My Wild Highlander (36 page)

"Who is this Neilina?" Alasdair asked.

"God's teeth, Rebbie. Can you not keep your
mouth closed?" Lachlan growled.

"'Tis difficult."

Angelique awaited Lachlan's answer, a sick
feeling coiling inside her. Would he admit his guilt?

"She's Angelique's cousin, and Kormad's. She
was working for him, spying and trying to seduce me."

"You and your women," Alasdair scoffed.

"She's not my woman, never was. I sent Dirk
to meet with her in my place to get information. She didn't even
ken 'twas Dirk until after the deed."

"Then what happened?"

"She was furious," Dirk said. "Angelique
believes 'twas Lachlan with her because I was wearing his kilt. We
tried to tell her, but she still thinks Lachlan is the guilty
party."

"Can't say I blame her, given your habits,
Lachlan," Alasdair said.

"To hell with you. I've changed my
habits."

Alasdair chuckled. "So, you're faithful to
your wife?"

"Indeed."

"Does he tell the truth?"

"Aye. He's not near as much fun as he used to
be. No more carousing. He but obsesses over the wee lass," Rebbie
grumbled.

"Do you love her?" Alasdair inquired in a
smooth voice.

In the dark, Angelique could scarce breathe,
afraid she would miss the answer. But more, terrified his response
would be nay.

"Who?" Lachlan asked.

"Don't be daft. Lady Angelique."

"She is beautiful. I enjoy her. She enjoys
me."

"You didn't answer my question."

"You ken I don't get calf-eyed over
women."

"Has he gone calf-eyed?" Alasdair asked.

"Aye, that he has," Rebbie answered.

"To hell with you, too. Don't be putting
words in my mouth."

"He will never admit it. Do you ken, he
couldn't even bed his own wife until she made him go to the
physician and get his tarse checked for the French pox."

"Damnation, Rebbie," Lachlan snapped.

The other men let loose an uproarious
laugh.

Angelique's face turned scorching. Why had he
told them everything?

Lachlan muttered curses. "Well, I'm healthy,
officially, and completely free of disease."

"'Tis a miracle," Alasdair said.

"Some brother you are."

"So, how long has she had you cut off this
time?" Rebbie asked. "A week?"

"I will not be discussing my intimate
relations with my wife with you heathens."

"No lass was ever able to resist him long. So
doubtless, his wife cannot resist him either," Alasdair said.

"Even if she wishes to kill him sometimes,"
Rebbie put in.

"A stormy relationship suits him, I'm
certain," Alasdair said.

"Will you bastards cease discussing my
marriage like a gaggle of fishwives."

"I think he loves her," Alasdair said in an
astounded tone.

"He does. He can think of naught else but
her."

"Did I not tell you 'twould happen?" Alasdair
asked. "You've been bitten on the arse."

"No one has bitten my arse, I thank you."

"Cupid shot him in the arse," Dirk said.

They guffawed. Angelique fanned her burning
face, wondering if what Rebbie said was true—did Lachlan love
her?

"You're all daft." The abrupt noise of chair
legs scraping across the floor sounded. "I'm going to bed."

"Nay. Come back. We're sorry." More
laughter.

"He never could take teasing, though he likes
to do it to others."

"His pride is as big as Ben Nevis."

"Will you stop talking about me as if I'm not
here? A bunch of lasses, the lot of you. I thought we were here to
discuss the Draughon situation. If not, I'm going to bed."

Angelique rushed away from the door and up
the stairs. She ran into their bedchamber, closed the door, and
jumped into bed, covering her head with the counterpane. Her hands
trembled, as did her whole body.

Could any of it be true? Had he been
faithful? Did he love her, though he would never admit it?

***

Two hours later, Lachlan entered his
bedchamber quietly. He crept toward the bed. Angelique was asleep
as he'd expected. Something about seeing her lying there in his bed
struck him deep in his vitals. Her smooth ivory skin in the
firelight, her flame-colored hair. She was so lovely he couldn't
look away for long seconds. Saints! She had bewitched him.

