My Wild Highlander (3 page)

"I thank you." Lachlan bowed and made his way
toward his own bedchamber, trying not to think of the future or
what he'd committed himself to. Could be hell itself.

From the passageway, he carried a lit candle
into the darkened room. A breathy female voice called out his name
in a sing-song fashion and a giggle floated from the draped bed. A
second of excitement ignited within him when he thought of Lady
Angelique, perhaps come for a surprise visit, but it could not be
her. Unless she'd come to murder him. He parted the curtains.

Eleanor lay naked upon the velvet coverlet,
gazing at him with heavy darkened eyes. "I am ready for you," she
breathed.

He surveyed her ivory skin, her rosy, hard
nipples highlighting full breasts, the dark patch of hair at the
apex of her shapely thighs, but he felt nothing. No heat of arousal
curled through him as it had the first time he'd seen her.

What the devil was wrong with him? He didn't
want a naked, willing woman?

"You must go. I'm not in the mood."

He let the curtain drape back into place and
set the candle on the mantel.

"What?"

He poured himself some sherry and took a
hefty swig. By the saints, was he changing his ways?

Nay, he was just…distracted. Preoccupied with
the startling turn of events. Worried he'd stepped in a huge pile
of horse dung.

Behind him, she struggled from the bed. "I
heard about your reward from the king."

"Already?" He turned and watched her shove
her arms into a silk smock.

"I knew before you did. She is not a virgin,
you know."

Indeed?
"Nor am I."

Eleanor smirked. "She's a French whore and
you shall never see a moment's happiness with her. She will never
please you in bed."

"From what I've heard, French whores are
excellent in bed."

"You shall regret this!"

"Aye, likely I will," he muttered, but what
else had he to do? Keep wandering about, looking for adventures and
women? Now, he saw the futility of it. The pursuit of revelry was
losing its appeal. What would his friend Rebbie say to that?

"A title and estate do not require your
faithfulness," Eleanor snapped.

"Who said anything about faithfulness?"

"Then why are you throwing me out?"

Not wanting to insult her, he simply lifted a
shoulder. In truth, he even surprised himself with how rapidly he'd
tired of Eleanor. "As I said, I'm not in the mood."

"All the men want to marry her, but she will
have none of them, save Philippe. What makes you think she'll have
you?"

"She will obey the king, I suspect."

"I wouldn't place a wager upon it. You won't
last long anyway. Kormad will grind you to sausage in no time."

"Who?"

"The baron of Kormad. Sorley MacGrotie."

"Ah." A Lowland Scotsman he'd met almost a
fortnight ago. He had not been impressed with the man, medium of
stature with a sizable gut. He would be clumsy on the battlefield.
"Is he Angelique's distant cousin, next in line to inherit?"

"Yes. And the rumor is he will let nothing
stand in the way of what he wants."

***

After Eleanor left, Lachlan slipped from his
bedchamber and along the dark corridor. He'd traded his kilt for
black trews and cowl. His basket-hilted broadsword thumped against
his thigh.

Sorley MacGrotie. The longer Lachlan thought
of the bastard, the more his sword hand ached to grip a hilt. How
badly did the baron of Kormad want to be an earl? And what would he
do to achieve his goal?

He will let nothing stand in the way of
what he wants,
Eleanor had said.

Mmph. He doubted the man had ever had a
Highlander in his way. 'Twas the same as a rocky crag. He intended
to gain the upper hand and ferret out Kormad's plans. Lachlan's
instincts told him to expect a battle. This was his opportunity to
finally be someone who mattered, to live up to a potential he never
knew he had. And damned if anyone would snatch it away from
him.

Lachlan lowered his cowl for a moment,
allowing the guards to identify him at the gate. They let him pass.
Outside on the dark muddy street, he listened to the sounds of the
night—the fetid Thames flowing by, a dog barking—then proceeded
along King Street to the nearest coaching inn, The Golden Cross, a
likely haunt for Kormad. But the man was nowhere to be found.

Lachlan stepped into the third establishment
along the Strand. The Black Spur was a din of English talk and
laughter. Ale and beer scented the air of the low-ceilinged room,
along with roasting boar and smoke from the fire.

