My Wild Highlander (7 page)

She pulled him aside. "Have you lost your
mind? We cannot marry now. Not like this," she whispered
loudly.

"Aye, 'tis necessary to marry in secret.
Someone wishes to kill us. They are wanting your estate through any
means, fair or foul." His harsh expression told her of the
seriousness of the matter. "King James bid us to go ahead and
marry. Now. We have the special license."

"But I must wear my wedding gown and I did
not bring it. I will not marry in my shift and a blanket.
Barefoot."

"No time." Lachlan dragged her before the
minister. "Please begin." He placed his hand over hers, tucked
against his elbow.

The minister began in a dry monotone.

Parbleu!
Angelique felt paralyzed for
a moment, her mind racing. What to do? She glanced aside and found
Camille standing barefoot, dressed much as she was. She gave an
almost imperceptible nod and faint smile, her gaze steady. She
approved?
Merde!

How preposterous Angelique should get married
in such dishabille. Her hair was a bedraggled disaster, tousled and
hanging to her waist. She was a countess, not a prostitute. Since
she had been a small child she had dreamed of the day she would
wear her mother's enchanting French wedding gown, say her vows and
kiss her own charming prince.

Today was not that day. That day would never
come. She glanced up at Lachlan, and sensed some understanding in
his eyes, a silent communication she could not fully grasp because
she didn't know him. Lowering her gaze, she thought of the emerald
ring on her finger and how he'd given it to her on bended knee. A
romantic gesture, but had he meant it in the way she hoped?

Mère de Dieu, do not let this be a mistake.
Do not let him slip inside my heart and destroy it. I cannot dare
trust him.

Lachlan nudged her. "Say 'I will,'" he
whispered without moving his lips.

"I will," she said in a strong voice. She
could have been agreeing to anything. The minister droned on. In
shock, wishing this over with, she let her attention slide away to
other things, the creaking of the old building, Lachlan's warm,
slightly roughened fingers on hers as he pushed another ring onto
her finger, a shiny gold band.

"With this ring, I thee wed. This gold and
silver, I thee give. With my body, I thee worship." Lachlan's
smooth baritone voice reciting those vows stripped away the fog.
Her attention riveted upon him, and she knew she would remember
this moment forever.

She repeated her own vows rather stiffly, in
a halting voice. Only Lachlan's steady hands kept her upright. She
wanted to do nothing but burst into tears, though she didn't know
why. The way she was dressed—or rather undressed—like a whore for
her wedding, or the satisfied, hopeful expression in his eyes, such
a contrast to her own misery.

Naturally, he should be pleased. He would be
an earl and worth a goodly sum. Her possessions became his. He
owned her now.

Sliding his fingers into her unbound hair,
Lachlan lowered his head toward her and panic tightened her throat.
He touched his lips to hers, the first contact startling, but warm
and compelling. His full lips sipped at hers gently, drew away a
breath and came back for a firmer, more possessive kiss. His beard
stubble rasped her chin and the tip of his tongue tasted her lips,
between. Such an unexpected and erotic action. She could not even
draw breath.

Whistles and yelps from his friends echoed
into the rafters. The minister cleared his throat.

I must shove him away
. But no, she
couldn't. Not because he was her husband, but because the damnable
seducer had mesmerized her.

***

"With my body, I thee worship," Angelique
whispered next to the velvet draperies of the room they'd locked
her in alone at the earl of Knightly's residence.

Lachlan's eyes, as he'd said those words, had
gleamed gold and sincere. He knew her not. How could he look at her
as if she were the only woman in the world? When but days ago he
had been fornicating with two different women in the space of two
nights.

He was a talented liar. So good at it, so
good at everything…especially kissing. The moment they'd sealed
their vows had been the most shockingly arousing of her life—in a
church, no less. The kiss couldn't have lasted more than five
seconds, but had instigated such conflictive feelings within
her.

The bedchamber door opened and closed back
with a soft thud. Her new husband sauntered toward her in the dark
English clothing he'd worn for the wedding. It lent him a dashing
grace with his light hair pulled into a queue. A mask was all he
required to become the epitome of a roguish highwayman. A pistol
grip and the polished steel basket hilt of his sword gleamed at his
waist.

What did one say to a new husband? Especially
when she didn't trust him…nor herself.

"You did not wear your belted plaid," she
said to fill the void.

He halted two yards away. "Nay. Draws too
much attention here in London, and 'tis best to wear black for
secret movements at night. I'm hoping my father was not here in
spirit to witness it. I wouldn't have any of the MacGrath clan ken
I wore English clothes to mine own wedding."

"They are better than a shift and a
blanket."

"I'm sorry for that, but it couldn't be
helped. We'll have another ceremony at Draughon Castle, afore your
clan—our clan—if you wish. You can wear your wedding gown
then."

His words disoriented her. "In truth?"

"Aye. Would you not like that?" His gaze
remained steady and sincere upon her.

"
Oui.
But…why do you care?"

"Why should I not care?"

She shook her head. "You are a man."

"Aye. And?" Waiting, he stared at her with
lifted brows.

"Men have no patience for…never mind."

