Chapter One
London, England, 1618
"Lady Angelique! Come back, sweeting!" ancient Lord
Chatsworth called.
Sacrebleu! Angelique Drummagan rushed down the
corridor, eased open a door and slipped inside a dark
drawing room, one of many within the maze of Whitehall
Palace. She prayed Chatsworth would pass by. He fancied
himself her suitor and did naught but drool on her hand
every time he was near.
Heavy breathing and moans sounded from across the room. She
turned and froze, her eyes searching the near darkness. Who
was here? Only the shifting moonlight glinting off the
Thames provided any illumination, revealing chair backs and
settees.
A high-pitched giggle pierced the air from several yards
away, in the vicinity of a sitting area near the cold hearth.
"Shh."A long moment of silence stretched out, broken by
sounds of kissing.
"King James wishes her brought before him forthwith," a
muffled male voice said outside the closed door.
"She vanished in this passage," Chatsworth said.
A pox upon the old lecher! And the king, too.
Angelique crept across the Turkish carpet and slid behind
the brocade window drapery.
"Ooh, I'm impressed with your swordplay skills, my laird."
Lady Eleanor's voice, breathy and excited, shattered the
quiet of the room. She was the one moaning and giggling?
The harlot.
"I'm not a laird, but I do thank you for the compliment."
A Highlander? Angelique would recognize that tongue-rolling
speech anywhere.
She had never known Eleanor, countess of Wexbury, to dally
with anyone below a viscount. What was she doing with a
barbarian? That's what her mother—God rest her soul—would've
called him, or any Scot. And Maman should know; she'd been
married to one.
Eleanor cried out with carnal pleasure. Angelique's face
burned hot. She couldn't comprehend how a woman found
pleasure in the act. Never again would she entrust her body
and heart to any man. Since men were naught but faithless
pigs, she knew she only had duty before her, not happiness.
Not love. That had been a foolish child's dream.
Eleanor gasped for breath and the Scot made a growling
noise. The height of pleasure, some said. Surely the French
term le petit mort—the little death—was more
accurate. Nausea gripped Angelique even as shocking
excitement quickened her heart beat. A dark, hidden part of
her wondered... No, never again. I cannot marry and be
subjected to a man's lust. She pressed trembling fingers
against her throat and found it damp with perspiration.
The door opened and lamplight reflected off the white walls.
"Lady Angelique?" Dryden's nasal voice echoed through the
room. He was the most vexing of the king's courtiers.
The two lovers became silent.
"I know you're in here. I heard a noise."
From her position behind the draperies, she noticed the
light moving across the floor.
A thump sounded, then rustling.
"Sir Lachlan? What in Hades are you...?"
"I was but...resting," the Scot said.
"Have you seen Lady Angelique?"
"Nay."
"Dryden, the lamp, if you please," Chatsworth said.
"What is it?"
In the silence, the light shifted again, growing brighter as
it moved in her direction.
Mon Dieu, do not let them find me, s'il vous plaît.
Angelique's pulse roared in her ears. She detested
Chatsworth, and now, to be discovered lurking about in a
dark room while a Scot coupled with a lady harlot would be
exceedingly mortifying. They might even accuse her of spying
on them.
Dryden yanked the drapery aside.
"Parbleu!" Angelique blurted and pressed a hand to
her mouth.
Dryden sent her a vile grin. In the background, Chatsworth
scowled, then shot a murderous glance at the man they'd
called Sir Lachlan, who stood in a darkened corner.
Where had Eleanor crawled away to? Angelique couldn't see
her beneath the carved furniture in the dimness.
"You and Sir Lachlan?" Dryden snickered. "His Majesty will
likely find this interesting."
"Non! I was not—Lady Eleanor was—where did she go?"
Embarrassment flamed over her. Now, they thought she'd been
with the Scot? Never.
"No need to lie, mademoiselle. Come. The king wishes
to see you." He ushered her toward the door. "You, too, Sir
Lachlan."
"Me?"
"Indeed." Dryden waved him forward.
The Highlander stepped into the light. The giant was more
than a foot taller than she, broad shouldered and wearing a
belted plaid, leaving the bottom portion of his muscular
legs bare. She'd seen few of these barbaric articles of
clothing since she was nine years old and her mother had
taken her from Scotland.