He scanned the dozens of men seated at
tables, then spotted his friend, Dirk MacLerie, near the back.
Lachlan slipped over and sat in the empty chair.

Hand drifting to his sword hilt, Dirk turned
dangerous pale blue eyes toward Lachlan in his cowl. "What do you
want, friend?"

"'Tis me."

Dirk's auburn brows quirked. "Lachlan?"

"Shh. Has Sorley MacGrotie, baron of Kormad,
been in here tonight?"

"I don't ken the man."

"Lowland Scot, dark hair, bushy beard. Ugly
bastard."

"I've seen a lot of them like that."

The door opened and a boisterous group
stumbled in. Among the six men, he found the whoreson he was
looking for. "'Tis him, there."

"Why are you looking for him?"

"I'll tell you later," Lachlan said in a low
voice.

The buxom alewife plunked a full tankard of
ale onto the scarred wooden table, some of the brown liquid
sloshing over the rim. Lachlan flipped her a silver coin. She
thanked him with a wink and bustled away to see to the
newcomers.

Kormad and his men took a large table on the
other side of the room.

"We need to move," Lachlan whispered, picking
up the tankard. "To that empty table behind them. You go first.
He's seen me before."

"You better have a good reason for this,"
Dirk muttered and stood.

Squeezing by the chairs of other patrons,
Lachlan followed Dirk to the closer table and sat with his back to
the men in question. "Watch my back, will you?"

"When have I not?"

For a time, Kormad and his men talked of
mundane matters. Dirk gave him a hard scowl. Lachlan shook his head
and sipped the lukewarm ale.

"Any progress with the king?" one of the men
at the other table asked.

Lachlan raised a finger at Dirk so he would
pay attention.

"Nay," Kormad said in his gruff voice.

"If we take the lass and force her to marry
you, the problem is solved."

"I don't want my head lopped off because of
the hateful wench."

"You must woo her," one of his men said in a
low, teasing voice.

"Aye, make her swoon with your lovely
poetry."

The men guffawed.

"'Tis not a laughing matter. To be earl, I
must marry her," Kormad grumbled.

"Or you could kill her," another man
suggested.

Lachlan clutched the tankard of ale tightly
when all he wanted to do was draw his sword and do the lopping off
of Kormad's head himself.
By the saints, I will protect her.
Though he did not know why he should want to protect the thorny,
insulting ice queen. Something inside her seemed vulnerable and
alone. She reminded him of the wee injured wildcat he had found on
his clan's lands when he was a lad. When he'd tried to help, the
feline had scratched him, but she was simply protecting herself the
only way she knew how.

Dirk frowned, scrutinizing Lachlan's
face.

"Shh," Kormad hissed.

The men's voices lowered. "We could steal her
away and hie back to Scotland. You can marry her there, legal."

"And have the king string me up like a
bleeding boar? Nay, indeed."

"The lass will tell the king she wishes it. I
can make certain of it."

"You're too daft to make certain of
anything," Kormad snapped. "The Drummagans have been friends of the
Stuarts for hundreds of years. I won't jeopardize that."

"Queen Jamie doesn't seem like a friend to
you," a slimy voiced man muttered.

"Who is he going to marry her off to, then?"
another man asked. "That damned Frenchman bastard?"

"Nay. The clan would never accept him as
chief," Kormad said.

"Chatsworth?"

"Too old. And too English."

"The clan will settle for naught but a
full-blooded Scotsman," Kormad said with finality.

"You're the best candidate. I say you should
meet with the king again."

"He might be thinking of that Lachlan
MacGrath what saved Steenie's life," a different man said.

Dirk's frown grew fierce and his glare
deadly.

Lachlan was glad his friend finally
understood.

"He's a Scot, but a damned Highlander," one
of the men said.

"The king detests Highlanders," Kormad
growled.

"He knighted MacGrath and took him hunting at
Theobalds. He likes that one."

"Might be his bonny face."

"Maybe Steenie should watch his back," slime
voice said.

Loud laughter erupted.
Bastards.
Lachlan wished he could shock them all by making his presence
known, but that would not serve his purpose. Pretending to be
naught but a skirt-chasing gallant would lull them into thinking he
was no threat.

