"You were outnumbered."

"Nay, we were not. We had the situation under control."

She pressed her eyes closed, forcing the burning tears out. "I did not know. Pray, forgive me, Camille." Bending, Angelique placed her ear before Camille's mouth and nose. Breaths puffed out, warming her ear.

"She lives! Thanks be to God. Help me with her."

Lachlan handed the torch to his English friend, Miles, then gently slipped his arms beneath Camille and lifted her. Angelique followed him to the coach and helped him position her cousin comfortably on the seat.

"Merci."

"Do not leave the coach again until I tell you to!" Lachlan slammed the door.

She wanted to fling a sharp retort at him, but she deserved a much worse scolding for hurting Camille. The coach lurched forward, knocking Angelique to the floor. Damnable driver.

"Camille?" She patted her cousin's face, wishing she had cold water to bathe it in. Camille was the person she cared about most in the world, like a sister, and she'd endangered her life. "I pray you will forgive me. Please wake up."

Shots rang out again.

Merde! She ducked low over her cousin.

An onslaught of clomping horses' hooves approached from an alley and the coach sped up, jostling along rutted streets. The new driver shouted commands at the team and snapped a whip in the air. When the pistol shots echoed further away, she peered out. The king's guards were thick around them.

"Grâce à Dieu," she said when the coach ground to a halt. The salt scent of the ocean, the clanging of a bell, and the water slapping the hulls of the creaking ships told her they'd reached the wharf.

Lachlan wrested open the door. "Come. We must hurry."

***

A half hour later, Camille, still unconscious, lay in the captain's cabin on the lower berth. A small hanging lantern provided illumination. Angelique fingered her Rosary beads and paced, praying her cousin would awaken. She had bathed her face in water over and over but it proved of no benefit.

"O Marie, s'il vous plaît—" A sharp knock sounded at the door. She jumped. "Qui est-ce?"

"Lachlan."

She opened the narrow door.

"The ship's barber surgeon went ashore earlier and cannot be found. I sent for a physician but he hasn't yet arrived. The captain says we must leave forthwith because of the tide." Lachlan glanced at Camille. "Och! She has awakened?"

Angelique spun around and rushed to her. "Camille, are you well? Thanks be to God."

She placed a hand on her head and groaned. "Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?"

"You fell off a horse."

"I remember now. Did you shoot the bastard who grabbed me?"

"Oui. Do you want us to wait for the physician?"

"No, I hate them. I am well."

"If you're sure, we shall set sail," Lachlan said. "'Tis not safe for us to stay here."

"Oui. Allez-y. Go."

***

Kormad glared at his men who stared at the worn floor planks within his room at the inn. Six imbecilic failures, they were. The damned MacGrath bastard had stolen away Angelique and married her. Worst of all, he'd become chief, earl and now held Draughon Castle and lands.

"'Tis mine by birthright!" Kormad slammed his fist against the table. The candle flickered wildly.

"Y–you mean Timmy's, m-my lord," Arnie said.

"Aye! And mine until he comes of age. I have waited to take my place at Draughon the whole of my life." At least he had yearned for and coveted the rich estate the whole of his life. It was so close he could almost touch it. "I will not let some whoring, kilt-wearing MacGrath snatch it from me! He is all that stands in my way."

"She chose him," Rufus said.

"I know that, you whoreson! And she'll regret that decision. I intend to make sure of it."

If she would not choose Kormad, he would not suffer her to live. She was naught but a pebble in his path and he would kick her out of his way. The bigger obstacle was King James himself and this damnable Highlander he chose for Angelique.

"What are you going to do?" Arnie asked.

"Go back to Burnglen and rally support amongst the Drummagans and the neighboring clans."

A fist wrapped at the door.

"Come!"

One of his men, MacFie, burst through the door, breathing hard. "I came as quickly as I could, my lord. I had to hide for hours, but Pike got on board their ship."

"You jest." A thrill passed through Kormad.

"Nay. 'Tis true."

"Pike. Now there's a man what knows how to get things done!" Kormad laughed and let loose a hoop of victory. "Where is the ship headed?"

"Direct to Perth. Pike said he would meet you there at the Ram's Head Inn three days hence. Likely MacGrath and the lady will be dead by then."

"Aye!" A sudden bloodlust came over Kormad. Too bad he couldn't spend it on MacGrath and his bitch. But Pike would make short work of them. "Secure us passage on a merchant ship to Perth. A swift one!"

***

"There you are," Rebbie called.

The wind whipping his hair, Lachlan turned from surveying the turbulent sea and the waves crashing onto the distant rocky shore as they made their way up the English coast. Rebbie approached along the rocking deck, his hair stark black against the orange dawn light.

"Aye." The nausea tormenting Lachlan had naught to do with the horrid breakfast he'd eaten nor the choppy water and rolling of the king's small galleon.

"Is aught the matter?" Rebbie eyed him with concern—or nosiness—he couldn't be sure which.

"Nay." He had but wanted a few moments alone to think; the few crewmen on deck were easy to ignore. And the chill air helped clear his head.

"You're pale as January snow—nay—you're looking a wee bit green. Seasickness?"

"The sea is rough this morn." Lachlan took hold of the wet rail to steady himself, hoping Rebbie would cease his questioning.

"Indeed. How are the ladies?"

"Camille improves, but Angelique has seasickness."

"She will be well once we reach Perth."

Lachlan nodded.

"'Haps you should be abed yourself. I believe you are more ill than you will admit."

"Nay." Lachlan sucked in a deep breath of salt air and tried to slow his racing heartbeat. He wanted no one to ken how he felt at the moment. A frightening realization had snuck up on him in the wee hours of the night and gored his vitals.

"Too much drink last night?" Rebbie asked.

"Nay."

"What then? I'm not good at guessing games."

"Devil take it," Lachlan muttered. Rebbie would never leave off when he sensed something amiss. "'Tis only that…I'm married," Lachlan said far more calmly than he felt. The blood drained from his head, like a physical weakness washing over him. Saints! He was not weak! He had fought in and survived clan battles and skirmishes. He had traveled across Europe, rubbed elbows with the nobility, and won the favor of his king. How could a vow uttered to one wee thorny lass snatch his equilibrium?

"You're only now figuring that out?"

Lachlan should've said naught. Rebbie would never give him peace now.

"Of course not! But it didn't seem so real yesterday, no different from any other adventure we've been embroiled in. When I woke up this morn, my first thought was 'what the hell have I done?' I even had to take her clan name in order to be chief. I'm a Drummagan now, more fully than a MacGrath."