Though he craved her, he would not touch her
again until she wished it. He was innocent of the charges she'd
hurled at him—innocent for the first time in his life—and he would
not grovel at her gold-slippered feet. If she never believed him,
never forgave him, he would suffer in silence. As long as he
could.

What if they could never make amends? What if
she never kissed him again or gave him that rare sweet smile he'd
glimpsed a few times during their love-play? He would live in hell,
that's what. Emptiness crept slowly over him. His skin ached for
her hands on him. He remembered how she'd stroked her fingers down
his chest, down his bare abdomen to the sensitive skin on the
lowest part of his belly. She'd made him tremble with touching him
there, so close to his shaft. Teasing him and making him yearn as
he never had.

He grew hard now with the memory.

Releasing a harsh breath, he approached the
fireplace and quietly added two more bricks of peat. He dropped
into the padded chair and his gaze returned to her. Aye, what he
wouldn't give now to strip naked and crawl between those warm
sheets with her. Just to hold her.

But he did not deserve such bliss. He'd lost
her estate, and he would not pursue his husbandly rights again
until he'd earned them by reclaiming Draughon.

***

Mid-morning the next day, Angelique opened
the bedchamber window a crack to better see the view of the
snow-covered Highlands. Bright sunlight gleamed off the white
mountains and the shimmering loch reflected the blue sky, near
blinding her. Tiny bits of ice and snow still flickered through the
air. What a stark difference to the Lowlands of days ago.

It was a long way back to Draughon. Lachlan
and several more men planned to leave two days hence. Imagining
Lachlan being injured in a battle so far away from her wrenched her
inside. What if he were to be killed and she never saw him again?
She may as well die, too.

In the snow-whitened barmkin far below her,
Lachlan stood talking to his brother. Secretly, she savored the
sight of him. She had awakened this morn to find Lachlan sleeping
in a chair by the hearth. He hadn't forced himself into bed with
her—his bed, in truth. She was the outsider here. She felt
vulnerable with a hundred questions hovering. How did he truly feel
about her? She prayed he could learn to love her.

A woman, her belly large with child, ambled
though the gates below. The lad of about five or six years broke
away from her and ran to Lachlan. He picked him up, hugged him, and
threw him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The child's
laughter was sharp in the crisp air. His older son, surely.

Alasdair walked away and the pregnant woman
approached Lachlan. Angelique tensed, waiting for an emotional
blow. But Lachlan didn't touch her, even after he set the lad to
his feet. He merely talked to her in a low tone for several
minutes. He dug into his sporran, took something out and gave it to
her. Coins. Dear Lord, that woman was carrying his child.
Again.

Nausea rolling in her stomach, Angelique
closed the window and pulled the thick curtain over it, making the
room dark again. Who had she married? A man who wanted a harem?
Angelique had done the most idiotic thing on earth and fallen in
love with her rogue husband.

Several minutes later, she sat before the
fire when Lachlan opened the door and entered the chamber.

"Are you well?" he asked.

She could not look at him; it was too
painful. "
Oui
. Why would I not be?"

"Gwyneth said you were resting. I thought
you'd be asleep."

"I do not take naps," she snapped, then
realized she sounded like an irritable child.

"What's the matter?"

Her stomach knotted and a bit of her pain and
rage crept out. "So, you are to be a father yet again?"

"What?"

"I saw you talking to her." She motioned
toward the window.

"Och. Nay, the bairn she carries is not mine.
I haven't been with her in years."

"Did you give her money?"

"Aye. For my son, and her. For clothing,
food."

"And, of course, you have plenty of money
now." She felt bitter and hateful even as she said the words. But
it was true; he'd married Angelique for her money and estate.

He remained silent for a long moment. "Would
you have them starve or wear rags?" His tone was not angry as she'd
expected, but resigned.

She did feel sorry for them, other victims of
Lachlan's irresponsible escapades. "Of course not." But did that
mean her money should provide for them?

"I am bringing my sons home with us soon,
once we have Draughon back."

"What?" She felt as if he'd struck her. Her
gaze flew to him and his determined expression.

