He hoped she wondered if he had been with another woman the past couple of nights he hadn't spent in his chamber. He hoped like hell she was so jealous she couldn't sleep. Trouble was, it wouldn't matter if ten women were in the room with him at the moment. He wouldn't want any of them... unless one was Angelique.

Lack of sex had turned him into a lunatic and he'd become obsessed with his maddening wife. Once he had her, he'd probably tire of her. At least, he feared he would. But since she was the only woman he'd ever wanted who was able to resist him this long, he knew not what to expect. Without doubt, he was losing his grasp on reality in this pursuit. He didn't even want to want her. Blast her! He wished she wasn't so feminine, beautiful and appealing. He wished he could give her nary a thought.

Rebbie and Dirk couldn't understand. No one could, except maybe his brother, Alasdair, but he was too far away to visit, deeper in the Highlands. Of course, Alasdair would probably rub his nose in it and tell him this whole hellish situation was no more than he deserved.

Lachlan let his head drop to the desk. What could he do about Angelique? How could he earn her trust? What would he do if she refused him on their wedding night? He almost dreaded it more than he looked forward to it because he knew what would happen. Another argument. Another fight. And he would go mad. He would fail at being a chief, an earl, and a husband, just as he feared he would.

***

Angelique dressed in a fine green gown and descended toward the great hall for supper, her two guards behind her. She felt like a prisoner in her own home. They had taken to following her while Lachlan was visiting with the other clans. When she'd ordered them to leave off, they'd said the laird's orders superseded hers. She didn't know whether to curse Lachlan or appreciate his concern for her safety.

In the great hall, she approached high table but no one was seated.

"Where is the laird?" she asked Fingall.

The steward bowed. "Working in the library, m'lady. He didn't wish to be disturbed."

"What is he working on?" she muttered, striding down the corridor. "Wait here. I wish to speak to the laird alone," she told her guards. Opening the library door, she found Lachlan with his head laid on the desk, his face toward her. Softly, she shut the door and tiptoed closer.

Breathing deep and even, he didn't move. With his eyes closed and his expression relaxed, he looked like a precocious little boy... except for his manly square jaw, beard stubble and those sensual lips. At the moment, he was not trying to seduce her with his calculated, too-knowing eyes. Nor was he angry. She would not mind sitting and staring at him like this for a while. He was indeed pleasing to the eye.

A half empty bottle of sherry sat by his elbow, along with a glass containing a sip.

"Bien entendu," she muttered. Of course, that explained it.

Lachlan jerked awake and sat up. Blinking rapidly, he shook his head as if trying to clear it.

"You are, as they say, cupshoten," she said, enjoying his befuddled expression, a rare sight.

"Nay. 'Twould take more than a wee dram of sherry."

Black ink numbers dotted the side of his face. She snickered, then covered her mouth.

His expression turned most serious. "What?"

She withdrew a clean linen handkerchief from her pocket and dipped it into the sherry. "You have ink on your face."

He glanced down at the books. "Hell, I smeared it."

"Here, let me wipe the ink away." She pressed a palm against one side of his face, his beard stubble prickling her skin, his breath warming her wrist, and wiped at the smudged ink numbers. Her hands tingled from touching him; sensations raced up her arms.

Lachlan gazed at her with sleepy seductive eyes that held a hint of petulance. In that moment, she figured him out. He was naught but a spoiled, overgrown lad used to getting whatever he wanted from the ladies. But not from her, and he didn't know how to handle that. Biting her lip, she suppressed a grin.

"It is time for supper." She dabbed one last ink spot. "There now, all gone."

"I thank you." The unhappy look in his eyes clutched at her heart. He seemed... not himself at all. Not arrogant.

"C'est rien."

"Damnable books." He slammed the ledger closed, rose and paced toward the window.

"What is wrong?"

He stared out the window into the twilight a long moment. "Naught."

"Stubborn," she murmured.

"That's the pot calling the kettle black."

His bitter words made her want to scowl, but she didn't. She knew he was right. Her mother had called her stubborn on more than one occasion. And Lord knew she'd been stubborn with him. But she had no choice.

"So, where have you been these last two nights?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Here and there."

She had peeked into his room each night two or three times. Once, she found him asleep in the early morning hours. Other times she wondered if he had done as she expected and found a paramour. Camille had warned her countless times he would find someone else to slake his lusts, and urged her to go to him. Even though she knew Camille was right, she could not make herself crawl into his bed. Every time she considered it, she froze up, recalling the pain.

She pushed the fear away and focused on something she could control. "Is something wrong with the estate books?"

He released a long breath and turned to her. "I'm good with languages, not numbers."

"Languages?"

"Aye, I can speak and read six languages. Pick them up easily in a short time. But the estate accounts... I simply want to cast them into the fire."

"I am good with numbers," she said, proud of her education and abilities.

"You are?"

She nodded. "My cousin taught me in France."

"Then 'haps you can help me look these over. I'm not sure I trust Fingall, or the treasurer, and a few of the other servants. Anyone who's dealt with the funds."

"I will help you on the morrow. Supper is being served and they are waiting for us."

He exhaled as if tired. "Are you certain you wiped all the ink off my face? If Rebbie sees that, he'll have something else to needle me about."

She suppressed a grin, but feared he noticed it anyway when his gaze sharpened on her. "Oui, it is clean," she said. At times like this she could actually see herself enjoying being in Lachlan's company. Not because he was in a surly mood, but because he was showing her he could be real and humble... and a bit unsure of himself—the way she felt all the time. "What is Rebbie needling you about?"

"What do you think?" He gave her an accusatory look.

"Oh." Her face heated. "Well, that is none of his concern."

"Do you think he cares? He's the nosiest man on God's earth."

"He is not married so he cannot possibly understand."

Lachlan snorted. "I doubt every married couple is like us."

"Probably not."

"Likely, we are bizarre beyond measure."

She glared at him. Did he have to exaggerate everything?

"What?" he asked. "I tell you true."

A crash sounded in the far corner of the room... from the crack between the stones. Someone lurked in the hidden passage behind the room.