"When I leave, lock the door and don't open it for anyone save me, Rebbie or Dirk. More of his men could've slipped aboard."
Camille nodded, obeyed his orders and returned to the berth. "Pour l'amour de Dieu, Kormad is persistent is he not?"
"Oui," Angelique said. "The beast wanted to drown me, I'm sure of it. I fear Kormad will not give up until I am dead."
***
Angelique had never been so thankful in her life to set foot on solid ground in Perth. She had crossed le Manche twice before in her life and always became ill. Even more, she was thankful to be far away from that bald brute who'd tried to kill her. The men on deck had spotted him swimming for shore, but couldn't tell if he'd made it.
She prayed he wouldn't come after her again.
Now she and Camille rode in a coach that lumbered north from Perth toward her childhood home. She pushed the curtain back and took in the familiar Scottish Lowlands outside the window. The rolling green and brown fields and the tree covered hills brought back memories of long ago. She drew in a deep breath of the cool, fresh air but could find no comfort in it. What if her clan didn't like or accept her? What if she was more French than Scottish now and could not make a connection to them? What if Lachlan found a buxom serving wench to warm his bed?
He and his friends rode before the coach, and others along with the king's retainers followed on the narrow, winding road.
Camille cradled her injured arm—the one she'd landed on when she fell from the horse. Her eyes were swollen and the skin around them blackish-blue. Thankfully she had washed all the blood from her hair and it now shone fair blond.
"I still feel terrible that you fell," Angelique said.
"We did what we had to do, as always. Do not regret it. I thank you for saving my life."
"But I put your life in danger to begin with by having you leave the coach."
"Do not worry, Ange. I saved your life one time, and now you have saved mine."
Angelique pressed her eyes closed, hating that memory. Hating to even think of Girard. She would've prayed he was dead if such a prayer did not seem like sacrilege.
She shoved the thought from her mind. "We are a pair, no?"
Camille smiled. "And now we go on our grandest adventure yet, with several handsome Scotsmen."
Angelique snorted. Indeed her husband was handsome, but she was not certain that was a good thing. Women everywhere, from all classes, either stared at him outright or slipped him covert glances and smiles. To his credit, he pretended not to notice.
A huge boulder beside the narrow lane caught her eye. She remembered her father lifting her onto it when she was a small girl.
"We are near Draughon." Her pulse rate increasing, she gazed out. Through the trees, the wide River Tay glistened, reflecting afternoon sunlight. All seemed familiar to her, but like something from another life.
The coach drew to a halt, and she craned her neck out the window. The tall black iron gates stood before them, and beyond, the great stone medieval castle, Draughon. A large group of unfamiliar armed men swarmed in front of the gates. A shiver passed through her.
***
"Halt!" yelled a short, armored guard.
This one wee man didn't concern Lachlan, but the additional men did. They carried all manner of swords, axes, pikes, and pistols forming a line before the gates.
"Who are you?" the guard demanded.
"Lachlan MacGrath…Drummagan, the new chief of Clan Drummagan and earl of Draughon."
"Ba ha ha," the guard bellowed in a mock laugh. "'Tis a funny jest."
Lachlan tensed at the derision. A sickening feeling tightened his stomach. In truth, he felt like a fraud. Him an earl? A chief? But no one had to know of his doubt. He could bluff until dawn.
One of the king's retainers strode forward and unrolled a legal document containing the king's seal. "The countess of Draughon, Lady Angelique Drummagan, is in the coach and we are sent by His Majesty, King James. This man tells you true. He is the new earl of Draughon and your chief."
The force of armed, leather-clad men increased to two or three dozen behind the main guard.
"No one such as yourself will be entering this gate afore Laird Kormad returns," the guard growled.
Did Scots always have to be such a rebellious lot? At times like this he wished to throttle his own countrymen. "Kormad?" Lachlan asked. Damn the whoreson.
"Sorley MacGrotie, Baron of Kormad, rightful heir to the earldom."
"I ken who he is, but about the earldom, you are wrong. I am earl of Draughon. 'Tis official."
"In the name of King James, lay down your weapons, open this gate and stand aside!" ordered the king's retainer.
"I think…" The guard pretended to consider. "Nay! I'm a Drummagan and I won't be havin' a damned MacGrath Highlander as my chief. King James detests you lawless wild Scots so he wouldn't send one to lead us."
"We are on the edge of the Highlands here. 'Tis not as if we live in different countries. We're both Scotsman," Lachlan said, acting his most calm and civil.
"You're naught but a barbarian. I can tell by the look of you." The guard eyed Lachlan's plaid, thrown over his shoulder. At least he wore trews instead of a kilt this day. Better for riding a horse.
"I was educated in Edinburgh, just as your former chief, John Drummagan, was. My brother is a Scottish earl and a chief as well. I have noble blood flowing through my veins."
"But you don't have Drummagan blood."
"My wife is Drummagan through and through."
"Pah!" The man spat on the ground. "She's a Frenchie."
"We shall have a contest, you and me. Whoever is the victor will claim the castle, aye?" Lachlan said.
The retainers eyed him as if he were a lunatic. Rebbie grinned and Dirk frowned.
Lachlan dismounted and strode forward. "What say you?" He towered over the guard and glared down at him.
"Um, what sort of contest?"
"One on one, man to man sword fight." Lachlan drew his basket-hilted sword, stepped back and held it at the ready.
The guard hesitated.
"Come, wee man. I wish to get this over with. We have been traveling a long while and we wish a bite to eat. My wife is ill and requires a bed to rest upon."
"What is causing the delay?" demanded a female voice with a French accent behind him. He glanced back to find Angelique striding forward, her eyes blazing wrath and her blue silk skirts swishing.
She held a small pistol in her hand.
"God's blood," Lachlan muttered.
"My lady! You must not." Two of the king's men chased her.
"Watch my back," Lachlan told Dirk and Rebbie as he started toward her. What a wee angel of vengeance she was. He sheathed his sword, plucked the pistol from her hand and escorted her back to the coach. They halted by the door.
"Listen to me, Angelique," he whispered in her ear. "You will stay within the safety of the coach until I settle this." Her floral female scent startled his senses and stirred his body with lust at a very bad moment.
"But—"
"I am the laird here and I will protect you, the lady. Not the other way around." He kept his tone firm but gentle.
"But this is my home. I grew up here and they cannot keep me out!"