"How do you know all Scotsmen are like Father?" Angelique had asked.

"I knew several when we lived in Scotland and, in my experience, they are all alike. They love the excitement of war and fighting above all. They only wish to exert their power over others, especially women. And they desire a different woman each night. They care not whether the woman is a lady or a common servant. They will take them all."

Angelique believed her mother. How could she not? Her mother's ideas were all she knew. Thus far Angelique had noted that most men fell into the barbaric, power-hungry, lust-obsessed category, not just Scotsmen. Women's feelings meant nothing to them.

"Why could you not be here, Maman?" Angelique whispered to the empty room. Wearing the precious diamond pendant Maman had given her, hidden beneath the gown, would make her feel her mother was close in spirit on her wedding day.

A knock sounded at the door. Angelique spread the gown upon her bed, wiped her eyes and swung the door open.

Camille rushed in, her cheeks flushed and her breathing elevated. "Lachlan and his men have returned. You wanted me to inform you."

"Merci. Where has he been?"

"Visiting a neighboring family—er clan, I mean."

Annoyance flashed through Angelique. "He visited another clan? Without me? He promised to take me. And even if he hadn't promised, it is my right to go."

She well knew he was doing this because she'd refused to allow him into her bed and she would tell him what she thought of that. If not for her, he would own naught but the clothes on his back. He owed everything to her. And he would treat her with more respect!

The door to the chamber burst open and Lachlan barged in, his long, tawny hair loose and windblown, a light of excitement in his gold-brown eyes. He smelled like the fresh outdoors. "M'lady." He bowed deeply and presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers.

"My laird, merci." The mingling scents of daisies, roses and green sap distracted her for a moment, as did his unexpected romantic gift. No man had given her flowers in long time. But maybe that was his intention… to distract her.

"So, the wedding gown has arrived at last." He swept a dramatic hand toward her bed.

"Where have you been?" Angelique asked, returning to the heart of the matter. "Visiting neighboring clans?"

His gaze held a bit of spite when it landed upon her. "Pray pardon, Camille. I need to have a word with my wife."

Angelique did not care for the derisive way he'd said that.

Camille scuttled out the door and closed it behind her. Silence reigned for several moments. The tension was so pervasive Angelique could hardly breathe.

"Well?" she demanded. "Where?"

"Ask nicely and I'll tell you." He bestowed a mock grin.

"Where have you been, my laird?" she asked with the utmost sweetness. She held the bruised flower stems in a stranglehold, wishing to throw them at him.

"Better, but still needs a bit of work. I was visiting with the chiefs of Clan Robertson and Clan Buchanan. They will attend our wedding."

"I have every right to visit neighboring clans with you," she snapped.

"And I have every right to have my wife in my bed at night. We don't always get what we have a right to. Do we, madame?"

"If not for me, you would have naught but the sword at your side and your damned plaid."

He surveyed her with a deadly gaze. "And if not for me, Kormad would've already murdered you."

"Hmph. You are a well-paid bodyguard, monsieur."

"Or 'haps I am but an expensive stud whose services you cannot handle."

Did he always have to bring sex into everything? Stubborn heartless barbarian. "We lead this clan together. I am the countess!" She flung the bouquet at him. It bounced off his chest, blooms scattering.

He but acknowledged her attack with a blink and a clenching jaw. "And I am the earl. As well as the chief."

"Thanks to me."

"And thanks to King James. As well as my own cunning which garnered the king's favor." One corner of Lachlan's lips quirked up. "I'm glad we both remember how this debacle came about," he said in a dry tone.

He was right of course. Despite being a countess in her own right, she was naught but a woman stripped of any real power. And yet, she refused to give up anything to him. He was merely helping her lead the clan. "I wish to be informed about the clan's affairs."

"I'll inform you. What would you like to know?" he asked with sugary politeness.

"Do not mock me. It is my right to stand beside you and help make decisions that affect the clan and estate. Those men think you alone lead them."

His expression turned serious. "If you undermine my authority, you will only be causing more conflict. Do you wish peace or strife? Have you any inkling how vicious Scots are when a conflict arises? A simple disagreement can turn into a massacre. I don't wish any bloodshed."

"I don't want bloodshed either, but I want to go with you to visit the next clan."

"There is no need. I sent a messenger to invite two other clans to the wedding and the feast. You can meet them then."

"Très bien, but I have a right to know what's going on. The disputes, the judgments and agreements. My father would wish it if he were here."

"I'll tell you in private if that's all you wish. But I won't allow you to order me about before my men."

"Your men?"

"Aye, the Drummagans are my men now. When you chose me and married me before the king's men and God, you gave me that right." He turned and slammed the door on the way out.

***

"M'laird?" The male servant's whiney voice and the scratch on the library door grated on Lachlan's nerves.

"I'm working! I need quiet," Lachlan yelled.

"Aye, m'laird." Footsteps retreated.

Lachlan took another long swallow of sherry. In the candlelight, he squinted at the lines of numbers on the book in front of him. God's blood! He was losing his mind. The laughter in the great hall made him want to take a cannon to it. 'Twas not like him. He used to enjoy revelry. Never had he been in such a despicable mood.

The king's retainers, along with his English friend, Miles, had departed that morning, leaving Lachlan in complete control of the estate and the clan.

Ha! "Control," he muttered. Indeed, he was in command of the men, the clan members, the security of the castle—that was easy—but controlling Angelique and bending her to his wishes was like trying to cuddle a fiendish wildcat.

Then, Rebbie and Dirk had convinced him they all needed a day off because they'd trained hard for a week and the men were too sore to move. Never mind they'd had a reprieve when they'd visited the two other clans. Soft as lasses, they were.

If he couldn't train or travel, then by the saints, he would drink. Anything to take his mind off Angelique, daughter of the devil. He wanted to throttle her! But at the same time, he knew if he got his hands on her pretty, delicate neck he'd be too busy appreciating her smooth, silken skin and end up running his lips over it instead, and down toward the bodice of her dress. Trailing kisses. Biting. Her female scent would fill his nose and he would become intoxicated with it.

"Saints!" What would her breasts smell like? Taste like? Lower, between her legs, she would be luscious as a plum tart. Sweet, tangy. He wanted to dine on her whole body, licking, nibbling. His erection growing beneath his kilt, he moaned and poured another finger of sherry.