"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.