My Wild Highlander (8 page)

He pushed his hand around to her stomach and
drew her back. The heat of his skin near burned her through the
thin silk smock and caused a liquid swirling sensation low in her
belly beneath his hand.
Sacrebleu!
What was he doing to
her?

His body was a solid wall at her back. She
had not yet put on her stays and farthingale and his hard shaft
prodded her derriere. Her body's primitive instincts urged her to
arch her back and wantonly grind her hips against him.
Non!
She forced herself not to respond.

But she could not get the image of that part
of his body out of her head.

His other hand splayed on the upper part of
her chest, his fingertips stroking her throat even as he teased and
seduced the skin of her neck, her jaw line with his lips. She would
only need to turn her head a bit to experience another kiss like
the one in the chapel.

"Allow me to give you pleasure, Angelique,"
he whispered.

Her traitorous body sang with tingles and
strange yearnings. Her lungs locked down and she gasped for breath.
He was naught but the god of lust and fornication casting his spell
upon her.

"Saints, you're lovely. Your skin tastes like
honey."

What if he forced her?

"
Non
." She pulled away. "I do not want
to hear the practiced lies you tell your paramours."

"I was telling you true, lass." His deep
voice was softer than it had a right to be, a bit rough and
intimate. He waited quietly. "You're beautiful. As delectable as a
puff pastry I wish to taste every inch of."

She pressed her eyes tightly closed, willing
the images away—images of his mouth on her, all over—willing the
disturbing arousal to drain from her body and leave her cold. But
it was stubborn. And dear heaven, his voice was as persuasive as
his touch.

"We are wed," he said. "There is no
shame."

She forced air into her lungs. "I do not
care. You will not touch me."
You will not hurt me. You will not
take away my control.
A tear slipped from beneath her lashes.
With her back to him he would not see it, thank the saints.

He released a tired breath and stepped
away.

"Mayhap one of your paramours will give you a
wedding night you will enjoy."

He muttered blunt words in a language she
didn't understand, Erse, without doubt. Good, she had driven him
away. Excellent indeed, even though her body was frustrated and
restless. She fought down her own irrational desires.

A loud knock sounded at the door. She jumped
and quickly swiped the damnable tears away.

He yanked on his long-tailed shirt and opened
the door. After murmuring a few words she couldn't understand, he
handed the rolled up, bloody sheet to one of the king's men and
locked the door back.

"We leave on one of the king's smaller
galleons for Perth in a half hour." Lachlan finished dressing. He
spent so much time glaring at Angelique's rigid back that he did a
shoddy job pleating his kilt. The damned cut on his abdomen stung
like a bee possessed of a kelpie.

Devil take having a wife. He should've known
this would happen. Luscious, alluring, hell-hated wench.

God's teeth, he yearned for her. Her skin was
like finest ivory silk sheened with honey dust. And her mouth, when
he'd kissed her in the chapel, had tasted like—he didn't know what.
But he hadn't been able to resist dipping his tongue inside for a
fuller taste. He wished to suckle her tongue like a sweet comfit
even as he slid himself deep inside her and near drowned in her wet
pleasure. He wished to take her hard and fast, while she
moaned—nay—screamed his name and begged for more.

His tarse further hardened at the image.

"
Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!
" He should go
out and find some willing lady to swive, just as his loving wife
had suggested. 'Haps he could even locate Eleanor. But that was
exactly what Angelique wanted. He would not prove her right if he
had to become a beef-witted monk.

He slammed the bedchamber door on the way out
and hastened down the wide staircase. Plush carpets underfoot and
the gleam of gilt from the shadows told him this was an elegant
home, far different from the old, but beloved Highland castle he'd
grown up in. He joined his friends and the king's retainers in the
library.

They dropped silent and turned curious eyes
toward him when he entered. This was nothing new; he was used to
being stared at for one reason or another. He proceeded to a table
and poured himself a generous helping of sherry.

Rebbie approached hesitantly. What the hell
was wrong with everyone? Was his scowl that fearsome?

