My Wild Highlander (20 page)

"Who is this gift from?" she whispered, her
gaze darting into the back corners of the hall. No tall, vicious
dark-haired man. No card or note inside the box.

"Who shall we thank for this lovely gift?"
Lachlan asked the large group filling the great hall.

Murmuring followed and several heads shook.
Some distance away, Camille's face paled.

Angelique's hands trembled and nausea rose
within her. Lachlan took the box from her and passed it to a
servant.

Mère de Dieu
. Girard had come to kill
her.

"What happened to the music?" Lachlan called,
motioning to the musicians. "Dance, everyone. Excuse us." He rose
and held his hand down to Angelique. "Come," he said to her in a
low voice. "I'm thinking you need a break from all the
celebrating."

She searched for Girard as Lachlan led her to
the nearby solar. He lit candles and checked the room for guests.
She had to speak with Camille immediately. Neither of them was
safe.

"What upset you so much about the goblets?"
Lachlan asked, stopping before her. His tone was compassionate, but
his amber eyes fierce. "You turned pale as a banshee and looked
terrified of a sudden."

As if he might see the answer in her eyes,
she lowered her gaze and shook her head. "Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Angelique. I promised I
wouldn't lie to you, and I expect you to promise me the same."

She squeezed her eyes closed, fear climbing
within her. "I cannot tell you."

"Why?" he asked, his tone harsher now.

She could not trust him with her deepest
secrets. "I can only say... I have seen the goblets before. They
were custom-made for a certain family. And the person who owned
them is... not a nice person."

"Is he French or English?" Lachlan
demanded.

"French."

"And you last saw the goblets in France?"

"Oui."

"What was this man to you?" Lachlan's voice
was now that of a hardened warrior.

Her heart lurched. If she wasn't careful he
would figure it out on his own. "I did not say this was a man."

"You also failed to correct me when I asked
if
he
was French or English."

"I cannot tell you."

"Cannot or will not?"

She could not think what to say and wished
only to escape this room and his questioning. During the silence,
Lachlan inhaled a deep breath as if tired. Or perhaps he was trying
to calm his anger.

"You can tell me anything, Ange," he
continued, his voice gentler now. "I am your husband. We will have
no secrets between us."

She shook her head, unable to trust anyone
with her horrid secrets, save Camille.

"After I have protected you this long, you
still refuse to trust me?" He sounded perplexed, perhaps even a bit
hurt.

"I trust you to protect me," she whispered.
Indeed, she did for he was a strong, skilled warrior.

Lachlan paced. "So, since the goblets are
here, I assume that means this man who is not so nice is here in
our home. Aye?" Pausing, he looked to her for confirmation.

"I did not see him; he might have sent
someone."

"Are you thinking the gift is a message?"

"Perhaps."

"What does the message mean?"

She was silent. But inside, she was
screaming. The message meant something too horrible to utter.

"Angelique, if you don't tell me what is
happening, or what happened in the past, I cannot protect you and
our clan. Is this man dangerous?"

"
Oui
, very dangerous."

"What has he done?"

No, she could not reveal that. At her
continued silence, he sighed.

"Why are you making this so damned difficult?
The whole clan could be in danger this very moment."

Perhaps she could tell him a bit. "His name
is Girard. Guy Laurent,
comte de
Girard... a very dangerous
man."

"What does he look like?" Lachlan's gaze
became piercing, like that of a golden eagle ready to strike a
rabbit with his talons.

"Tall and thin with dark hair. He used to
have a mustache and short beard." She moved toward the exit.

"What did he do? Why is he here?"

"That is all I can tell you... but indeed, he
is extremely dangerous. He wishes to see me and Camille dead." She
yanked open the door and ran to find Camille.

Lachlan yelled a curse behind her. She dashed
up the stairs to her sitting room where Camille waited.

"Where have you been?" Camille grabbed her
arm. They raced into the bedchamber.

Angelique slammed the door and barred it from
intruders. "Lachlan questioned me about the goblets," she
whispered, her voice shaking.

