"Que vous êtes bête!" She backed away. "Leave at once, monsieur. We have nothing to say to each other."

Having never before been called a beast, he almost laughed. But he didn't want her to know he spoke fluent French, as well as Italian, Spanish and German. In the past, pretending ignorance had sometimes given him the advantage.

"I would ask you kindly to please speak English or Gaelic."

"I will never lower myself to speak your barbaric Erse."

Though her disdain of his native tongue pricked at him like thorns, her closed-mouth, purring accent stirred arousal within him.

"Because you don't ken the language? I shall teach you, if you wish."

She drew her lips into a firm line. Clearly, she had never known the pleasure of a good kiss, something he would enjoy tutoring her in. 'Haps she'd never experienced a kiss at all, good or bad.

Her rich voice and wise, guarded eyes were those of a woman, but her girlish face and slender, waif-like body made her appear she had not enough to eat. In contrast, her clothing of finest gold silk told him she could not be starving.

"How many years have you?" he asked.

"Twenty."

He nodded, pleased she was not as young as she appeared…if she was telling the truth. He would ask one of the courtiers on the morrow. Nevertheless, the king wanted him to marry her and he was not one to forgo grand royal gifts, even if he didn't know what the devil to do with them yet.

"Et vous?" she asked.

"Pray pardon?"

"And you? You must be very old."

He chuckled. "You don't see any gray hairs, do you? I am twenty-six."

Her brows lifted, intensifying her haughty look, but this only increased her allure. He couldn't resist a challenge.

"We have much to discuss before we are wed."

"I will not marry you. King James cannot force me."

"'Tis dangerous to defy your king."

Her militant expression and rigid stance, hands on hips, told him she might be one of the few women in the world he couldn't sweet talk into liking him. A sinking feeling settled into the pit of his stomach.

"God's bones, I don't ken how you are a reward," Lachlan muttered. "'Haps His Majesty is wanting to punish me for saving the life of Buckingham."

Angelique murmured something in French that sounded like insolent lecher, though he couldn't be sure.

"I thank you for that compliment, m'lady." He winked.

The pink from her face spread down her neck toward her bodice and small breasts. How he loved a woman's creamy curves flushed with the glow of passion.

If she could've made dirks of ice shoot from her eyes, she would've slain him on the spot. She turned away. "Leave me at once."

Her prickliness didn't fool him. 'Twas all a front. Her blush told him she found him appealing, whether she wanted to admit it or not. But maybe she was a virgin and didn't know the pleasures that awaited her in his bed. He would attempt a kiss now, but she might bite off his tongue.

"As you wish, m'lady." He bowed. "I shall see you on the morrow."

"Bonne nuit, monsieur," she said in a condescending tone before he closed the door on his way out.

As he strode down the passage, his heart raced. She excited him more than any woman in a long while. Surely he did not enjoy her sharp tongue or chilly glares. Nay, but he loved a chase. Most women were too easy to catch—he winked, he smiled, and they came.

With determination, Lachlan continued toward the king's private chambers. He sent a message by one of the ushers and five minutes later, Buckingham emerged.

"I wish to inform His Majesty that I would be honored to marry Lady Angelique," Lachlan said.

Buckingham grinned. "I shall tell His Majesty. He will be most pleased."

"I thank you." Lachlan bowed and made his way toward his own bedchamber, trying not to think of the future or what he'd committed himself to. Could be hell itself.

From the passageway, he carried a lit candle into the darkened room. A breathy female voice called out his name in a sing-song fashion and a giggle floated from the draped bed. A second of excitement ignited within him when he thought of Lady Angelique, perhaps come for a surprise visit, but it could not be her. Unless she'd come to murder him. He parted the curtains.

Eleanor lay naked upon the velvet coverlet, gazing at him with heavy darkened eyes. "I am ready for you," she breathed.

He surveyed her ivory skin, her rosy, hard nipples highlighting full breasts, the dark patch of hair at the apex of her shapely thighs, but he felt nothing. No heat of arousal curled through him as it had the first time he'd seen her.

What the devil was wrong with him? He didn't want a naked, willing woman?

"You must go. I'm not in the mood."

He let the curtain drape back into place and set the candle on the mantel.

"What?"

He poured himself some sherry and took a hefty swig. By the saints, was he changing his ways?

Nay, he was just…distracted. Preoccupied with the startling turn of events. Worried he'd stepped in a huge pile of horse dung.

Behind him, she struggled from the bed. "I heard about your reward from the king."

"Already?" He turned and watched her shove her arms into a silk smock.

"I knew before you did. She is not a virgin, you know."

Indeed? "Nor am I."

Eleanor smirked. "She's a French whore and you shall never see a moment's happiness with her. She will never please you in bed."

"From what I've heard, French whores are excellent in bed."

"You shall regret this!"

"Aye, likely I will," he muttered, but what else had he to do? Keep wandering about, looking for adventures and women? Now, he saw the futility of it. The pursuit of revelry was losing its appeal. What would his friend Rebbie say to that?

"A title and estate do not require your faithfulness," Eleanor snapped.

"Who said anything about faithfulness?"

"Then why are you throwing me out?"

Not wanting to insult her, he simply lifted a shoulder. In truth, he even surprised himself with how rapidly he'd tired of Eleanor. "As I said, I'm not in the mood."

"All the men want to marry her, but she will have none of them, save Philippe. What makes you think she'll have you?"

"She will obey the king, I suspect."

"I wouldn't place a wager upon it. You won't last long anyway. Kormad will grind you to sausage in no time."

"Who?"

"The baron of Kormad. Sorley MacGrotie."

"Ah." A Lowland Scotsman he'd met almost a fortnight ago. He had not been impressed with the man, medium of stature with a sizable gut. He would be clumsy on the battlefield. "Is he Angelique's distant cousin, next in line to inherit?"

"Yes. And the rumor is he will let nothing stand in the way of what he wants."

***

After Eleanor left, Lachlan slipped from his bedchamber and along the dark corridor. He'd traded his kilt for black trews and cowl. His basket-hilted broadsword thumped against his thigh.

Sorley MacGrotie. The longer Lachlan thought of the bastard, the more his sword hand ached to grip a hilt. How badly did the baron of Kormad want to be an earl? And what would he do to achieve his goal?

He will let nothing stand in the way of what he wants, Eleanor had said.

Mmph. He doubted the man had ever had a Highlander in his way. 'Twas the same as a rocky crag. He intended to gain the upper hand and ferret out Kormad's plans. Lachlan's instincts told him to expect a battle. This was his opportunity to finally be someone who mattered, to live up to a potential he never knew he had. And damned if anyone would snatch it away from him.