"Indeed he does. I'm glad you finally realize that."

"If he dies, I'll be saddled with another husband, one that might be far more dreadful."

Camille snickered. "'Far more dreadful.' You always did delude yourself, my cousin, since we were small children. I suspect Lachlan isn't dreadful in the least."

She refused to comment on that, though it was true.

"How was last night?" Camille inquired.

"Do not tease me." Last night. Angelique dared not think of the lovemaking, just as intense and passionate as their previous encounters. The indescribable carnal pleasures Lachlan gifted her with. Then he held her while they slept, snuggled and warm. How agreeable and cozy that aspect of marriage was. But he was gone this morn when she awoke. How dare he not even tell her good-bye before he went on such an important and dangerous mission?

Horses' hooves clattered in the stone-paved bailey outside. She darted to the window but couldn't recognize Lachlan's form through the wavy glass. "They are returned." She raced from the room.

Angelique ran across the great hall and outside. Rebbie dismounted, his arm and hand covered in blood. Other men were injured and bleeding. Her heart stopped.

"Where is Lachlan?" Her throat was so dry, the words came out a near whisper. Her gaze searched the men. "Lachlan?" Please, Mère de Dieu, do not let him be dead.

She spotted him emerging from the stables. She ran forward, scanning his body for blood and injuries, but found none.

"Lachlan, are you hurt? Are you bleeding?"

"Nay." He still wore that intense warrior expression.

Angelique launched herself at him. "Thank the Bonne Mère."

He lifted her, holding her close while she kissed face, covered in stubble, sweat and dust—a most welcome feeling against her lips.

"I'm doing very well at the moment, thank you." Lachlan grinned, wondering what the devil had gotten into his wee wife. Whatever it was, he liked it. Her actions sparked instant, thrilling arousal in him. And happiness.

"Grâce à Dieu." She continued to plant little kisses over his face. How unusual, but sweet, her actions were. He turned his head aside and smiled at the teasing comments coming from the men. Best to take this to a private place, he decided, carrying her toward the entry steps. The men's calls, whistles and yells grew louder. Pride swelled through him that she would display her affection for him so publicly.

"I'm so glad you returned," she whispered.

"You're trembling, lass." He carried her across the great hall and toward the solar. No time for more steps to reach the bedchamber.

"I was afraid. I did not want you to be hurt."

His heart kicked about like a lunatic jester. "Why not?" Savoring her slight weight in his arms, as well as her admission, he closed the door behind them.

"You are my husband," she said in a breathy tone. Her darkened green gaze held his, communicating so many things…fear and desire. More—things he had never thought to see in her eyes. Trust and love? Was he imagining them?

"Aye, I am your husband. And glad for it." He set her on her feet.

She slid a hand around his neck and pulled his head down. He devoured her luscious mouth and grew hard as a pike. Her hand grazed him through the kilt.

He remembered the skirmish. "I should clean up before—"

She shook her head.

"Nay?"

"I want you now," she whispered against his lips. "I want you to make love to me."

Desire rushed through him, carrying something sharp and sweet to his heart, making it thump like a war drum. "With pleasure." At the moment, it seemed she accepted him completely, flaws and all.

He lifted her onto the table in the center of the room, removed the weapons from his belt, and shoved the skirts up her shapely thighs to the top. Her auburn curls covered the most feminine and arousing of sights he'd ever set eyes upon. "Lie back," he said, pushing her thighs wider. When she did, he dove in and tasted her. Oh, saints, she was wet and sweet, her lips swollen and dark pink. She gasped and cried out while he feasted upon her, slid his tongue deep. She arched, squirming, her hands clutching his hair.

He could wait no longer. Standing, he lifted his kilt, took his shaft in hand and trailed it through her moisture. "Mmm."

He tried to enter her gently, but that only lasted a trice. She was so very ready. Her body caressed his in a most bewitching way, wringing profound pleasure from him…no, something more than pleasure. Something strong he had not felt before. Something that made him tremble and his blood race. He growled, pushing deeper, thrusting harder while he watched her face strained in passion, her eyes dark beneath the fringe of her thick lashes. So beautiful.

She gasped, crying out.

"Aye, lass."

Sitting up, she clung to his neck. Murmuring and whimpering. "Oui, s'il vous plait, mon chéri."

My dear one? She never called him that. Her words alone made him want to give in to his release, and with the added sensations of their bodies joining, gliding, he almost lost control.

"Ah, saints, Angelique!" He loved being inside her more than anything on earth.

Her cries of pleasure grew louder the closer she slid toward climax. He did not attempt to muffle those wonderful sounds, even though it was possible those in the nearby great hall could hear her. He wanted all the clan to know how much she wanted him. She displayed a cool façade before them. But his wife was a fiery angel when he touched her. He hoped that showed the clan her devotion to him and would help strengthen their loyalty as well.

He made love to her slowly but intensely, sliding deep; he wanted to draw every ounce of pleasure from her. At her climax, she screamed. He feared even those out in the courtyard could hear her now.

Lachlan's own release thundered through him. He was lost in the mad pleasure long seconds. When he became aware again, two guards burst through the door.

Angelique shrieked. Lachlan tried to shield her, though they were both clothed. "What the hell do you want?"

"Pray pardon, m'laird. We thought you were murdering her. Such bloodcurdling screams, we have never heard before."

He was too dumbfounded to laugh. "Does she look murdered to you?"

She hid her blush and mortified expression against his chest.

"Le petit mort." Lachlan grinned broadly at the men. They chuckled and left the room.

Angelique smacked his arm. "Why did you tell them that? And I don't see why they came in here."

"You screamed, very loudly, during the height of your pleasure."

"I did not."

"Mais oui, you did, and I loved it," he said, more proud than he'd ever been of his lovemaking abilities, and his wife's desire for him.

Her blush darkened. "Why did you not make me be quiet?"

"I think that should be obvious."

She scowled. "You wanted them to hear me."

"I'm wanting them to ken how much my wee wifey likes me." He held back a chuckle, which he was sure she would not appreciate.

"I do not like you."

"Nay, I ken how much you dislike me, ma chérie." She could keep lying to herself if that was what she needed. He kissed the upper part of her chest. Her corset was so loose, he pushed it down a bit, yanked her smock out of the way and lapped at her nipples, just visible at the top. "Mmm, these are like sweet berries." His shaft still inside her, he felt her muscles flex, squeezing him. He grew tighter, hardening fully again.