My Wild Highlander

My Wild Highlander

By Vonda Sinclair

Lady Angelique Drummagan, a half-Scottish,
half-French countess, has suffered much pain and betrayal in her
past. She wants nothing to do with the sensual Scottish warrior
that the king has ordered her to marry because the rogue could
never be a faithful husband, but she has little choice in the
matter. Dangerous, greedy enemies threaten her from all sides and
she’s in dire need of his protection.

Sir Lachlan MacGrath, known as Seducer of the
Highlands, possesses a charming wickedness and canny wit which has
earned him much popularity. After the king decrees that he wed the
fiery hellion, Lachlan discovers there is one woman who can resist
him—Angelique. Can he break through her icy façade and melt her
heart, or will the dark secrets lurking in her past not only cost
them their future together, but their very lives?

My Wild Highlander

By Vonda Sinclair

Copyright 2011 Vonda Sinclair

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www.vondasinclair.com

***

Dedication

To my wonderful, supportive and amazing
husband.

***

My Wild Highlander

By Vonda Sinclair

Chapter One

London, England, 1618

"Lady Angelique! Come back, sweeting!"
ancient Lord Chatsworth called.

Sacrebleu!
Angelique Drummagan rushed
down the corridor, eased open a door and slipped inside a dark
drawing room, one of many within the maze of Whitehall Palace. She
prayed Chatsworth would pass by. He fancied himself her suitor and
did naught but drool on her hand every time he was near.

Heavy breathing and moans sounded from across
the room. She turned and froze, her eyes searching the near
darkness. Who was here? Only the shifting moonlight glinting off
the Thames provided any illumination, revealing chair backs and
settees.

A high-pitched giggle pierced the air from
several yards away, in the vicinity of a sitting area near the cold
hearth.

"Shh."A long moment of silence stretched out,
broken by sounds of kissing.

"King James wishes her brought before him
forthwith," a muffled male voice said outside the closed door.

"She vanished in this passage," Chatsworth
said.

A pox upon the old lecher! And the king,
too.
Angelique crept across the Turkish carpet and slid behind
the brocade window drapery.

"Ooh, I'm impressed with your swordplay
skills, my laird." Lady Eleanor's voice, breathy and excited,
shattered the quiet of the room. She was the one moaning and
giggling?

The harlot.

"I'm not a laird, but I do thank you for the
compliment."

A Highlander? Angelique would recognize that
tongue-rolling speech anywhere.

She had never known Eleanor, countess of
Wexbury, to dally with anyone below a viscount. What was she doing
with a barbarian? That's what her mother—God rest her soul—would've
called him, or any Scot. And Maman should know; she'd been married
to one.

Eleanor cried out with carnal pleasure.
Angelique's face burned hot. She couldn't comprehend how a woman
found pleasure in the act. Never again would she entrust her body
and heart to any man. Since men were naught but faithless pigs, she
knew she only had duty before her, not happiness. Not love. That
had been a foolish child's dream.

Eleanor gasped for breath and the Scot made a
growling noise. The height of pleasure, some said. Surely the
French term
le petit mort
—the little death—was more
accurate. Nausea gripped Angelique even as shocking excitement
quickened her heart beat. A dark, hidden part of her wondered… No,
never again.
I cannot marry and be subjected to a man's
lust.
She pressed trembling fingers against her throat and
found it damp with perspiration.

The door opened and lamplight reflected off
the white walls.

"Lady Angelique?" Dryden's nasal voice echoed
through the room. He was the most vexing of the king's
courtiers.

The two lovers became silent.

"I know you're in here. I heard a noise."

From her position behind the draperies, she
noticed the light moving across the floor.

A thump sounded, then rustling.

"Sir Lachlan? What in Hades are you…?"

"I was but…resting," the Scot said.

"Have you seen Lady Angelique?"

"Nay."

"Dryden, the lamp, if you please," Chatsworth
said.

"What is it?"

In the silence, the light shifted again,
growing brighter as it moved in her direction.

Mon Dieu, do not let them find me, s'il
vous plaît.
Angelique's pulse roared in her ears. She detested
Chatsworth, and now, to be discovered lurking about in a dark room
while a Scot coupled with a lady harlot would be exceedingly
mortifying. They might even accuse her of spying on them.

Dryden yanked the drapery aside.

"Parbleu!"
Angelique blurted and
pressed a hand to her mouth.

Dryden sent her a vile grin. In the
background, Chatsworth scowled, then shot a murderous glance at the
man they'd called Sir Lachlan, who stood in a darkened corner.

Where had Eleanor crawled away to? Angelique
couldn't see her beneath the carved furniture in the dimness.

"You and Sir Lachlan?" Dryden snickered. "His
Majesty will likely find this interesting."

"
Non!
I was not—Lady Eleanor was—where
did she go?" Embarrassment flamed over her. Now, they thought she'd
been with the Scot?
Never.

"No need to lie,
mademoiselle
. Come.
The king wishes to see you." He ushered her toward the door. "You,
too, Sir Lachlan."

"Me?"

"Indeed." Dryden waved him forward.

The Highlander stepped into the light. The
giant was more than a foot taller than she, broad shouldered and
wearing a belted plaid, leaving the bottom portion of his muscular
legs bare. She'd seen few of these barbaric articles of clothing
since she was nine years old and her mother had taken her from
Scotland.