"Should we send for a physician?" his friend
asked in a low tone.

"What for?" Hoping they didn't know he'd cut
himself, he glanced down at his shirt. No blood seeping through as
of yet.

"Your wife," Rebbie whispered.

"Why? She was fit as a shrew-fed badger last
time I saw her."

Rebbie clamped his lips between his teeth for
a moment, fighting hard to keep from laughing.

"What the devil is wrong with you?"

"We feared you'd killed Lady Angelique when
you bedded her."

"Oh, that. Nay. She's a strong lass, half
Scottish, you ken."

He wouldn't have to keep up the pretense for
long. In short order, he'd have her aching for his attentions and
clamoring for a goodly piece of paradise betwixt his sheets.

***

The coach lumbered along the rough street,
through holes and ruts that jarred the teeth. Angelique sat
stiffly, fully clothed this time and tried to avoid Camille's
direct gaze.

"What did he do to you?" Camille whispered in
French after a long while.

"Nothing."

"But all that blood. The men were
talking."

"I will tell you later but it is nothing to
worry about." Angelique tried to sort through her jumbled feelings
about her scoundrel of a husband. Though she was loath to admit it,
Lachlan had been the epitome of a hero when he'd cut himself. Not
only did he not force himself on her, but he'd covered for her lack
of virginity to appease the king. But afterward, the way he'd
touched her and the thrilling yet frightening sensations he'd
wrought in her body…that was the perplexing part.

"Did you couple with him?" Camille asked.
"Did he force you?"

"
Non.
But you must tell no one."

Her cousin remained silent a long while. "You
cannot deny your husband forever."

Angelique knew that, but she would keep him
at bay as long as possible. They would need an heir of course, and
she would do her duty. But she dreaded the task.

Some part of her feared if she let him tear
down her wall, she could not re-erect it. If she let him in, he
would take advantage of her in every way, walking over her and
asserting his control over all aspects of her life, her estate, her
clan. She feared he would force his way into her bed and into her
body. Worse, she feared he'd use another tactic, a manipulative
one, forcing his way into her heart. And then expect her to accept
his whoring.

He wasn't like Girard, the oafish swine.
Already, Lachlan's kiss…she could think of little else, except his
nude body which he'd proudly displayed, hoping to arouse her, she
was certain. He knew of naught but seduction. The man was deluded
and full of himself.

"He will seek out the favors of other women,"
Camille said.

"
Oui
, he will anyway, sooner or later,
whether I lie with him or not. Men like him tire of one woman
easily."

"Hmm. Maybe you will also find a brawny
Scottish lover once we reach Draughon," Camille purred.

"I do not want one," Angelique snapped.

"Very well, but I do."

Angelique wished she could be so blasé about
the coupling. And she knew her cousin was but trying to erase some
of her fears about it.

An influx of galloping and neighing horses
surrounded their coach. The conveyance sped up. Pistol shots rang
out.

"
Mère de Dieu
!" Heart lodged in her
throat, Angelique held on. Had Kormad caught them?

"Halt!" a male voice outside yelled.

More shots popped; burning gunpowder filled
the air. Shouts in English and Gaelic echoed off the buildings. The
coach slowed to a stop.

"
Merde!
This cannot be good." Camille
blew out the lamp and bolted onto the bench seat with her. They
flattened themselves against the back, away from the windows.

"Kormad will kill us if we do not do
something," Angelique said.

More pistol shots exploded and swords
clashed. What if he'd already killed Lachlan. No, she could not
bear to think of it.

"Ready yourself." Angelique removed the
dagger from her pocket. This would not be the first time she and
Camille had fought for their lives.

"I will shoot their stones off," Camille
whispered, drawing a small pistol from her pocket.

"I did not know you had that." Angelique
wished she hadn't left her own pistol in her trunk, now on top of
the coach. "Is it loaded?"

"
Oui.
Why would I have it
otherwise?"

Angelique peered out the window, saw no one,
and stretched her neck further. She recognized the poor man lying
on the ground as their driver. Another man crawled from beneath the
coach and sidled toward the front.