His face was ruggedly masculine with a square jaw and hard
chin, enticing to a woman's baser instincts, but not
refined. This was the same man she'd seen leaving Lady
Catherine's bedchamber the night before. Then, he'd been
wearing trews. Dallying with two women at court? Or perhaps
more? Lecher.
Amusement sparkled in his eyes before he bowed. "M'lady."
"Sir." She curtsied.
The Scot's darkened eyes fixed upon her in a too-knowing
way. To cover the heat rushing over her face, she strode
from the room.
Feeling like a prisoner headed for the block, Angelique
walked beside the Highlander through several rooms and
dark-paneled corridors, taking two steps for his every one.
Dryden and Chatsworth followed. She would not be surprised
to feel the prick of a sword at her back. Glancing around,
she found the men empty-handed.
They passed through four doors, guarded by numerous
courtiers and royal servants before reaching the antechamber
with its gleaming ebony furniture upholstered in the finest
red velvets. Numerous candles lit the room and glimmered off
the gold leaf.
What did the king want? He'd sent for her two days before at
Hampton Court Palace, though he hadn't been ready to meet
with her until now. She disliked leaving the comfort of the
queen's household, but King James was her guardian and she
must do as he bid. Chatsworth and Dryden had been searching
for her before they found her in the room with this
Highlander, so the summons could have naught to do with him.
Why had they asked him to accompany them?
They neared the king's private rooms and an usher opened the
carved door. "Lady Angelique Drummagan and Sir Lachlan
MacGrath," he announced.
The four entered. The men bowed, and she curtsied deeply
before the king.
The scrawny, aging monarch, wearing overblown clothing in
colorful silks, occupied an ornate chair on an elevated
platform. Buckingham, his favorite courtier, a regally
handsome dark-haired man in his early twenties, stood next
to him, along with several other members of the aristocracy.
"You have found her." King James turned his rheumy, unsteady
gaze toward the tall man beside her. "And Sir Lachlan, I'm
so glad you have joined us once again."
"Your Majesty, 'tis a supreme honor." Lachlan bowed.
Dryden whispered something to another courtier, who
whispered to Buckingham. And he proceeded to murmur into the
king's ear.
The frail monarch's eyes widened. "The two of you have...met?"
Angelique's face heated. "Non. Not in truth."
The king frowned at his courtiers but his expression
lightened when he looked at Lachlan. "It matters not. This
is my ward, Lady Angelique Drummagan, the new countess of
Draughon in her own right." He motioned toward her. "My
dear, meet Sir Lachlan MacGrath, a hero to whom we owe much."
The cursed MacGrath took her hand and kissed it. "'Tis my
great pleasure to make your acquaintance, m'lady." His rich
baritone and the Scottish burr appealed more than it should
have.
She stiffened.
In the bright candlelight, she saw he was a most visually
interesting man. His tawny hair was too long by far and not
of the current style. His eyes gleamed like a tiger's eye
stone. It was not the color that arrested her, but the
expression—assessing and sensual. She had come upon many a
rogue like him in France, and barely escaped marrying one.
She jerked her hand away but remembered her manners just in
time and curtsied. Not too deeply, because he didn't deserve
even that. "An honor, Sir Lachlan."
A tiny grin lifted one corner of his full lips. Though she
already loathed him because he was a Highlander and a
debaucher, something about him defied her to look away.
"Through his cunning and sharp wits, Sir Lachlan has saved
the life of our dear marquess of Buckingham and broken up
the den of conspirators," King James said. "We knighted Sir
Lachlan a fortnight ago but we believe he deserves an even
greater reward. Do we not, Steenie?"
Buckingham nodded.
"He will also receive a title." King James gave her a
toothless grin. "Earl of Draughon."
What? Her late father's title?
The shock and silence threatened to render her senseless on
the floor. What had the king meant?
"Yes, my dear, I have finally found you the perfect husband.
He is Scottish, as you are. He is pleasing to look upon and..."
"Pray pardon...Majesty." Fearing she would faint, she
quickly curtsied and fled the stateroom as if Lucifer
himself chased her. She would die before she'd marry a
Highlander whose favorite pastime was lifting skirts.
***
Lachlan watched the lovely red-haired lass dash from the
room. What the devil had just happened? Had the king said
something about a husband? And the earl of something? He
shouldn't have drunk so much sack earlier.
