My Wild Highlander (37 page)

Outside, in the barmkin, men shouted, giving
her a start.

"Stay here," Lachlan said and moved toward
the entrance along with his brother and several more men.

Two guards entered and talked quietly with
Lachlan and Alasdair.

Lachlan returned to her side. "Kormad, Girard
and their men are outside the gates."

Chapter Seventeen

"I never suspected Kormad and Girard would
find us," Lachlan said to Alasdair as they donned studded leather
armor in the armory. Rebbie, Dirk and the MacGrath clansmen
prepared themselves in a like fashion, choosing weapons.

"'Tis better this way," Alasdair said. "We
shall defeat them here. On our home sod we shall have the
advantage."

"How many men with them?" Lachlan asked.

"About two dozen."

"I hate to see any of the Drummagans killed.
I'm supposed to be their chief."

"Aye, but if they ride with Kormad, they're
traitors. You don't want a man in your clan who isn't loyal."

Lachlan knew it was true. Still, he'd failed
them. Why hadn't the Drummagans trusted him? Why had they turned
against him so easily?

Once they had their weapons and targes, they
headed outside into the snow and icy wind. Evening descended,
casting the barmkin in gloom.

"Hand him over!" Kormad demanded when
Alasdair and Lachlan were some twenty yards from the closed iron
gates. "He is a fugitive wanted in Perth for murder and rape."

"Trumped up by you," Lachlan said.

One of Kormad's men fired a pistol through
the bars.

Alasdair and Lachlan dove for cover behind a
wall. The MacGrath archers on the battlements rained down arrows
onto Kormad's men. Amid shouts, more pistol shots exploded from
both sides. Another volley of arrows flew from above, all landing
outside the gates.

"You bastard, Lachlan MacGrath," Girard
yelled in French.

The mere sound of his voice lit a fuse of
rage within Lachlan. "I shall kill that craven whoreson if 'tis the
last thing I do!" He had already told his brother in confidence
what Girard had done to Angelique.

"Is he the man with one arm?"

"Aye, she got a bit of revenge. Shot the
bastard's arm off."

Alasdair sent him an unholy grin. "Both our
wives have a bloodthirsty streak."

"We are fortunate." Lachlan peered from
behind the wall and a shot whizzed over his head. He ducked. "God's
teeth!"

He lay on the ground and aimed at the
whoreson—one of Kormad's hired mercenaries—and fired. The man
jerked and howled. Lachlan slid behind the wall again. His comrades
fired in retaliation.

Kormad's men shot flaming arrows toward the
windows and roof of Kintalon. Good thing Alasdair had ordered all
the shutters closed. Moments later, some of the flaming arrows flew
downward again from the roof to strike at the men who'd lit
them.

"Retreat!" Kormad ordered. The men
disappeared from the gates.

Alasdair rallied his men and moments later,
they all rode out on horseback, making sure the gates closed behind
them. Several guards remained to defend the castle.

"Capture them if you can," Alasdair
yelled.

***

Through a crack in one of the shutters,
Angelique watched the MacGrath men give chase to Kormad's and even
members of her own clan—those who'd turned traitor. In the evening
light, she picked out Lachlan's figure; he rode at the head of the
men beside his brother. Her stomach aching, she crossed herself.
Mère de Dieu, protect him.

She glanced aside to find Gwyneth with her
eyes closed, her face white. Then with watery blue eyes, she met
Angelique's gaze. "Every time Alasdair rides out on that black
warhorse…" Swallowing hard, she shook her head.

Angelique knew. Life was incredibly fragile,
even that of a trained, armored warrior. "I am so sorry to have
brought this trouble to your clan."

"'Twas not your fault. And I can see you're
worried about Lachlan."

"
Oui.
He takes too many risks. Thinks
he is immortal."

"All men do."

Angelique nodded, remembering how Lachlan was
a free bleeder and prayed he would suffer no injuries.

A while later, moonlight reflected off the
snow and the riders returning, shouting. Hooves clattered on
cobblestones in the barmkin. Angelique's pulse spiked. Where was
Lachlan? Through the window she could not tell who was who in the
darkness, despite the few torches. She and Gwyneth ran down the
steps to the entrance.

