Lachlan lowered his cowl for a moment, allowing the guards to identify him at the gate. They let him pass. Outside on the dark muddy street, he listened to the sounds of the night—the fetid Thames flowing by, a dog barking—then proceeded along King Street to the nearest coaching inn, The Golden Cross, a likely haunt for Kormad. But the man was nowhere to be found.

Lachlan stepped into the third establishment along the Strand. The Black Spur was a din of English talk and laughter. Ale and beer scented the air of the low-ceilinged room, along with roasting boar and smoke from the fire.

He scanned the dozens of men seated at tables, then spotted his friend, Dirk MacLerie, near the back. Lachlan slipped over and sat in the empty chair.

Hand drifting to his sword hilt, Dirk turned dangerous pale blue eyes toward Lachlan in his cowl. "What do you want, friend?"

"'Tis me."

Dirk's auburn brows quirked. "Lachlan?"

"Shh. Has Sorley MacGrotie, baron of Kormad, been in here tonight?"

"I don't ken the man."

"Lowland Scot, dark hair, bushy beard. Ugly bastard."

"I've seen a lot of them like that."

The door opened and a boisterous group stumbled in. Among the six men, he found the whoreson he was looking for. "'Tis him, there."

"Why are you looking for him?"

"I'll tell you later," Lachlan said in a low voice.

The buxom alewife plunked a full tankard of ale onto the scarred wooden table, some of the brown liquid sloshing over the rim. Lachlan flipped her a silver coin. She thanked him with a wink and bustled away to see to the newcomers.

Kormad and his men took a large table on the other side of the room.

"We need to move," Lachlan whispered, picking up the tankard. "To that empty table behind them. You go first. He's seen me before."

"You better have a good reason for this," Dirk muttered and stood.

Squeezing by the chairs of other patrons, Lachlan followed Dirk to the closer table and sat with his back to the men in question. "Watch my back, will you?"

"When have I not?"

For a time, Kormad and his men talked of mundane matters. Dirk gave him a hard scowl. Lachlan shook his head and sipped the lukewarm ale.

"Any progress with the king?" one of the men at the other table asked.

Lachlan raised a finger at Dirk so he would pay attention.

"Nay," Kormad said in his gruff voice.

"If we take the lass and force her to marry you, the problem is solved."

"I don't want my head lopped off because of the hateful wench."

"You must woo her," one of his men said in a low, teasing voice.

"Aye, make her swoon with your lovely poetry."

The men guffawed.

"'Tis not a laughing matter. To be earl, I must marry her," Kormad grumbled.

"Or you could kill her," another man suggested.

Lachlan clutched the tankard of ale tightly when all he wanted to do was draw his sword and do the lopping off of Kormad's head himself. By the saints, I will protect her. Though he did not know why he should want to protect the thorny, insulting ice queen. Something inside her seemed vulnerable and alone. She reminded him of the wee injured wildcat he had found on his clan's lands when he was a lad. When he'd tried to help, the feline had scratched him, but she was simply protecting herself the only way she knew how.

Dirk frowned, scrutinizing Lachlan's face.

"Shh," Kormad hissed.

The men's voices lowered. "We could steal her away and hie back to Scotland. You can marry her there, legal."

"And have the king string me up like a bleeding boar? Nay, indeed."

"The lass will tell the king she wishes it. I can make certain of it."

"You're too daft to make certain of anything," Kormad snapped. "The Drummagans have been friends of the Stuarts for hundreds of years. I won't jeopardize that."

"Queen Jamie doesn't seem like a friend to you," a slimy voiced man muttered.

"Who is he going to marry her off to, then?" another man asked. "That damned Frenchman bastard?"

"Nay. The clan would never accept him as chief," Kormad said.

"Chatsworth?"

"Too old. And too English."

"The clan will settle for naught but a full-blooded Scotsman," Kormad said with finality.

"You're the best candidate. I say you should meet with the king again."

"He might be thinking of that Lachlan MacGrath what saved Steenie's life," a different man said.

Dirk's frown grew fierce and his glare deadly.

Lachlan was glad his friend finally understood.

"He's a Scot, but a damned Highlander," one of the men said.

"The king detests Highlanders," Kormad growled.

"He knighted MacGrath and took him hunting at Theobalds. He likes that one."

"Might be his bonny face."

"Maybe Steenie should watch his back," slime voice said.

Loud laughter erupted. Bastards. Lachlan wished he could shock them all by making his presence known, but that would not serve his purpose. Pretending to be naught but a skirt-chasing gallant would lull them into thinking he was no threat.

Moments later, the group quieted. "The lass is the only thing in your path, my lord."

"Aye."

"So let's remove the obstacle. 'Accidentally' of course."

"Not yet. Let's see who the king chooses for her first."

Chapter Two

Angelique knelt before the king in the throne room the next afternoon. She blinked against the burning rose water perfume she'd dropped into her eyes and stared at the blurred patterns of the lush carpet.

"You must choose a husband from among these three men," King James said.

"But, Your Majesty, pray pardon. I love Philippe Descartes. He is a good man." Lifting her gaze as far as his royally shod feet, she blotted her faux tears with a silk handkerchief. She hated to resort to such theatrics but she knew her guardian was easily swayed with tears, especially hers, ever since she was a small child. The first time her father had taken her to court in Edinburgh, she'd been terrified of all the strangers. When the king saw her crying, he gave her a priceless gold trinket. She prayed he still had a soft spot for her, because she must convince him she was genuinely in love with Phillipe. This was her only sound argument.

"Philippe is not suitable, my child. He is too young, weak, and the bastard of a Frenchman. The earl of Draughon must be a strong man of legitimate birth, and Scottish. 'Tis what your father wanted. The clan will accept nothing less. Nor will I."

"But—but I cannot live without Philippe, Your Majesty."

"If you do not choose, then I shall choose for you," the king said in a harsh voice he'd never used with her. "Which will it be?"

Merde! Why had Philippe not requested an audience with the king today and asked for her hand?

Deep down she knew Philippe would've made no progress, because King James had already chosen MacGrath. Giving her a "choice" was but a formality. After all, the king could not be suspected of forcing a woman to marry against her will.

Angelique glanced aside at each of the swine vying to be her future husband. The first, her fifth cousin, the baron of Kormad, was near twice her age with a bushy dark beard and a protruding stomach. Though his face was not grotesquely ugly, she detested the incensed look in his eyes. When he had talked with her once before, the animosity surrounding him had repulsed her. He treated her as if she were a mouse he wished to stomp into the earth. Marriage to him would be a descent into hell.