Kormad's men, sitting around the table, shook their heads and shrugged. He had just bought them a fine meal, and this was what he got for it?

"Well, go look for him, you louts! Search the other inns and taverns."

"Aye, sir." All his men sprang up and headed toward the door.

"MacFie, you stay!"

The most intelligent of his men returned to the table.

"I've got another job for you," he said in a low voice. "Snoop around and see if there is any news about a laird and lady dying or drowning on their way here. You ken how to do it without raising suspicion."

"Aye, m'laird." MacFie hurried away.

Kormad grunted and downed another swallow of warm, stout ale. He had a few loyal men he'd sent to guard Draughon a month ago, and he hoped they still held their posts. They did if MacGrath and his lady-whore were no longer in the land of the living.

An hour later, MacFie returned. "Word is the earl of Draughon and his lady arrived yesterday in sound health."

"Damn!" Kormad smashed a fist onto the table, rattling everything upon it. Could no one get anything right? Not even Pike? What was the world coming to when you couldn't even hire a good mercenary?

Kormad cursed, fumed, and paced for another hour, fantasizing about killing MacGrath and Angelique in a dozen different ways, without implicating himself, of course. Aye, he could get inventive. Draughon would be his—and Timmy's—soon. Very soon.

Arnie and Rufus struggled through the doorway with the brawny, limping Pike supported between them. His filthy trews and doublet were ripped and his leg bloody. Even his bald head was covered in blood and dirt.

Kormad charged forward. "What the hell happened to you?"

His face black and blue, Pike raised unfocused, bloodshot eyes. He smelled strongly of whisky and fishy seawater. "MacGrath's men ganged up on me. Had to... jump ship. Almost drowned. Fishermen... hauled me out, then... robbed me and beat me up."

"Bastards! Did you do the job?" Kormad growled.

"Nay." He clenched his teeth, body quaking. "But I'm ready to take my revenge on MacGrath for all my pain and sufferin'."

"Aye, there's the spirit!" Kormad grinned. Why couldn't he have ten men like Pike? "Well, what are you whoresons waiting for? Help Pike into a coach. We go to Burnglen." The healer there would patch him up, then Kormad and his men would charge into Draughon when least expected.

***

The next evening, Lachlan sank into the wooden tub of hot water in his bedchamber before the fireplace. Light from the dancing flames glowed upon the stone walls. The deep scratch on his arm stung and his muscles ached from the full day of punishing training he'd given his body.

His friends and the Drummagan clansmen hadn't fared much better. They didn't have to know he was working out a monumental sexual frustration, something he had never before experienced. He feared the Drummagan men might hate him for the demands he made on them, but the contrary appeared to be true; their expressions showed more respect, trust and admiration after the hours of bruising exercises.

His muscles relaxed in the heat and his mind drifted to Angelique. He hadn't seen the wee hellion all day. She hadn't joined him for breakfast, nor midday meal, sending a servant with some excuse about being too busy with planning the wedding and feast.

He was glad she occupied herself with household duties, but he missed seeing her. Thinking how Angelique had sought him out in this room the night before, suspecting him of seducing another woman, he smiled. She was a possessive little hedgehog. Which meant, she liked him and wanted him on some level. Perhaps a level she couldn't face yet, but it was a start.

Why couldn't she have crawled into bed with him last night? 'Twas but a fantasy. Never had he experienced such a hard time seducing a woman.

A knock sounded at the door.

He lifted his head. "Who is it?"

"Bryson, m'laird."

"Come." Since Bryson had been the former chief's sword bearer, Lachlan had given him the same position. It was hereditary, after all, and the man seemed skilled.

"Sorry to disturb you, chief." Bryson, dark-haired and stocky with muscle, stopped before the door and executed a brief bow.

"I asked you to. What of Kormad?"

"He is home. Arrived by coach this eve. You mentioned a tall, bald man."

"Aye?"

"They carried a man like that on a litter into Burnglen Castle. He appeared to be awake but in pain."

So the bastard had survived jumping into the Channel. Astonishing, given that few people knew how to swim. Someone that tough and hardened, he'd have to watch out for. "What did Kormad and his men do after that?"

"He sent two men to spy on us from a hilltop, but they didn't set foot on Drummagan land. Everything else was as normal. Same amount of guards at their usual posts."

"Good. I thank you, Bryson. You're a good man."

"M'laird." He bowed and left.

Lachlan laid his head back against the tub again, thinking how proud and happy he was to be given the privilege of leading these Drummagan men. They were sturdy, strong and intelligent. Proficient fighters already. Their skills but needed a bit of honing.

He was grateful to his father and his older brother, Alasdair, for showing him how to lead men and train them. What would Alasdair think of him now that he was an earl and chief? He would send him a missive and relay the news.

The door burst open without warning. Lachlan's hand shot down to his sword behind the tub. Angelique stepped into the room.

Releasing a breath, he relaxed back with a grin. "What a pleasing surprise, my angel."

Her expression stern, she strode forward, then halted abruptly in the center of the room, her gaze darting down his chest and back up. "My maid said you were cut today during practice. Why must I hear about your injuries through gossip? Why do you not tell me when you are hurt?" she demanded. "You are a free-bleeder!"

He almost chuckled. "Naught to fash your bonny head over. 'Twas but a scratch. I am well."

"Let me see."

"You must come closer, then." Why did he feel a bit wicked saying those words to his own wife?

She inched forward.

"Right here." He pointed at his forearm, resting on the tub's edge.

She rushed to him and knelt. Surprising him, she lightly stroked a finger over his forearm alongside the injury. "Scratch? Mère de Dieu. You call that a scratch?"

"Aye. 'Tis not bleeding now, and did not require stitching."

"What were you doing?" Angelique's vibrant green eyes sparkled in the firelight, bewitching. Her intense concern for him made his heart ache and yearn... for what, he didn't know. He only knew she cared about his health, and deep down that meant she cared about him. Why wouldn't she let him touch her? Kiss her? Make love to her?

"Training the men, as I mentioned last night," he said.

"Sword fighting?"

"Aye. Practice."

She pushed to her feet and her gaze drifted down his body beneath the water. She slammed her eyes closed, turned her back and paced to the other side of the room. He couldn't help that he got an erection every time she was near. How he would love to drag her into this tub and get her all wet. But likely that would turn her into a clawing hellcat again. He must be far more subtle.

"I thank you for your concern. What did you do today?" he asked.

"Met with Mistress Mayme and planned a menu for the wedding feast. Made a long list of supplies we need."