When Gwyneth opened the thick door, icy cold
pierced Angelique's clothing. She had not thought of a wrap or
cloak. They peered through the cracked door. The MacGraths unloaded
bound men from the horses and shepherded their prisoners toward the
far corner of the castle.

"They're taking them to the dungeon," Gwyneth
said. "Listen." She let out a breath. "That's Alasdair talking,
giving orders. Thanks be to God. There he is with Lachlan." She
pointed.

A man with light hair separated himself from
the mass of teaming men and horses. She recognized his stride.
Angelique whispered a prayer of thanks. In her heart, she now
believed he had not betrayed her. She was afraid she had fallen
foolishly in love with him. If only he would feel the same.

***

A half hour later, Lachlan followed the other
men into the great hall, the heat from the two hearths welcome on
his cold skin. With Kormad and Girard captured, they were halfway
to his goal of reclaiming Draughon. His eyes scanned the large room
for his wife.

Someone tugged on his arm and pulled him into
an embrace. Red curls filled his vision. Angelique pressed herself
to his chest and her lavender-rose scent filled his senses.
Unexpected excitement buzzed through him. Not just sexual
excitement either, which surprised him. He could only describe it
as happiness.

"Angelique?"

Taking his hand, she pulled him into the less
crowded stairwell, slid a hand around his neck and reached up for a
kiss. What had he done to deserve this? He tried to tease her and
hold back. But her breath upon his lips was sweet torment. He moved
closer and she pressed her lips firmly against his. A thrill shot
through him. She was hot, alluring and delightful.

He kissed her as he'd yearned to for days,
deep and lusty, the sweet taste of her going to his head,
bewitching him. She must have forgiven him. When she tried to climb
higher, get closer to him, he picked her up, pressing her into the
corner of the stone wall, giving her another thorough kiss.

Two MacGrath clansmen passed on the steps,
whistling and making sounds of bawdy encouragement.

Everyone did love to tease him. Grinning,
Lachlan set her down and shielded her from their view. After making
sure they were gone, he observed his wife, her eyes dark, her lips
parted and red. He had an erection that wasn't likely to leave
soon.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"I worried for you. I am glad you are well."
Her voice was breathy and feminine, her accent more pronounced.
Just like the other time he'd returned from a skirmish with Kormad,
she was extremely affectionate…and likely aroused. Saints! The
things he wanted to do to her, if only he could get her alone. But
now was not the time.

"Indeed, I'm well. I have to go back into the
dungeon to question the men we captured. We must get to the bottom
of these false papers and charges against us. 'Twill likely take
several hours."

***

Later that night, a sound woke Angelique.
Water splashing. The fire burned low but revealed Lachlan's naked
form across the bedchamber where he washed himself at the basin.
His body glowed like sculpted bronze in the firelight.

"What did you learn?" she asked.

He turned. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was." She'd tried to stay awake and wait
for him but must have slept a short time.

He finished bathing and dried his face, arms
and the rest of his body with a cloth. Without even trying, he
seduced her with his raw sensuality, his confident movements and
those delicious muscles. His shaft was relaxed but starting to grow
larger as he approached the bed and sat on the edge. "I'm glad I
woke you, then."

"Why?" Though she wanted to ask him about the
prisoners, she wanted to touch him more.

"Because." He lifted her hand and kissed the
back of her fingers. "You're more fun awake."

Without thought, she turned her hand, her
fingertips brushing the prickly stubble of his cheek, her thumb
stroking his full lips. He had a mouth designed for sinful kisses
and she trembled in some deep part of herself with the need to
taste his lips and drink in his breath. His gaze burned into her
with dark gold flame. His brows lowered; his jaw clenched. He
kissed the sensitive pads of her fingers, her palm. Oh, such tingly
heat…it raced from her hand, up her arm, to her breasts, then
spread down her body. His tongue touched her palm, producing a
sharp ache within her.

She sat up and quickly pressed her lips to
his. Her heart leapt.
You are mine, Lachlan
. "You are mine."
A noise escaped her, halfway between a cry and a gasp. She had not
meant to say the words aloud.

