My Wild Highlander (11 page)

One by one, the rest of the men put their
weapons upon the ground and knelt.

"We are grateful for your loyalty." She
curtsied, feeling a bit of awe herself.

"Indeed, good men," Lachlan said with a bow.
"Now if you would please, open the gates."

One of the men lurched up and fumbled with
the lock.

When the black iron gate swung back, she
strode forward, her legs a bit stronger now. Lachlan walked beside
her, the retainers and his friends following.

"We shall all assemble in the great hall at
supper," she called, almost stepping in a pile of horse dung, one
of many littering the bailey. "Clean this place forthwith! It is no
better than a pigsty." She held a fondness for her clan, but they
would not shirk their duties or view her as weak. She had observed
her father giving orders often enough.

Once she and Lachlan climbed the stone steps
and entered the great hall, she saw that it was much cleaner than
the outside and looked just as it had during her childhood. She
inhaled the sweet scent of fresh rushes and pungent herbs scattered
about the floor.

When she was a child, Heckie and other clan
members had told the stories depicted on the large, colorful
tapestries that decorated the stone walls. A barrage of nostalgic
memories flitted through her mind, most bittersweet. She truly had
loved this place. And missed it more than she realized.

Her father's ornate oak chair sat at the
elevated high table. How she wished she could see him proudly
sitting there one last time, his russet hair gleaming in the
firelight. She could not imagine this place without him. He
belonged here much more fully than she did.

He had sometimes remarked in anger he wished
she'd been a boy. But at other times, he looked at her with
kindness and stroked roughened but gentle fingers over her cheek.
Often, when he returned from trips, he brought her a baby doll or
some other trinket.

"Angelique," Lachlan whispered in her
ear.

Realizing the whole of the household was
assembled before them, Angelique blinked back the burning in her
eyes and tried to wipe the past from her mind. Several of the
female servants and clanswomen curtsied or bent their heads in
respect.

"A good day to you. I thank you for your
service. The castle looks splendid." Was that the right thing to
say? She glanced up at Lachlan as if he would know.

"Indeed." He tucked her hand around his
elbow. "'Tis a lovely home."

"I am Angelique Drummagan. Some of you may
remember me from when I was a child. My mother took me to France
when I was nine but I always missed this place. This is my husband,
Laird Lachlan MacGrath Drummagan, your new chief and the earl."

The women curtsied again.

He bowed. "'Tis my great pleasure to meet all
of you."

The women, especially the younger ones, did
what all women did around Lachlan—stared as if mesmerized. She
wanted to snap her fingers to break their collective trance.
Ninnies.

"We have traveled from London and would like
to rest a bit before evening meal. Please see that the guests in
our party and the king's retainers are well cared for," Angelique
said, her tone a bit more irritated than she'd meant. Clearly if
Lachlan wanted a paramour—or several—to warm his bed, he'd have no
trouble finding such among this lot.

The servants curtsied and disbursed,
murmuring amongst themselves. A giggle or two reached her ears.

A round, gray-haired woman rushed forward
with a wide grin. "Welcome home, m'lady! You may not remember me
but I was your nanny when you were a wee bairn. I'm so pleased
you've come home again, and with such a strapping and handsome lad
for a husband."

"Thank you, Mistress Mayme.
Oui
, I
remember you. We used to play games together. And you told me many
stories. I have not forgotten them."

"Bless you, child." The older woman patted
her arm. "I will show you and the laird to your chambers so you may
rest. We've kept them clean and maintained these last months
because we expected your return, though we didn't ken when. I'm so
glad Kormad wasn't allowed to take over." She kept up the chatter
the entire time they climbed the narrow spiral stone stairwell and
entered the master's chambers, Lachlan following.

"As you recall, this was your mother's
suite," Mistress Mayme said. "And the laird's suite is just beyond,
with a door connecting the sitting rooms. I hope you will find it
to your liking, m'laird."

"I'm sure 'twill be excellent."

"I had best get busy and see that the evening
meal is prepared properly. Let us know if you have need of
anything." She hastened away.

