"I didn't hurt her. I frightened her unintentionally…but I didn't hurt her." He stalked through to his own chamber.
The sounds of music and dancing carried up to him from the great hall, but he was in no mood to celebrate. Hell, he wanted to fight someone named Girard and seek vengeance for what he'd done to Angelique.
"Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!"
Lachlan had never encountered a woman who'd been raped before. The ladies who came to him enjoyed sex or wanted to; he knew not how to deal with one who hated it, feared it.
But he hadn't hurt her. In the end, she should see he wished her no harm.
After pacing about the room for a while, he knew he wouldn't sleep. He exited and descended the steps. He'd find that French bastard or whoever had brought the goblets.
***
Angelique woke from a shocking dream such as she'd never had before. Her eyes were swollen and scratchy from crying. One candle and a glow in the hearth provided the only light. Had a dream or a memory wakened her? The heated, prickly sensation of Lachlan softly kissing her body, rubbing the slight stubble of his face upon her belly. He pressed her legs apart and kissed between, stroking her in forbidden places. Licking her and igniting a strange compelling fever within her. This was passionate arousal, the first she'd felt in her life…and Lachlan had provoked it.
He'd given her a climax. She'd heard women speak of it in France—la petite mort—but she had not imagined it to be so intense and all-consuming. She had thought perhaps it would be mildly pleasurable, but the climax grabbed her body and soul, something at the far edge of pleasure. Something almost frightening. Indeed, like a little death.
Her body ached again now. Images flooded her mind. She fantasized Lachlan returned to her, licked her and did all sorts of lusty, forbidden things to her.
"I do not like it," she whispered. Or rather, I should not like it. But somehow Lachlan had turned a distasteful act into a spellbinding one. She yearned for his magical touch in all her secret places. She pressed a hand against her crotch. The pressure soothed the ache slightly, but she was wet. He'd told her what that meant.
How could she want something she'd hated for the last year? Something that sickened her and gave her nightmares? Was it because Lachlan was an expert at seducing women? Or was it something more?
He hadn't forced her. He could have; she was tied up, helpless and at his mercy. Yet, he hadn't hurt her once. All her fear had come from herself, not from what he'd done. He'd even vowed to avenge her pain. Was Lachlan a man she could trust in every way?
The moist ache in her lower belly would not cease. It only grew stronger the more she thought of Lachlan. She didn't want him to bed her, did she?
When she imagined his honed, muscular body and his massive shaft, she should've been terrified…but she wasn't. No, this image increased her arousal tenfold. Though she knew his tarse would cause her untold pain, still she craved something about it. She wondered what it would feel like in her hand. Hard as stone, she knew. Would it feel hot? Smooth?
Or mayhap she only wanted to get the coupling out of the way. She had been dreading this so long. If she did it with him once, maybe the next time would not be so bad. And she did need to do her duty and have a child, an heir. She wished to get the act over with and appease this senseless arousal.
She slid out of bed and put on her wrap. When she tied the belt, an idea occurred to her. She would tie him up while he slept and seize control over him. She wouldn't fear him half as much if he was restrained.
Taking the lone candle from the mantel, she crept through the chill darkness of the sitting rooms to Lachlan's chamber. She opened the door, praying the hinges wouldn't squeak, and closed it back.
What am I doing? I have lost my sanity.
The flame revealed Lachlan in bed, asleep on his back, one arm thrown over his head. The counterpane covered half his chest. The bulging muscles of his chest, along with his massive shoulders and arms brought back that restless ache. Could a man be called beautiful? It made no sense…and yet, he was. A master should sculpt him or paint him, as he slept like this.
She moved forward and placed the candle on the bedside table. His breathing altered and she feared he'd awakened. She stared at him for a half minute. No, he breathed deep and even, eyes closed.
She removed her robe belt and wrapped it around his wrist near the headboard. Now, the hard part…she gently lifted his other arm. Sacrebleu, it was heavier than a tree limb, but she pushed it above his head and tied it with the remainder of the silk belt.
A snore escaped his nose. His chest rose and fell slowly. What would she tie his ankles with? She glanced about. Aha. She took his wide leather belt from the chair where it lay atop his plaide. She placed his big feet side by side, tightened the belt around his ankles, secured it to the footboard post, then slid the end of the belt back underneath itself at his ankles. Even a boar could not escape that.
She checked his eyes—still closed. Feeling a bit giddy, she lowered the counterpane, revealing twin ridges of muscles down his abdomen, an intriguing vertical band of muscle at each hip bone. A silky line of dark gold hair led in a trail from his navel down to the nest of hair his tarse sprang from. And it did indeed spring up, pointing toward his navel.
She studied his closed eyes again. He hadn't moved; his breathing was the same. She reached out a trembling hand and pressed her fingertips to his shaft. The skin was feverish hot. She jerked back.
Gathering courage, she touched it again—smooth as polished oak. No, smoother, the skin silky, but the flesh underneath like granite. The head was a different story. It was wide, forming a sensual crest. She slid her hand over it. It was firm but not as stone-hard as the rest, with velvety skin.
She must wake him. Would he be angry?
***
Lachlan watched Angelique through slitted eyes and pretended to sleep, continuing his deep breathing. What the hell was she going to do to him? When she touched his shaft, it was all he could do not to groan aloud.
Did the wench honestly think a Highland warrior wouldn't wake with this much handling?
God's bones! What if she took a whip to him—or a dagger—in revenge for his earlier actions? He would regret letting himself get into such a vulnerable position, but likely he could rip the fragile material and escape if necessary. Considering the way she was petting and inspecting his erection, she had something else in mind entirely. Saints, he hoped! Something he could hardly believe, after learning what she'd endured the year before.
Her cool hand surrounded his tight flesh and squeezed. Pleasure ricocheted through him and he wanted to flex his hips. Stifling a moan, he pretended to be awakening. "Angelique?" He yanked on his bonds and discovered he could easily pull them loose and slip his hands free if he wished. The woman didn't know how to tie a knot. But he would indulge her.
"What are you doing? Why did you tie me up?"
"No talking." She pulled a piece of cloth from her pocket and blindfolded him.