She was afraid she liked her husband a bit too much. He was trying to steal her heart and blind her to his true nature, but she was not so naïve as he wished her to be. Likely, he would find someone else, no doubt several women, to amuse him, whether now or later. Her own actions would not matter. So much the better if her feelings were not attached to him.
***
"And how was your long-awaited wedding night?" Rebbie asked Lachlan the next morn. He used a low voice so the many men around them wouldn't hear. They, along with Dirk, stood outside while the Drummagan clansmen readied the courtyard for the traditional chief's inauguration. Each clansman carried a stone to build a short pyramid while Heckie supervised. Lachlan glanced up at the gray sky, hoping the rain would hold off.
Rebbie elbowed him, then lifted a brow.
"Why can you not be more like Dirk and mind your own business?" Lachlan asked. In the past, he might have revealed certain details of his exploits with women, but his wedding night was not up for discussion.
"He wants to know, too," Rebbie said.
"But he's not asking."
"That bad, huh?" Rebbie grimaced.
"Nay, 'twas good." Actually, she'd given him the most amazing, earth-shaking climax of his life. He only regretted that she hadn't enjoyed it as much that time.
"Only good? Not magnificent?"
"Indeed, magnificent. But what's betwixt a husband and wife is private."
"I see," Rebbie said in a dry tone. "Lady Eleanor wished to share something private with you last night. I found her hiding in your bedchamber, as you predicted, when you were with Lady Angelique."
"Hell, I forgot about her." He hadn't realized Eleanor would be so persistent in her pursuit of him. "I thank you for getting her out of there and keeping her occupied. Where is she now?"
"Still locked in the tower chamber, where I put her last night, alone."
"We must send her away from Draughon before Angelique finds out she's here. She is becoming too much of a problem."
Lachlan glanced back at Angelique, standing on the castle's entrance steps. So regal, she looked like a queen in her golden gown and bejeweled headpiece. Meeting her eyes, he winked and her skittish gaze darted away. Was that a blush?
He wanted to lick her head to toe and stay in bed all day, exploring every inch of her perfect body and each facet of her cunning mind. He would never grow tired of her. That realization struck like a punch to the stomach. God's blood! How could he know such a thing? He had no answer for himself; he simply knew. Facing forward again, he imagined the next time he'd get her alone.
"What the devil's so amusing?" Rebbie asked.
"Naught is amusing at the moment." Still, Lachlan couldn't hide his daft grin.
Dirk leaned toward them and whispered, "He's calf-eyed."
Lachlan scowled. "I prefer the word 'happy.'"
"Och. St. Andrew, deliver us," Rebbie muttered.
"This is an important and serious ceremony," Lachlan said. "And deserves my undivided attention."
"Aye. So stop staring at your wee wifey and pay attention."
"You blather on too much."
Lachlan tried to forget about Angelique and focus. He had been present at his brother's inauguration deep in the Highlands five years ago. The Drummagans had a similar tradition. He just hoped the pyramid of rocks, built to symbolize his elevated position as leader of the clan, didn't collapse once he sat on the chair atop it.
The Protestant minister said a prayer. Heckie, the Seanachaidh, recited the Drummagan genealogy back to the 11th century, then Lachlan's ancestry to the 12th century, which the older man had to learn from Lachlan in only a few days. Heckie then delivered a newly written poem in Lachlan's honor.
And he was honored. He still could not believe his great fortune in receiving a title, becoming chief of this strong clan and marrying Angelique.
Though last night had surely been bizarre as wedding nights go, it was unforgettable. He had to make sure tonight was better for her, and hoped she had stopped fighting him.
As for the Girard outlaw, he had seen neither hide nor hair of the whoreson. And they couldn't discern where the goblets had come from.
***
On her way to the great hall for midday meal, Angelique strolled along the dim corridor, passing servants and other clan members. She had not been close to Lachlan all day and must now sit beside him to eat. A sudden fit of nerves seized her stomach. What if he made mention of last night, either to her or to his friends? She would die of mortification. Yet, in another way, she looked forward to being near him. Too much. She could not let herself enjoy him and his charm too much.
"I am to take Lady Eleanor a tray of food," a female whispered.
Eleanor?
Angelique stopped and turned. "Wait."
The servants froze. "M'lady?"
"What did you say?"
The young servant lowered her timid gaze and curtseyed. "I have been instructed by Laird Rebbinglen to deliver a tray of food to Lady Eleanor, Countess of Wexbury, in the south tower bedchamber."
A hot torrent of fury raged through Angelique. "What is she doing there? When did she arrive?"
"I…I don't know."
Ignoring the fact she was supposed to be in the great hall for midday meal, Angelique continued along the corridor, toward the south tower. She would find out what the putain was doing here. Obviously, Lachlan knew of her presence if Rebbie did. But why had no one told her? Why had Lachlan allowed Eleanor to remain here? Angelique was afraid she knew the answer to that, though her heart railed against it.
A tall, burly guard, covered in thick leather armor and with a sword at his side, stood before the chamber portal.
"Unlock this door," she said.
"M'lady." He bowed. "I've been told not to."
"What do you mean? I know Eleanor is in there."
"My orders were to not allow you or anyone inside."
"Me? Who did your orders come from?"
"Laird Rebbinglen, m'lady."
"You do not work for Rebbinglen. You work for me."
"With all due respect, m'lady, Laird Rebbinglen said his instructions came from your husband."
A chill settled into her blood. "My husband?"
"Aye. His lairdship. No one is to enter or leave this chamber except for them or the servant who brings food."
Her icy rage spread. She would strangle someone—Lachlan. "Let me in or I shall relieve you of your duties. Your pay comes from my coffers."
The guard squirmed for a moment. "I must ask his lairdship."
"No. Now!"
"God help me," he muttered, unlocked the door and opened it.
Eleanor rose from the window seat. "Thank the heavens…" Her smile fell. "Oh, Angelique."
She forced herself to step inside the room. "What are you doing here? I do not recall inviting you."
Eleanor pressed a bejeweled hand to her huge bosom covered in rich fabrics, pendants and pearls. "What a horrid way to greet a friend."
"You are not my friend. You covet my husband."
Eleanor smiled—no, it was a malicious parody of a smile. "And I've had your husband. You are fortunate indeed."
Angelique felt as if she'd been struck down the center with a poleax. What did Eleanor mean? She'd had Lachlan since their marriage? She'd slept with him here?
"Oh yes, little Angelique. He is indeed an impressive specimen of a man, so seductive and commanding, is he not? Last night was breathtaking."