"I have much patience. I'm not a demonic goat
as you assume." With that he removed his sword belt and started
disrobing, throwing each article of the rich clothing into a heap
on a chair. First his doublet, then waistcoat and trews. He was
certainly acting like a goat with his lack of modesty.

She turned her gaze to the window before he
removed the long shirt.
Parbleu
, she could not look at him
unclothed. Could she?

She cleared her throat. "Where is your
Highland clothing?"

"I don't ken. In one of these trunks, I'm
thinking."

Her gaze darted to his nakedness, then away.
Sweet heavens. He possessed defined muscles as if he were carved in
warm, burnished marble, like the statues she'd seen in Italy. A
wickedly improved version of Michelangelo's David with a pagan's
long golden mane. A feverish heat consumed her.

She forced air into her constricted lungs.
"Need I remind you this is a marriage in name only?" Was she
proclaiming that to him or herself?

"The king wants the marriage consummated to
make it legal and binding."

The king? Plague take the king.
She
had done what he commanded. But her body was her own, to give to
whom she chose, when she chose.

"Tonight," he added.

She stared at a blue vase of white lilies on
the dresser, surprised it did not shatter beneath her glare. "I do
not care what the king wants."

"Are you wanting to be the one to tell him
that?" A tinge of amusement crept into Lachlan's voice.

"
Non.
"

"Well, then." Lachlan waited. "He wishes
proof given to his men within the hour."

"Proof?" Her gaze darted to him again. He
still had not donned clothing, damn him. She gave him her back.

"Aye. Your virgin's blood on the sheet."

"The king is naught but a Scottish
barbarian!"

Lachlan snickered. "Indeed. 'Haps you would
like to tell him that as well."

"I have no virgin's blood. I am not a
virgin." There, she hoped that shocked him speechless.

"I'd heard," he said in a mild, almost
pleasant tone. The bastard.

"From whom?"

"It matters not." He strode toward the other
side of the room and flipped open his trunk. "But I didn't ken the
king would want a bloody sheet until a short time ago. I'm not
saying I agree with it, but he's the king. To oppose him is not
wise. Besides, he but wants to assure the marriage is legal and
your estate is secure."

Did Lachlan not care she wasn't a virgin?
Most men—husbands—would be furious. She peeped at him from the
corner of her eyes. His back was toward her, and she could not help
but stare at his wide, muscular shoulders, arms thick from swinging
a sword, his narrow waist and compact derriere.
Sacrebleu!
All men were not built like him. The sight of his nude body usurped
her other thoughts, even her anger.

"Aha." He withdrew his plaid, a linen shirt
and various other articles of clothing along with a flask. He threw
his clothes on the foot of the bed and unsheathed a small
knife.

She backed up a step. "What are you…?"

He flung back the covers to expose the white
linen sheet. He stared at her then down at his own body. "Which
part of my body do I wish to mutilate?"

None of it!
Was he a lunatic? Though
he already had several pale scars on his chest, arms and leg, she
didn't want to see a fresh wound.

"God's bones. The things I'll do for a
hellish woman." He opened the pewter flask, drank a long swallow,
and then poured some of the liquid upon the knife blade. He set the
flask on the bedside table and climbed onto the huge bed to sit
upon his knees.

"My first battle wound for you, sweet wife."
With a flick of his wrist, he placed a short cut on his abdomen
several inches above his waist.

"
Ma foi!
" She covered her mouth and
gaped at him. What in Heaven's name possessed him?

His blood dripped onto the pristine sheet for
a few seconds. He smeared it in. "There's your virgin's blood,
lass. And don't be telling anyone how it got there." Glaring at
her, he yanked at the top sheet and pressed it against his cut.
"Damn, who kenned I was such a free-bleeder?"

She rushed forward. "You have cut yourself
too deeply. Lie down."

He obeyed. "'Tis but a scratch. But I am oft
too enthusiastic about things. Here, pour some of this on it." He
handed her the flask from the table.

"What is that?"

"
Uisge beatha.
Water of life. The
best, made in the Highlands of course. Take a sip."

The strong whisky burned her nose.
"
Non.
" She poured a dribble on his wound.

He jerked, breath hissing through his
teeth.

She pressed hard against the sheet over his
cut. The material draped down, covering his man parts, thank
heavens, or she would've been too nervous to remain this close to
him. He was her husband,
oui,
but something about him defied
her to touch him, like a hot kettle. He would sear her in the same
manner as that kiss at their debacle of a wedding.

"Are you in pain?"

"Nay. 'Tis fine now, I'm thinking." He lifted
the edge of the sheet.

"I shall make you a wrap for it, else you
will bleed on your clothing and our ruse will be for naught." She
ripped the bottom edge off the sheet. "Stand,
s'il vous
plaît
."

Again he obeyed her, rising without the sheet
to cover him. "You enjoy ordering me about, aye?"

She tried not to let her gaze drift below his
waist as she wrapped the strip of cloth around his trim, muscled
abdomen, but his male member was impossible to ignore, especially
when it appeared larger each time she happened to glimpse it. She
thought her imagination was playing tricks on her, but then it
started jutting out toward her.

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.