His face was ruggedly masculine with a square
jaw and hard chin, enticing to a woman's baser instincts, but not
refined. This was the same man she'd seen leaving Lady Catherine's
bedchamber the night before. Then, he'd been wearing trews.
Dallying with two women at court? Or perhaps more?
Lecher.

Amusement sparkled in his eyes before he
bowed. "M'lady."

"Sir." She curtsied.

The Scot's darkened eyes fixed upon her in a
too-knowing way. To cover the heat rushing over her face, she
strode from the room.

Feeling like a prisoner headed for the block,
Angelique walked beside the Highlander through several rooms and
dark-paneled corridors, taking two steps for his every one. Dryden
and Chatsworth followed. She would not be surprised to feel the
prick of a sword at her back. Glancing around, she found the men
empty-handed.

They passed through four doors, guarded by
numerous courtiers and royal servants before reaching the
antechamber with its gleaming ebony furniture upholstered in the
finest red velvets. Numerous candles lit the room and glimmered off
the gold leaf.

What did the king want? He'd sent for her two
days before at Hampton Court Palace, though he hadn't been ready to
meet with her until now. She disliked leaving the comfort of the
queen's household, but King James was her guardian and she must do
as he bid. Chatsworth and Dryden had been searching for her before
they found her in the room with this Highlander, so the summons
could have naught to do with him. Why had they asked him to
accompany them?

They neared the king's private rooms and an
usher opened the carved door. "Lady Angelique Drummagan and Sir
Lachlan MacGrath," he announced.

The four entered. The men bowed, and she
curtsied deeply before the king.

The scrawny, aging monarch, wearing overblown
clothing in colorful silks, occupied an ornate chair on an elevated
platform. Buckingham, his favorite courtier, a regally handsome
dark-haired man in his early twenties, stood next to him, along
with several other members of the aristocracy.

"You have found her." King James turned his
rheumy, unsteady gaze toward the tall man beside her. "And Sir
Lachlan, I'm so glad you have joined us once again."

"Your Majesty, 'tis a supreme honor." Lachlan
bowed.

Dryden whispered something to another
courtier, who whispered to Buckingham. And he proceeded to murmur
into the king's ear.

The frail monarch's eyes widened. "The two of
you have…met?"

Angelique's face heated. "
Non
. Not in
truth."

The king frowned at his courtiers but his
expression lightened when he looked at Lachlan. "It matters not.
This is my ward, Lady Angelique Drummagan, the new countess of
Draughon in her own right." He motioned toward her. "My dear, meet
Sir Lachlan MacGrath, a hero to whom we owe much."

The cursed MacGrath took her hand and kissed
it. "'Tis my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, m'lady." His
rich baritone and the Scottish burr appealed more than it should
have.

She stiffened.

In the bright candlelight, she saw he was a
most visually interesting man. His tawny hair was too long by far
and not of the current style. His eyes gleamed like a tiger's eye
stone. It was not the color that arrested her, but the
expression—assessing and sensual. She had come upon many a rogue
like him in France, and barely escaped marrying one.

She jerked her hand away but remembered her
manners just in time and curtsied. Not too deeply, because he
didn't deserve even that. "An honor, Sir Lachlan."

A tiny grin lifted one corner of his full
lips. Though she already loathed him because he was a Highlander
and a debaucher, something about him defied her to look away.

"Through his cunning and sharp wits, Sir
Lachlan has saved the life of our dear marquess of Buckingham and
broken up the den of conspirators," King James said. "We knighted
Sir Lachlan a fortnight ago but we believe he deserves an even
greater reward. Do we not, Steenie?"

Buckingham nodded.

"He will also receive a title." King James
gave her a toothless grin. "Earl of Draughon."

What?
Her late father's title?

The shock and silence threatened to render
her senseless on the floor. What had the king meant?

"Yes, my dear, I have finally found you the
perfect husband. He is Scottish, as you are. He is pleasing to look
upon and…"

"Pray pardon…Majesty." Fearing she would
faint, she quickly curtsied and fled the stateroom as if Lucifer
himself chased her. She would die before she'd marry a Highlander
whose favorite pastime was lifting skirts.

***

Lachlan watched the lovely red-haired lass
dash from the room. What the devil had just happened? Had the king
said something about a husband? And the earl of something? He
shouldn't have drunk so much sack earlier.

He shook his head, attempting to clear it.
Facing the king, Lachlan could hardly believe he stood once again
in His Majesty's opulent private chambers—Lachlan, a Highlander and
a second son with no title, nothing but a canny wit and a sword.
During the past several weeks, while he'd been at court, enjoying
every moment of the drinking, feasting, hunting and other, more
carnal, pursuits, he had not been caught in such a compromising
situation. And now His Majesty wished to leg-shackle him to a
prickly lass? It made no sense. Clearly, Lachlan had overstayed his
welcome and should've already departed for his clan's Kintalon
Castle in the Highlands.

"Well, then," King James said. "Has there
ever been a bride unafraid of the holy state of matrimony?" He
grinned. "A toast!" He motioned to his courtiers and servants, who
scrambled about for drinks.

Future bride?
Lachlan shook his head.
Nay, he could never marry. He loved women too much to settle with
only one.

"Your Majesty, pray pardon… what are you
saying? You wish me to marry Lady Angelique?"

"Yes, yes. I understand you two already know
each other, in a sense." James winked.

"Upon my honor, I did not touch her. She
happened upon me in the room where I was napping." Had she already
been in there when he and Eleanor had arrived, or had she slipped
in later? And who had she been hiding from?