"Aye, lass, I'm yours. And you're mine," he
breathed against her lips.

"I did not mean—"

"Shh." He took possession of her lips again
and urged her to lie back on the pillow.

Her mind would not function while his mouth
seduced with hot licks and possessive thrusts of his tongue.

She took great handfuls of his hair, twining
the silken strands around her fingers to better hold his head while
she feasted upon his mouth. No matter his sins, no matter if he
shattered her heart again tomorrow, she could not deny herself this
moment of bliss.

Between kisses, he murmured and whispered to
her in a language she knew not.
What…what are you saying?
But no words would emerge from her. She craved air, and his breath.
All over, her skin tingled, needing his touch. He untied the belt
of her wrap, pushed up her silk smock, stroking his rough palm over
her thigh and hip. Hot shivers coursed through her. She arched her
back and allowed him to remove her garments.

"Och, Angelique, you are so lovely." He
fastened his lips onto her nipple, both his hands supporting her
back. He devoured her, licked and sucked, his beard stubble rasping
her breasts during the overwhelming pleasure.

Lying down beside her, he returned to her
mouth with the consuming kisses, his big hand now cradling her
derriere, sliding down to lift her thigh. He aligned her to his
body, his muscles unyielding to her soft flesh, his stone-hard
shaft pressing against her lower belly. Insistent, demanding. Just
inside, she yearned for him, aching for him to impale her with that
male weapon.

He was everywhere at once, his heat, his
hardness, his sensual mouth. She released a gasping cry of
frustration, of wanting what he would never give her. Not just his
body but his heart. "Lachlan, damn you." She seized his shaft in
her hand, firmly, his skin fever-hot and silky, the flesh beneath
like steel. She wished to possess him, body and soul, so he would
never look at another woman. Never know another woman existed. No
one but her. She stroked him up and down. He growled more of those
foreign words, his hips flexing, jaw clenching.

He twisted abruptly, escaping her hold and
pinning her beneath him. Between her thighs, his hand explored her
hidden places. His fingers slicked over her, and she knew she was
very wet for him, craving that he drive himself as deep as he could
into her, without mercy.

"Mmm." He bit his lip. His eyes, staring into
hers, reflected dark lust, his lids lowered. She imagined those
terse Gaelic words rolling off his tongue had sinful and sexual
meanings. Or was their meaning more emotional?

She thrust her hips toward him. Surely her
need was clear.

He trembled—she thought—as he pushed her
thighs wider and rose to his knees. He took his shaft in hand and
stroked it against her burning, tingling flesh. She gasped and
thrust her hips again.
Yes, do it.

She held her breath when he pushed inside
her, that invasion she obsessed about. At first shallow, making her
yearn for more, but with each stroke, he slid deeper. More and
more, he challenged her limits with his size. It was not pain she
felt, but an erotic stretching sensation that soon gave way to pure
blissful pleasure. His broad, muscled shoulders above her fueled
her need for him. So delicious was he, she savored everything about
him. His gaze, locked on hers, communicated things no words of any
language could express. Connection, emotion, intensity.

He dropped over her, an elbow beside her
head, and brushed his lips against hers. Losing control, she cried
out with each sensation he propelled through her body.

Then his breath burned against her ear. She
stroked her palms over his beard stubble, his sweaty face and into
his hair, pushing it back. His finger teased her magical spot just
above where his body joined with hers. The tingles became a
maelstrom too intense to bear. Something propelled her off the edge
of the world, shattering her with that euphoria only Lachlan knew
how to draw forth from her.

He ground into her hard, shuddering with deep
growling sounds and foreign words. Seconds passed as time seemed
suspended.

His breaths came in great gasps as he
withdrew and dropped to the bed beside her. "Saints! Angelique," he
rasped. "You'll be the death of me with that kind of bedsport."

While he held her, she lay with her forehead
against his upper chest. Oh, the things she wished for…that he be
hers alone, forever. That they share this intimacy every night and
every day. That he might grow to love her. That she could love him
without fear he would shatter her heart on a whim.