He shook his head, attempting to clear it. Facing the king,
Lachlan could hardly believe he stood once again in His
Majesty's opulent private chambers—Lachlan, a Highlander and
a second son with no title, nothing but a canny wit and a
sword. During the past several weeks, while he'd been at
court, enjoying every moment of the drinking, feasting,
hunting and other, more carnal, pursuits, he had not been
caught in such a compromising situation. And now His Majesty
wished to leg-shackle him to a prickly lass? It made no
sense. Clearly, Lachlan had overstayed his welcome and
should've already departed for his clan's Kintalon Castle in
the Highlands.
"Well, then," King James said. "Has there ever been a bride
unafraid of the holy state of matrimony?" He grinned. "A
toast!" He motioned to his courtiers and servants, who
scrambled about for drinks.
Future bride? Lachlan shook his head. Nay, he could
never marry. He loved women too much to settle with only one.
"Your Majesty, pray pardon... what are you saying? You wish
me to marry Lady Angelique?"
"Yes, yes. I understand you two already know each other, in
a sense." James winked.
"Upon my honor, I did not touch her. She happened upon me in
the room where I was napping." Had she already been in there
when he and Eleanor had arrived, or had she slipped in
later? And who had she been hiding from?
"Very well." The king glared at Dryden. "He did not touch her."
Lachlan accepted a crystal glass of the king's prized Greek
wine.
Marriage? God's teeth! 'Twill be a disaster.
"So, what say you, lad?"
Damnation, he should say naught. He should keep his tongue
trapped firmly betwixt his teeth, but given the dozens of
aristocratic gazes burning into him, including the king's,
he could not play a mute this late in the day. Marriage? He
could not entirely grasp the concept, except that it might
be torture. But he could not offend the king by refusing.
Besides, he had mentioned an earldom, had he not?
"I...I don't rightly ken what to say, Your Majesty, except I
thank you. I'm overcome by your generosity." Lachlan bowed.
Saints! What did I utter? He was afraid he'd just
agreed to get married.
"I'm glad you are pleased." King James raised his glass and
the other men followed suit. "To the next earl of Draughon
and chief of Clan Drummagan."
Lachlan took a sip of wine, though in truth he did not want
it. He must think clearly.
"Lady Angelique is much in need of a husband," the king
said. "Her father, a good friend of mine, died without
having a son, therefore Angelique is his heir. He wished
that she marry a good Scotsman to guide her and help her run
the estate. She will agree of course and, after the
marriage, give you Draughon Castle, the earldom and all the
lands she possesses. I will confirm it by charter. The men
of the clan are headstrong and need an even stronger man to
lead them. You, lad, are strong in mind and in body."
"I thank you, Majesty." Something twisted in Lachlan's gut.
Though he recalled no past dealings or feuds between his own
clan and the Drummagans—what if they refused to accept him?
"A distant male cousin of the fifth degree could be next in
line but her father, John Drummagan, did not wish him to be
chief, nor does the clan. Besides, there is some question as
to his lineage. The only way I would approve of him is if
Angelique wishes to marry him. Doubtful, I daresay." The
king drank from his glass and a bit of the wine dribbled
from the corner of his mouth. A courtier quickly blotted the
liquid.
Lachlan remained silent. Me, married? He tried to
visualize that without success.
"She is a spirited lass, but I'm sure you will tame her in
no time," the king continued. "The estate is near Perth. I
think you will find it most pleasant."
Lachlan's older brother was an earl and a chief, but he had
never thought to rise to such a level himself. "I'm at a
loss for words, Majesty. I'm sure I'm undeserving of such a
grand reward."
One of the courtiers coughed and another cleared his
throat—titled aristocrats, all, with more wealth and power
than they knew what to do with. Everything in Lachlan
rebelled at the disdain he witnessed in their eyes.
"Ah, but you do," King James proclaimed. "Does he not, Steenie?"
The extravagantly dressed man beside the king nodded.
"Indeed. The brave Scot saved my life." Buckingham's gaze
held sincerity.
"By the by," James went on. "I ken you have a smidgen of
Stuart blood in your veins, laddie, from a hundred or so
years ago. Anyone who's a descendant of kings is surely good
enough to be earl of Draughon."
Buckingham nodded again.
