"What was that for?" he asked.

"I worried for you. I am glad you are well." Her voice was breathy and feminine, her accent more pronounced. Just like the other time he'd returned from a skirmish with Kormad, she was extremely affectionate…and likely aroused. Saints! The things he wanted to do to her, if only he could get her alone. But now was not the time.

"Indeed, I'm well. I have to go back into the dungeon to question the men we captured. We must get to the bottom of these false papers and charges against us. 'Twill likely take several hours."

***

Later that night, a sound woke Angelique. Water splashing. The fire burned low but revealed Lachlan's naked form across the bedchamber where he washed himself at the basin. His body glowed like sculpted bronze in the firelight.

"What did you learn?" she asked.

He turned. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was." She'd tried to stay awake and wait for him but must have slept a short time.

He finished bathing and dried his face, arms and the rest of his body with a cloth. Without even trying, he seduced her with his raw sensuality, his confident movements and those delicious muscles. His shaft was relaxed but starting to grow larger as he approached the bed and sat on the edge. "I'm glad I woke you, then."

"Why?" Though she wanted to ask him about the prisoners, she wanted to touch him more.

"Because." He lifted her hand and kissed the back of her fingers. "You're more fun awake."

Without thought, she turned her hand, her fingertips brushing the prickly stubble of his cheek, her thumb stroking his full lips. He had a mouth designed for sinful kisses and she trembled in some deep part of herself with the need to taste his lips and drink in his breath. His gaze burned into her with dark gold flame. His brows lowered; his jaw clenched. He kissed the sensitive pads of her fingers, her palm. Oh, such tingly heat…it raced from her hand, up her arm, to her breasts, then spread down her body. His tongue touched her palm, producing a sharp ache within her.

She sat up and quickly pressed her lips to his. Her heart leapt. You are mine, Lachlan. "You are mine." A noise escaped her, halfway between a cry and a gasp. She had not meant to say the words aloud.

"Aye, lass, I'm yours. And you're mine," he breathed against her lips.

"I did not mean—"

"Shh." He took possession of her lips again and urged her to lie back on the pillow.

Her mind would not function while his mouth seduced with hot licks and possessive thrusts of his tongue.

She took great handfuls of his hair, twining the silken strands around her fingers to better hold his head while she feasted upon his mouth. No matter his sins, no matter if he shattered her heart again tomorrow, she could not deny herself this moment of bliss.

Between kisses, he murmured and whispered to her in a language she knew not. What…what are you saying? But no words would emerge from her. She craved air, and his breath. All over, her skin tingled, needing his touch. He untied the belt of her wrap, pushed up her silk smock, stroking his rough palm over her thigh and hip. Hot shivers coursed through her. She arched her back and allowed him to remove her garments.

"Och, Angelique, you are so lovely." He fastened his lips onto her nipple, both his hands supporting her back. He devoured her, licked and sucked, his beard stubble rasping her breasts during the overwhelming pleasure.

Lying down beside her, he returned to her mouth with the consuming kisses, his big hand now cradling her derriere, sliding down to lift her thigh. He aligned her to his body, his muscles unyielding to her soft flesh, his stone-hard shaft pressing against her lower belly. Insistent, demanding. Just inside, she yearned for him, aching for him to impale her with that male weapon.

He was everywhere at once, his heat, his hardness, his sensual mouth. She released a gasping cry of frustration, of wanting what he would never give her. Not just his body but his heart. "Lachlan, damn you." She seized his shaft in her hand, firmly, his skin fever-hot and silky, the flesh beneath like steel. She wished to possess him, body and soul, so he would never look at another woman. Never know another woman existed. No one but her. She stroked him up and down. He growled more of those foreign words, his hips flexing, jaw clenching.

He twisted abruptly, escaping her hold and pinning her beneath him. Between her thighs, his hand explored her hidden places. His fingers slicked over her, and she knew she was very wet for him, craving that he drive himself as deep as he could into her, without mercy.

"Mmm." He bit his lip. His eyes, staring into hers, reflected dark lust, his lids lowered. She imagined those terse Gaelic words rolling off his tongue had sinful and sexual meanings. Or was their meaning more emotional?

She thrust her hips toward him. Surely her need was clear.

He trembled—she thought—as he pushed her thighs wider and rose to his knees. He took his shaft in hand and stroked it against her burning, tingling flesh. She gasped and thrust her hips again. Yes, do it.

She held her breath when he pushed inside her, that invasion she obsessed about. At first shallow, making her yearn for more, but with each stroke, he slid deeper. More and more, he challenged her limits with his size. It was not pain she felt, but an erotic stretching sensation that soon gave way to pure blissful pleasure. His broad, muscled shoulders above her fueled her need for him. So delicious was he, she savored everything about him. His gaze, locked on hers, communicated things no words of any language could express. Connection, emotion, intensity.

He dropped over her, an elbow beside her head, and brushed his lips against hers. Losing control, she cried out with each sensation he propelled through her body.

Then his breath burned against her ear. She stroked her palms over his beard stubble, his sweaty face and into his hair, pushing it back. His finger teased her magical spot just above where his body joined with hers. The tingles became a maelstrom too intense to bear. Something propelled her off the edge of the world, shattering her with that euphoria only Lachlan knew how to draw forth from her.

He ground into her hard, shuddering with deep growling sounds and foreign words. Seconds passed as time seemed suspended.

His breaths came in great gasps as he withdrew and dropped to the bed beside her. "Saints! Angelique," he rasped. "You'll be the death of me with that kind of bedsport."

While he held her, she lay with her forehead against his upper chest. Oh, the things she wished for…that he be hers alone, forever. That they share this intimacy every night and every day. That he might grow to love her. That she could love him without fear he would shatter her heart on a whim.

***

"He's acting all 'happy' again," Rebbie muttered to Dirk as they strode across the snow-covered barmkin the next morn. "So, all is forgiven?"

"What do you speak of?" Lachlan asked, taking a moment to enjoy the clean icy air and heated memories of last night.

"Don't pretend to be daft. You're smiling like a lunatic."

"Am I?" Lachlan wanted to laugh but held it in. "Well…indeed, she believes me now—that I wasn't with Neilina."

"Why?"

"Came to her senses?" Lachlan opened the door to the dungeon, unsure exactly how or why Angelique had warmed to him. All that mattered was that she had. "And she accepted Orin and Kean." When she had held wee Kean on her lap, showing his motherless son affection, Lachlan's chest had tightened. Angelique had the softest of hearts, which she kept hidden behind thick steel armor.