"Aye. I miss them. Kean's mother was killed.
He has been living here at the castle. Alasdair and Gwyneth provide
excellent care for him, but I want to care for him. Both of them.
I've never had the opportunity before. You wish me to be
responsible, so I will be. I want to be."

She admired him for that. Still, for her to
instantly be a mother of two children—her husband's bastards—what
would people think of her, accepting them so easily? "You decide
without even asking my opinion."

He moved to the mantel, stared at something
upon it for several moments. "They will love you. And you will love
them if you give them a chance. They are but innocent children.
They have done naught wrong."

Tears burned her eyes and she stared at her
lap. She knew that; she would never blame them for Lachlan's
misdeeds.

"Kean asked me if you are a princess."

"Heavens. I do not know how to take care of
children."

"We shall hire a nanny. 'Haps we will need
one soon, anyway."

When she forced herself to look at him, he
winked. Everything was a jest to him, was it not?

"Will your older son's mother not mind if you
take him away?"

"Nay, 'twas what she was talking to me about.
She fears she cannot watch after him once her new bairn arrives.
Orin's a wee rambunctious, and gets into scrapes, as I oft did as a
lad. But you don't have to worry; he listens to me."

"He looks so much like you." Indeed both his
sons did.

"Aye, 'tis true." He smiled with affection.
With love. He could love his children, but not her. She felt beyond
ridiculous being jealous of her husband's sons.

"Angelique." He stepped in behind her and
grasped her shoulders in his big strong hands, caressing deeply
into her tense muscles. "I'm hoping you can understand. I'm sorry
for my past, because of you. Because I ken it bothers you. But I'm
not sorry I have children. Can't you see? They are like treasures
to me."

She bent forward, trying to escape his
hypnotic touch, trying to hide the emotion in her eyes.

He came around in front of her and knelt,
took her forearms into his hands. "Angelique. What's wrong? Tell
me."

She shook her head.

"When we have children, I will love them as
much."

He could love her children, but not her. How
foolish she was to care how he felt about anything. He wrapped his
arms around her and kissed her hair, her temple. She loved the way
he smelled, like soap and musky male, loved the feel of his strong
body. He had not touched her in a while; she hadn't let him. But
now he felt so wondrous, like she remembered. She wished to wrap
herself about him tightly, skin to skin.

"We must have a son to be the next earl of
Draughon," he murmured. "Then, we must have a daughter, a wee lass
who looks exactly like you."

How could he say such things? As if he might
care. As if he wanted a true family with her. Tears pricked her
eyes and she pressed her face against his chest.

"Shh." He rocked her and stroked her hair.
"We shall get Draughon back. Never fear."

"I hope you are right." Yes, let him believe
she worried she would never possess Draughon again, when in truth
she feared she'd never possess him.

***

After evening meal, Angelique sat by the fire
in the great hall. Lachlan had convinced her earlier to meet his
sons. He now brought them forward and knelt between them.

"Kean, this is my wife, Lady Angelique."
Lachlan whispered something else in his younger son's ear.

"M'lady." His wide-eyed gaze locked on her,
then the tiny lad bowed.

Angelique's throat tightened. "It is a
pleasure to meet you, Kean."

The lad beamed at her, his light brown eyes
and endearing smile so like Lachlan's it near broke her heart. What
an adorable little cherub he was.

"And this is Orin." Lachlan stood and placed
his hand upon his older son's shoulder.

"M'lady." Though only five, he gave a
dramatic bow as if he'd been practicing a while.

She couldn't help but smile. "Orin. It is so
nice to meet you."

Orin did indeed have Lachlan's light hair and
facial shape, but his eyes were clear blue.

Kean inched closer to where she sat, staring
at her intently. "You're pwetty," he said.

"
Merci.
I thank you. What a little
charmer you are." Smiling, she touched his baby-fine blond hair. He
took that as leave to climb onto her lap and snuggle.

With no idea what to talk to such a small
child about, she looked to Lachlan for help. The grinning scoundrel
only winked. She placed her arms around Kean to hold him, and some
emotion struck her she had never felt before—a warm, maternal
feeling. She and Lachlan might one day have a son much like Kean,
yes, some part of her wanted that intensely.