Angelique ducked back inside. "They've killed
our driver and now someone is trying to make off with this coach.
We must get out and hide."

Camille nodded and opened the opposite door.
They both slid out into the muddy darkness. Clutching Camille's
hand in hers and dragging her along, Angelique crossed behind the
coach and searched for a safe place to hide. The shadows of the
buildings were pitch black.

"Get back inside!" yelled a man sitting atop
a large horse.

She didn't know whether he was one of
Lachlan's men or one of Kormad's.

"Damnation," the man muttered and glanced
away. "MacGrath!"

The stolen coach started rolling away.
Another horse galloped by. The rider leaned down and snatched
Camille off her feet. She screamed and dropped her pistol.

Chapter Four

Angelique snapped up Camille's pistol, aimed
at the fleeing abductor's back and pulled the trigger. A shot
exploded from the small weapon, jarring both her arms, the scent of
gunpowder burning her nose. The man cried out and dropped Camille
from the horse. She toppled to the ground.

"
Sacrebleu!
" Ignoring her stinging
hand, Angelique rushed forward and knelt by her cousin, touched her
face. "Camille?"

Horseshoes clattered on cobblestones, but she
could not take her eyes off Camille's still face.

"God's bones! Why did you not stay in the
coach?" Lachlan demanded with thickening burr. He dismounted and
crouched beside her with a torch. The heat from it near scorched
her skin.

Camille's blood painted the cobblestones red.
Mère de Dieu
,
have I caused her to die?
Angelique
crossed herself, vile nausea coiling in her stomach. "They killed
the driver!" she told Lachlan. "Another man was going to steal our
coach. I saw him."

"And now he's dead, too. We wouldn't have let
them take you." His voice was rough, almost a growl.

"You were outnumbered."

"Nay, we were not. We had the situation under
control."

She pressed her eyes closed, forcing the
burning tears out. "I did not know. Pray, forgive me, Camille."
Bending, Angelique placed her ear before Camille's mouth and nose.
Breaths puffed out, warming her ear.

"She lives! Thanks be to God. Help me with
her."

Lachlan handed the torch to his English
friend, Miles, then gently slipped his arms beneath Camille and
lifted her. Angelique followed him to the coach and helped him
position her cousin comfortably on the seat.

"
Merci.
"

"Do not leave the coach again until I tell
you to!" Lachlan slammed the door.

She wanted to fling a sharp retort at him,
but she deserved a much worse scolding for hurting Camille. The
coach lurched forward, knocking Angelique to the floor. Damnable
driver.

"Camille?" She patted her cousin's face,
wishing she had cold water to bathe it in. Camille was the person
she cared about most in the world, like a sister, and she'd
endangered her life. "I pray you will forgive me. Please wake
up."

Shots rang out again.

Merde!
She ducked low over her
cousin.

An onslaught of clomping horses' hooves
approached from an alley and the coach sped up, jostling along
rutted streets. The new driver shouted commands at the team and
snapped a whip in the air. When the pistol shots echoed further
away, she peered out. The king's guards were thick around them.

"
Grâce à Dieu
," she said when the
coach ground to a halt. The salt scent of the ocean, the clanging
of a bell, and the water slapping the hulls of the creaking ships
told her they'd reached the wharf.

Lachlan wrested open the door. "Come. We must
hurry."

***

A half hour later, Camille, still
unconscious, lay in the captain's cabin on the lower berth. A small
hanging lantern provided illumination. Angelique fingered her
Rosary beads and paced, praying her cousin would awaken. She had
bathed her face in water over and over but it proved of no
benefit.

"
O Marie, s'il vous plaît
—" A sharp
knock sounded at the door. She jumped. "
Qui est-ce?
"

"Lachlan."

She opened the narrow door.

"The ship's barber surgeon went ashore
earlier and cannot be found. I sent for a physician but he hasn't
yet arrived. The captain says we must leave forthwith because of
the tide." Lachlan glanced at Camille. "Och! She has awakened?"