God's bones! Could he become more than he'd ever imagined?
More than anyone had expected of him?
You will amount to naught, his father had yelled at
him more than once. You cannot make a living swiving
every wench from here to Paris and back. Not to mention the
drinking and gaming. Why can you not be more like Alasdair?
Nay, he would never be as good as his brother.
"Ah, I know what worries you, lad," the king said. "The
estate is not in debt and comes with a generous income. The
lands thereabout are rich and produce an abundance of crops.
The sheep and cattle are too numerous to count."
"What of the Drummagan clan? Will they accept me as their
chief?"
"They must. Angelique is the legal heir, and her husband, by
right of the marriage contract, stands beside her and leads
the clan with her. I command them to accept you. Any who do
not will be dealt with as traitors to the crown."
But he would have to marry the flame-haired lass who had
glared at him and fled. Had there ever been a woman, whether
wench or lady, he couldn't seduce into his good graces?
Well, maybe one or two, but they were few and far between.
"This is such an honor, Your Highness. My most sincere
thanks to you." Lachlan gave his deepest bow.
"Are you in agreement, then?"
"Aye," he said before he could talk himself out of it. "But
I would like to speak with the lady first."
The king nodded. "Be prepared for her resistance. She wishes
to marry Philippe Descartes but he is unacceptable—some
French nobleman's bastard, and a weak lad to boot. I will
never allow it."
***
Angelique raced to her chamber, slammed and barred the door.
Camille shot from her chair, still holding her needlework.
"What is happening?" she asked in French.
Breathing hard, Angelique turned to face her companion.
"King James has found me a vile husband."
Camille's blue eyes grew round. "In truth? Who?"
"A wild Scot, a Highlander who does nothing but seduce
women. A debaucher worse than Girard."
"No one is worse than Girard."
"Of course. But I cannot marry this MacGrath. You must take
a message to Philippe." Angelique hurried to the desk and
withdrew a piece of paper, her hands shaking. She almost
overset the inkhorn as she dipped in the quill."Take a deep
breath, mademoiselle. You will do nothing but waste
paper in your haste."
"You are right." She paused a moment, sucked in two deep
breaths, then continued at a more controlled pace.
"Would this be the Highlander who wears a belted plaid
about, sinfully long hair, tall strapping man?"
"Oui. How can you know of him already?"
Camille gave a dramatic shiver. "The ladies and servants
talk. Are you sure you do not want to marry that one?"
"No! Do not tell me he has bedded you as well."
"No. Heavens, no. I wish." She smiled. "If you do not want
him..."
"You can have him, believe me. Traitor!"
"It was only a jest."
Angelique put pen to paper. She almost wrote Philippe's
name. No, what if someone intercepted the message and took
it to the king?
My Love, she wrote. We must run away together.
Make arrangements tonight, then come to my room before dawn
and I will be ready.
Camille read over her shoulder. "Must you lie and expect the
impossible?"
Angelique frowned up at her. "What?"
"You do not love him, and he is not cunning enough to sneak
you out of Whitehall. If you elope, you may jeopardize your
inheritance. Anger the king, and he is likely to give the
estate and title to Kormad."
Angelique thought for a moment. "Yes, you are right." She
wadded the paper and took out a clean sheet. "Philippe must
beg the king for my hand. That's the only way."
"Why do you want to marry the milksop anyway?"
"Because—"
"The truth." Only because her companion was also her
illegitimate French cousin and best friend did she get away
with such impertinence.
"Because he is a milksop," Angelique said. "He will not
order me around. He will not force me to couple with him if
I do not wish it. He will be the earl, but I will run my
estate myself without an overbearing, demeaning swine of a
man controlling every aspect of my life. I cannot abide it,
Camille. I will smother and die." Her throat constricted and
tears burned her eyes.
"Shh, it's all right, Ange." Camille rubbed her arm. "Do not
overset yourself. Damn Girard for ruining your life."
Angelique shoved the emotion away and wrote the second note,
telling Philippe to meet with the king and ask for her hand
immediately if he wished to be an earl. She folded the note,
dropped red melted wax on it and stamped it with an obscure
seal only Philippe knew she used. One she had pilfered from
her mother's last benefactor.
"Take it to him." She placed the missive in Camille's hands.
"Quickly, please."
"Oui, mademoiselle."