Lachlan remained silent. Me, married? He tried to visualize that without success.
"She is a spirited lass, but I'm sure you will tame her in no time," the king continued. "The estate is near Perth. I think you will find it most pleasant."
Lachlan's older brother was an earl and a chief, but he had never thought to rise to such a level himself. "I'm at a loss for words, Majesty. I'm sure I'm undeserving of such a grand reward."
One of the courtiers coughed and another cleared his throat—titled aristocrats, all, with more wealth and power than they knew what to do with. Everything in Lachlan rebelled at the disdain he witnessed in their eyes.
"Ah, but you do," King James proclaimed. "Does he not, Steenie?"
The extravagantly dressed man beside the king nodded. "Indeed. The brave Scot saved my life." Buckingham's gaze held sincerity.
"By the by," James went on. "I ken you have a smidgen of Stuart blood in your veins, laddie, from a hundred or so years ago. Anyone who's a descendant of kings is surely good enough to be earl of Draughon."
Buckingham nodded again.
God's bones! Could he become more than he'd ever imagined? More than anyone had expected of him?
You will amount to naught, his father had yelled at him more than once. You cannot make a living swiving every wench from here to Paris and back. Not to mention the drinking and gaming. Why can you not be more like Alasdair?
Nay, he would never be as good as his brother.
"Ah, I know what worries you, lad," the king said. "The estate is not in debt and comes with a generous income. The lands thereabout are rich and produce an abundance of crops. The sheep and cattle are too numerous to count."
"What of the Drummagan clan? Will they accept me as their chief?"
"They must. Angelique is the legal heir, and her husband, by right of the marriage contract, stands beside her and leads the clan with her. I command them to accept you. Any who do not will be dealt with as traitors to the crown."
But he would have to marry the flame-haired lass who had glared at him and fled. Had there ever been a woman, whether wench or lady, he couldn't seduce into his good graces? Well, maybe one or two, but they were few and far between.
"This is such an honor, Your Highness. My most sincere thanks to you." Lachlan gave his deepest bow.
"Are you in agreement, then?"
"Aye," he said before he could talk himself out of it. "But I would like to speak with the lady first."
The king nodded. "Be prepared for her resistance. She wishes to marry Philippe Descartes but he is unacceptable—some French nobleman's bastard, and a weak lad to boot. I will never allow it."
***
Angelique raced to her chamber, slammed and barred the door.
Camille shot from her chair, still holding her needlework. "What is happening?" she asked in French.
Breathing hard, Angelique turned to face her companion. "King James has found me a vile husband."
Camille's blue eyes grew round. "In truth? Who?"
"A wild Scot, a Highlander who does nothing but seduce women. A debaucher worse than Girard."
"No one is worse than Girard."
"Of course. But I cannot marry this MacGrath. You must take a message to Philippe." Angelique hurried to the desk and withdrew a piece of paper, her hands shaking. She almost overset the inkhorn as she dipped in the quill.
"Take a deep breath, mademoiselle. You will do nothing but waste paper in your haste."
"You are right." She paused a moment, sucked in two deep breaths, then continued at a more controlled pace.
"Would this be the Highlander who wears a belted plaid about, sinfully long hair, tall strapping man?"
"Oui. How can you know of him already?"
Camille gave a dramatic shiver. "The ladies and servants talk. Are you sure you do not want to marry that one?"
"No! Do not tell me he has bedded you as well."
"No. Heavens, no. I wish." She smiled. "If you do not want him…"
"You can have him, believe me. Traitor!"
"It was only a jest."
Angelique put pen to paper. She almost wrote Philippe's name. No, what if someone intercepted the message and took it to the king?
My Love, she wrote. We must run away together. Make arrangements tonight, then come to my room before dawn and I will be ready.
Camille read over her shoulder. "Must you lie and expect the impossible?"
Angelique frowned up at her. "What?"
"You do not love him, and he is not cunning enough to sneak you out of Whitehall. If you elope, you may jeopardize your inheritance. Anger the king, and he is likely to give the estate and title to Kormad."
Angelique thought for a moment. "Yes, you are right." She wadded the paper and took out a clean sheet. "Philippe must beg the king for my hand. That's the only way."
"Why do you want to marry the milksop anyway?"
"Because—"
"The truth." Only because her companion was also her illegitimate French cousin and best friend did she get away with such impertinence.
"Because he is a milksop," Angelique said. "He will not order me around. He will not force me to couple with him if I do not wish it. He will be the earl, but I will run my estate myself without an overbearing, demeaning swine of a man controlling every aspect of my life. I cannot abide it, Camille. I will smother and die." Her throat constricted and tears burned her eyes.
"Shh, it's all right, Ange." Camille rubbed her arm. "Do not overset yourself. Damn Girard for ruining your life."
Angelique shoved the emotion away and wrote the second note, telling Philippe to meet with the king and ask for her hand immediately if he wished to be an earl. She folded the note, dropped red melted wax on it and stamped it with an obscure seal only Philippe knew she used. One she had pilfered from her mother's last benefactor.
"Take it to him." She placed the missive in Camille's hands. "Quickly, please."
"Oui, mademoiselle."
***
A curvaceous, flaxen-haired woman scurried past Lachlan in the passage, moving at such a brisk pace he but caught a glimpse of her. What was amiss? No one chased her. "Mmph."
Lachlan continued his search for Lady Angelique's suite along the dim, wood-paneled corridor. Though visiting her chamber was inappropriate, he had to speak with her immediately. Besides, when had he ever cared what was inappropriate? His gut clenched, making him wonder if he'd made a mistake accepting the king's offer.
Damnation. Nothing was easy to find in the confusion of Whitehall Palace, and the directions he'd gotten from a servant were unclear. Believing he'd found the correct door, he knocked.
"Qui est-ce? Who is it?" a woman called. Her sensual French accent and husky voice awoke his carnal urges. He held a keen fondness for the French ladies.
He knocked again.
She muttered a French curse and he smiled.
Angelique yanked open the door and her gaze cut into him. "Why are you here?"
"I wish to talk to you, m'lady." He bowed.
"I have naught to say to you, Highlander. I have already agreed to marry someone else."
"Indeed? Are you speaking of Philippe Descartes?"
"How do you know of him?"