'd felt in her life…and Lachlan had provoked
it.

He'd given her a climax. She'd heard women
speak of it in France—
la petite mort
—but she had not
imagined it to be so intense and all-consuming. She had thought
perhaps it would be mildly pleasurable, but the climax grabbed her
body and soul, something at the far edge of pleasure. Something
almost frightening. Indeed, like a little death.

Her body ached again now. Images flooded her
mind. She fantasized Lachlan returned to her, licked her and did
all sorts of lusty, forbidden things to her.

"I do not like it," she whispered.
Or
rather, I should not like it.
But somehow Lachlan had turned a
distasteful act into a spellbinding one. She yearned for his
magical touch in all her secret places. She pressed a hand against
her crotch. The pressure soothed the ache slightly, but she was
wet. He'd told her what that meant.

How could she want something she'd hated for
the last year? Something that sickened her and gave her nightmares?
Was it because Lachlan was an expert at seducing women? Or was it
something more?

He hadn't forced her. He could have; she was
tied up, helpless and at his mercy. Yet, he hadn't hurt her once.
All her fear had come from herself, not from what he'd done. He'd
even vowed to avenge her pain. Was Lachlan a man she could trust in
every way?

The moist ache in her lower belly would not
cease. It only grew stronger the more she thought of Lachlan. She
didn't want him to bed her, did she?

When she imagined his honed, muscular body
and his massive shaft, she should've been terrified…but she wasn't.
No, this image increased her arousal tenfold. Though she knew his
tarse would cause her untold pain, still she craved something about
it. She wondered what it would feel like in her hand. Hard as
stone, she knew. Would it feel hot? Smooth?

Or mayhap she only wanted to get the coupling
out of the way. She had been dreading this so long. If she did it
with him once, maybe the next time would not be so bad. And she did
need to do her duty and have a child, an heir. She wished to get
the act over with and appease this senseless arousal.

She slid out of bed and put on her wrap. When
she tied the belt, an idea occurred to her. She would tie him up
while he slept and seize control over him. She wouldn't fear him
half as much if he was restrained.

Taking the lone candle from the mantel, she
crept through the chill darkness of the sitting rooms to Lachlan's
chamber. She opened the door, praying the hinges wouldn't squeak,
and closed it back.

What am I doing? I have lost my sanity.

The flame revealed Lachlan in bed, asleep on
his back, one arm thrown over his head. The counterpane covered
half his chest. The bulging muscles of his chest, along with his
massive shoulders and arms brought back that restless ache. Could a
man be called beautiful? It made no sense…and yet, he was. A master
should sculpt him or paint him, as he slept like this.

She moved forward and placed the candle on
the bedside table. His breathing altered and she feared he'd
awakened. She stared at him for a half minute. No, he breathed deep
and even, eyes closed.

She removed her robe belt and wrapped it
around his wrist near the headboard. Now, the hard part…she gently
lifted his other arm.
Sacrebleu,
it was heavier than a tree
limb, but she pushed it above his head and tied it with the
remainder of the silk belt.

A snore escaped his nose. His chest rose and
fell slowly. What would she tie his ankles with? She glanced about.
Aha. She took his wide leather belt from the chair where it lay
atop his
plaide
. She placed his big feet side by side,
tightened the belt around his ankles, secured it to the footboard
post, then slid the end of the belt back underneath itself at his
ankles. Even a boar could not escape that.

She checked his eyes—still closed. Feeling a
bit giddy, she lowered the counterpane, revealing twin ridges of
muscles down his abdomen, an intriguing vertical band of muscle at
each hip bone. A silky line of dark gold hair led in a trail from
his navel down to the nest of hair his tarse sprang from. And it
did indeed spring up, pointing toward his navel.

She studied his closed eyes again. He hadn't
moved; his breathing was the same. She reached out a trembling hand
and pressed her fingertips to his shaft. The skin was feverish hot.
She jerked back.

Gathering courage, she touched it
again—smooth as polished oak. No, smoother, the skin silky, but the
flesh underneath like granite. The head was a different story. It
was wide, forming a sensual crest. She slid her hand over it. It
was firm but not as stone-hard as the rest, with velvety skin.