Moments later, the group quieted. "The lass
is the only thing in your path, my lord."

"Aye."

"So let's remove the obstacle. 'Accidentally'
of course."

"Not yet. Let's see who the king chooses for
her first."

Chapter Two

Angelique knelt before the king in the throne
room the next afternoon. She blinked against the burning rose water
perfume she'd dropped into her eyes and stared at the blurred
patterns of the lush carpet.

"You must choose a husband from among these
three men," King James said.

"But, Your Majesty, pray pardon. I love
Philippe Descartes. He is a good man." Lifting her gaze as far as
his royally shod feet, she blotted her faux tears with a silk
handkerchief. She hated to resort to such theatrics but she knew
her guardian was easily swayed with tears, especially hers, ever
since she was a small child. The first time her father had taken
her to court in Edinburgh, she'd been terrified of all the
strangers. When the king saw her crying, he gave her a priceless
gold trinket. She prayed he still had a soft spot for her, because
she must convince him she was genuinely in love with Phillipe. This
was her only sound argument.

"Philippe is not suitable, my child. He is
too young, weak, and the bastard of a Frenchman. The earl of
Draughon must be a strong man of legitimate birth, and Scottish.
'Tis what your father wanted. The clan will accept nothing less.
Nor will I."

"But—but I cannot live without Philippe, Your
Majesty."

"If you do not choose, then I shall choose
for you," the king said in a harsh voice he'd never used with her.
"Which will it be?"

Merde!
Why had Philippe not requested
an audience with the king today and asked for her hand?

Deep down she knew Philippe would've made no
progress, because King James had already chosen MacGrath. Giving
her a "choice" was but a formality. After all, the king could not
be suspected of forcing a woman to marry against her will.

Angelique glanced aside at each of the swine
vying to be her future husband. The first, her fifth cousin, the
baron of Kormad, was near twice her age with a bushy dark beard and
a protruding stomach. Though his face was not grotesquely ugly, she
detested the incensed look in his eyes. When he had talked with her
once before, the animosity surrounding him had repulsed her. He
treated her as if she were a mouse he wished to stomp into the
earth. Marriage to him would be a descent into hell.

The second man, Lord Chatsworth, half
English, half Scottish, was old enough to be her grandfather.
Likely he would not live long. He might not even survive the
wedding night. When his eyes met hers, he licked his cracked lips
and gave her a toothless grin. She grimaced when she imagined one
moment of his attentions.

The third man, the Highlander. He was not
difficult to look at. In fact, once her gaze landed on him she felt
compelled to keep staring, taking in each detail of his appearance.
A crisp, white linen shirt beneath a dark green doublet fitted
flawlessly over his wide chest. A green, blue and red tartan kilt
was belted above his narrow hips and the top portion of the plaid
secured over his left shoulder with a silver brooch. The
basket-hilt of his sword gleamed at his side.

Mischief danced in Sir Lachlan's eyes and he
smiled more than any man she'd ever encountered. Indeed, he had
even, white teeth. More importantly, he had not displayed any true
anger toward her, despite her resistance to marrying him. He had an
easy-going manner the other two men lacked. Perhaps he would be
simple to command. Once they married, he would likely grow bored
with her and return to London for more adventurous pursuits,
leaving her to run her estate alone. Exactly what she wanted—a
marriage in name only with an absentee chief.

"
Très bien
. I choose Sir Lachlan
MacGrath," she said in what she hoped was a strong voice.

The grinning scoundrel winked at her. She
wanted to kick his bare shins.

"Splendid, my child," King James
proclaimed.

Her future husband stepped forward, the two
disappointed suitors glowering after him. Lachlan helped her stand
and kissed her gloved hand. "I thank you for choosing me, m'lady.
Don't worry, I shall protect you," he whispered. Leaning close, he
sniffed. "You smell lovely. What is that, rose water?"

Her eyes burned. Likely they were hideously
red and swollen. But she did not care whether he found her
attractive or not. And what was he talking about—protect her from
what, or whom? The only thing she needed protection from was his
lascivious ways…unless Girard had crossed
la Manche
. No, he
would never come to England, if he still lived. He had too many
enemies here.