"What did you tell him?"

Knees weak, she lowered herself to the
settle. "That they must be from Girard and he is dangerous. I gave
him a description. That is all. I cannot tell him about..."

"What will Lachlan do?"

"I do not know. Increase security, I
assume."

"He will not give up until he knows the whole
story."

Angelique's stomach pained her. "I know. But
what if Girard is here? Either inside the castle or waiting outside
the walls?"

Camille knelt before the hearth and stirred
at the glowing fire coals with a poker, sending sparks shooting
upwards. "We should have made sure the viper was dead when we had
the chance." She almost growled the words.

"We are not murderers."

"No, we are not. But the bastard deserves to
die. It would be justice."

***

After Lachlan made sure Angelique entered her
guarded chambers, he headed toward the great hall. He would find
this Girard or his messenger. The bastard would not get away with
invading his home and frightening his wife. Damnation, but she
vexed him when she refused to reveal the whole truth to him. Why
did she mistrust him?

"My laird," called a female voice from the
shadows.

He halted, hand on his sword hilt, his gaze
searching the dark corners of the corridor.

Eleanor stepped from behind a column and
smiled. "Would you like to practice your swordplay skills?"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Surprised?"

"Aye. How did you gain entrance?"

She giggled. "Your guards were easily swayed
with a glimpse of my noble cleavage."

He ignored the way she thrust her breasts
toward him, jeweled pendants and necklaces dandling about them, her
bodice barely covering her nipples. "Who did you travel with?"

"No one but my servants."

"You must go. I'm married now." He headed
toward the great hall, determined to find out the implications of
the mysterious gift and search for the French knave.

When he glanced back, Eleanor was gone. He
despised it when the past came back to haunt him. He motioned to
his friends and Bryson, then led them to the solar. Once they were
inside, he posted a guard and closed the door.

"We have a problem," Lachlan said in a low
voice.

"Another one?" Rebbie asked.

"Aye. Angelique and I have good reason to
think a dangerous Frenchman is here, a nobleman named Guy Laurent,
comte de
Girard. Somehow he sent her a wedding gift, the
goblets. And it could be a veiled message or threat. Angelique said
the man wanted to kill her and Camille."

"Damnation! What does he look like?" Rebbie
asked.

"Tall and lean with dark hair, perhaps a
mustache and beard. He may be in disguise. I haven't yet determined
why he is here, but he poses a serious threat to Angelique. We must
protect her at all costs."

"If we find any Frenchmen, we'll detain
them," Bryson said.

"Good. Increase security tonight. Allow no
one else inside the walls. I want all the guards to watch the
guests carefully. Tomorrow, the guests we do not know well will
need to be sent on their way."

"Aye, m'laird." Bryson bowed, took the other
clansmen and left.

"Rebbie, Dirk." Lachlan closed the door.
"Eleanor is here."

"Who?"

"An English countess who does not need to be
here. I don't trust her."

"Oh, a lady you dallied with?" Rebbie
grinned.

"Aye. Angelique kens of our association.
She's jealous, and I don't want Eleanor causing trouble between
Angelique and me."

Dirk frowned. "What do you want us to do
about it?"

"Distract her. Seduce her. I don't care so
long as 'tis not a hanging offense. Tomorrow we'll send her away,
as well, along with most everyone else."

"Are you thinking we want your castoffs?"
Rebbie asked.

"You haven't complained before."

His friends scowled at that.

"Besides, she's a widow, deprived, eager, and
quite adventurous in the bedchamber. She has dark hair, fancy
clothing, jewels, and large breasts. You'll spot her easy
enough."

"You take her," Rebbie told Dirk.

"Nay, you."

"You're acting like a couple of green lads.
She is a wanton and she's looking for a man. Why are you
complaining?" Lachlan passed them on the way to the door. "Now, by
the saints, 'tis time for my wedding night."

"You'd think 'twas his first time," Rebbie
scoffed.

"If you don't mind, please make sure Eleanor
isn't hiding in my rooms. She had a habit of that in London."