Angelique entered the sitting room that used
to be her mother's. Was that her mother's perfume lingering in the
air? A blend of lavender, violet and ambergris. Angelique half
expected her to be sitting in her favorite chair by the window. She
moved forward, as if through a dream of the distant past. The chair
was empty, of course, but the view the same, sheep grazing on the
rolling hills. Beige stalks of grain waiting to be harvested in the
fields. And in the distance, the sparkling River Tay; her mother
had loved looking at it.

"I thank you for saving my life," Lachlan
said behind her.

Angelique jumped, her blurry gaze darting to
where he stood just inside the doorway.

He moved forward. "Is something wrong?"

She dabbed at her misty eyes and tried to put
the past behind her, but not before Lachlan touched her face. "Why
are you crying?"

"I am not." Chills showered over her from his
warm hand. His concern, his every touch felt like affection. But it
was manipulation, she knew. She would not allow him to draw her
under his charmed spell. A man such as Lachlan inside her soul
would cut her to bits and leave her bleeding. Heavens. Each day she
found him more appealing. And each day she told herself he could
not be trustworthy or faithful…but those things, she wanted above
all.

She paced away from him, shoving her fragile,
daft emotions behind the cold protective wall, then turned.
"Shooting the traitor…it was the least I could do for mine own
husband, a man who trusts too easily."

Lachlan stiffened. "I would've stopped him if
you hadn't."

"Indeed? Before or after he stabbed you in
the back?" This was what she needed to forget her nostalgia—a good
dose of reality.

"I'm not daft. I ken what you're doing."
Amusement returned to his eyes. "Unsheathing your claws, wee
hellcat. The rose is becoming thorny again, hmm? And considering
what you did out there, I'm thinking you're a bit too cocky for a
lady."

Her face burned. She hated his damnable
perceptiveness. Why could he not simply keep his distance? The
distance she required for her own sanity.

"
Non
, you are the cocky one, sir. Very
confident and trusting of strangers. I wonder if you are up to the
task of leading this clan."

"Oh, believe me, I am." His grin disappeared
and his jaw hardened. "And I shall be proving it to you."

She had to turn her eyes away from the
determination lighting his. He would not fail without a massive
fight to the death. But boredom might claim him first. He wouldn't
be able to pursue his favorite pastime here. No elegant skirts to
be lifted, only the serving maids'. But she was sure he would keep
them busy.

"You will quickly grow bored here, I fear."
I hope
. Did she hope or not? What would it be like to lead
her clan alone? To not be able to look upon his arrogant face each
day? A face that—with its square jaw, sensual lips and intelligent
golden eyes—threatened to cast a spell on her.

"I've never been bored, and I won't be
here."

"You have never been married before, either.
Have you?"

"Nay, but I have a feeling our marriage will
never be dull." He winked.

She hated being an object of his twisted
amusement. He didn't take her seriously. She must remedy that.
"Mayhap I will be the one who is bored."

His grin appeared, broadened. "That, I
consider a challenge,
madame
. I would never allow such a
thing."

"Everything is not under your command or
control." She forced the words out.

Lachlan moved forward, closer to her but she
stood firm, her heartbeat accelerating.
I do not find him
appealing. Not his big, strong body nor his clean male scent. Not
the seduction gleaming in his eyes, nor the smile on his sensual
lips.
Though she tried to convince herself these things were
true, her instinctive side would not listen.

"There are different kinds of control. My own
is very subtle." He bent to her ear and lowered his voice. "And I
wager you will like it." His breath and lips brushed her ear;
tingles raced down her chest. Her nipples hardened against her
corset and she silently cursed them…but they craved his touch, his
roughened but gentle fingertips squeezing them. His subtle control,
his hot breath and wet tongue upon them.

Ma foi!
She swallowed hard and tried
to extract herself from beneath his seduction by turning away. She
licked her lips and noticed they had become overly sensitized, as
if craving…
no, do not think it
.

Several paces away from him, she gauged his
reaction. He watched her from the corner of his eye, his gaze
astute and delving.