Moments later, after a detour to the kitchens
for a fresh bottle of Brabant, Lachlan knocked at Angelique's
bedchamber door.

"Who is it?" Camille called.

"'Tis me. Lachlan."

Camille opened the door a crack and peered
out.

"Is Angelique well?" he asked.

She glanced back.

Angelique whispered in French in the
background. Something about telling him she was ill. While Camille
was distracted, he pushed his way inside.

"You are unwell, Angelique?" he asked.

Her eyes wide, his wife drew back, further
away from him. Was she frightened of him?

"Monsieur?"
Camille's voice rose in
concern.

"I wish to speak to my wife alone."

"Camille, stay." Angelique's voice was
uneven, panicked.

Lachlan's glare shifted from his wife to her
companion, and he hoped his meaning was clear. Besides, he would
tolerate no more lies, about illness or aught else.

"
Ange, pardonnez-moi.
I shall wait in
the sitting room," Camille said and hastened out.

Wise lass. He closed the door and barred
it.

Angelique stood stiff by the fire, her face
blanched. Fists clenched.

Just what he needed—someone terrifying his
wife on their official wedding night. It would take every shred of
his seduction skills to calm her now.

"You are ill? What is amiss?" he asked in a
calm voice, glad to see she had changed into a lacy smock and silk
wrap.

"My stomach is queasy and upset."

"I'm sure 'tis only nerves…and completely
understandable. I have increased security throughout the castle.
All the clansmen are guarding and looking for this Girard knave or
any Frenchmen."

"Very good."

"I told you from the first I would protect
you and I mean to," he said in what he hoped was his most soothing
voice. "There is naught to worry about now. You're safe."

"Merci."
She gave a stiff curtsey and
watched him with suspicious eyes.

He placed the wine on a table by the settle,
then slowly moved toward her and held out his hands. Hesitantly,
she took them. He kissed her bare fingers, savoring the feel of her
smooth, cool skin. Too cool. He had to distract her from her
fears.

"Come." He led her to the settle close to the
fire. When she tried to sit on the opposite end, he tugged and she
toppled to his lap. She tried to scramble away but he held her
tight.

"Shh. All is well. We are not in bed. I just
wish you to sit here for a moment so I can talk to you."

She perched rigidly on his lap, holding her
breath.

"Take a deep breath, love, afore you pass
out."

She flicked a glare at him but did as he
asked, inhaling audibly.

"Good. Just relax. I'm doing naught but
sitting here…and drinking wine." He uncorked the bottle of Brabant
and offered it to her.

She took a delicate sip.

"More." He did not wish to get her sotted,
but she did need the heat of it in her veins to calm her a wee
bit.

Once she'd had three sips, he took a hearty
swallow of the delectable honey and clove flavored wine, then
returned it to the table by his elbow.

Taking his time, he feasted his eyes upon her
beauty. Her flawless ivory skin was still far too pale, and her
vivid green eyes too wide and fearful. Her lips, which he craved,
were dark pink and lush. And her flaming ginger-colored hair
remained in tight coiled braids, as it had been during the
ceremony. He yearned to run his fingers through her silken curls
and spread them upon a pillow. He almost cursed at the powerful
arousal hardening his shaft and tensing his muscles, but he held
his tongue. First, he would help her calm down and forget her
troubles. 'Twas his responsibility to ensure she enjoyed their
wedding night as much as he would.

"You were exceptionally lovely today, as you
are now," he murmured, stroking her palm.

"Merci,"
she whispered.

"And how do I look?"

Her expression moved from surprise to the
beginning of a grin. "Lovely."

"Och. Lovely? I was thinking you might say
handsome or dashing."

The hint of amusement in her eyes grew a
fraction.

"What say you?" he asked.

"
Oui.
You are…handsome, my laird." Her
skin now glowed pink in the firelight—far better than her earlier
ashen color.

"Lachlan," he corrected.

She turned away. "
Oui,
Lachlan."

"What? I cannot hear you. Say it in my
ear."

Guarded, she searched his eyes.

He tapped his ear.