She couldn't allow him to perceive even one
small speck of her feelings, nor her uncontrollable and instinctive
yearnings.

Clearing his throat, he strode away from her.
"I'll be in the great hall…or 'haps outside, meeting some of the
clansmen. I shall see you at supper." He bowed and exited.

Meeting the clansmen? He was trying to get
ahead of her already, exerting his male power.

She ran to the door only to come upon two
footmen carrying her trunk, several more servants and Camille
waiting there.

Parbleu.
She must see to them before
she followed Lachlan.

***

During supper, Angelique sat beside Lachlan
at the great hall's high table. She squirmed, wishing this meal
finished. His friends, the king's retainers, the steward and his
wife, along with Camille sat with them. The rest of the clan ate at
lower tables, a loud drone of conversation echoing toward the lofty
ceiling. Angelique couldn't recall half the names of the people
who'd been introduced to her this evening. Some of them, she
remembered from her childhood. With others, her mind drew a blank a
moment after they'd given their names. What was distracting
her?

She picked at her fish. She'd had no appetite
since her illness on board the ship.

The way the clan—both men and women—watched
her, flicking covert glances her way when they thought she wasn't
looking, disturbed her. Were they suspicious of her? One woman in
particular—the steward's wife—glared at her. What was amiss?

She wanted to edge closer to Lachlan's
protective presence, though she forced herself not to. He was more
pleasant to focus on than her clan, and nothing about him escaped
her notice. He had cleaned himself up and changed clothes since
she'd last seen him that afternoon. His voice rumbled in
conversation with the steward, Fingall Drummagan, on his other
side.

Rebbie sat by her on one side and Camille
next to him. She only caught a few sentences of Lachlan's
discussion as Fingall filled him in on the food and drink he was so
proud of, where it came from and its cost. Rebbie seemed intent on
distracting her with frivolous conversation she had no interest in,
though Camille ate it up. Angelique wished to learn every detail of
how the estate was run.

"The late Laird Drummagan, God rest him,
preferred Gascoigne wine from Bordeaux. He considered it the finest
of its sort and always imported large amounts so he'd never be
without, you see." Fingall downed a long swallow. "Though he always
insisted on ale served at midday meal. Our own ale, made right here
on the estate. 'Tis the finest in Scotland."

Lachlan nodded, his neutral gaze shifting to
Angelique. Was he angry about the way she'd challenged him earlier?
She didn't know what had possessed her; she simply had to keep him
at a distance. And sitting by him was not helping.

"We're glad you've come home, m'lady,
m'laird." Fingall toasted them.

"I thank you," Angelique said.

"Mmph," said the woman sitting across from
Fingall, his wife, Bernice. "'Twould've been better if the lady
hadn't shot my brother."

Parbleu!
The sister of the
traitor?

"Close your mouth, Bernice," Fingall said in
a low growl then gave Lachlan and her a placating grin. "I
apologize for my wife. She often speaks when she should not."

"Your brother should not have tried to kill
the new laird," Angelique snapped, sending the woman her most
intimidating glare. "I will not abide such violence, treachery and
insolence."

"Indeed," Lachlan said, his approving gaze
locked on Angelique, then he winked.

Heavens, could he take nothing seriously? He
could've died out there.

"My brother was not trying to kill him." The
woman's tone was grumpy and defensive.

"Bernice!" her husband warned. "Shut your
mouth."

She glared a hole through him. "She better
hope he lives," Bernice muttered.

"Go!" Fingall pointed toward the stairs that
led down to the kitchens. "I will deal with you later."

Once she stalked away, Fingall again
apologized several times for his wife's poor manners and traitorous
talk. "You don't have to worry about her, m'laird. I have her well
in hand."

"I'm glad," Lachlan said.

Angelique hoped the man she'd shot would
live, in truth. But she did what she felt right at the time, acted
on impulse to protect Lachlan. But she feared Bernice would cause
trouble. She might even try to poison their food. If the two lived
in the castle she would have to see about securing them a cottage
in the nearby village. And Bernice would be relieved of her duties
here.