He appeared a bit sheepish for a moment, glancing away. But then his dark gold gaze found her again, challenged her. "Indeed, but I hadn't met you yet, in either case. How can you hold that against me?"
"Now that we are betrothed, do you suppose you are instantly a different person?"
You will always want many women, a different one for each night perhaps. I will never be enough for you. Her eyes burned and she stared at the lacey handkerchief in her hand. What did she care? She did not want him touching her anyway.
He remained silent and stiff beside her.
"But that is the way of men, non? I must accept it. Accept my place and do my duty." Her throat ached. Not for the first time, she wished she'd been born male so she would have control of her own destiny.
"No matter what I say now, 'twill not make a difference," he muttered. "You won't believe me. All we can do in this situation, m'lady, is our best. We don't yet ken what tomorrow holds. There are many possibilities."
Oui, the possibilities of new lovers for him. And loneliness and embarrassment for her.
A year ago, her girlhood dream of finding true love and happiness died. Never would she dare resurrect such a dream with this deceptive man.
"In any case, I intend to protect you. You may believe that, if naught else." Lachlan switched his gaze to the doorway. She turned to see if Kormad had followed them. Instead, Philippe Descartes waited there.
"Philippe!" She rushed to him and clutched his hands in hers, instantly feeling the calming sensation he always inspired. He was her only genuine friend here, besides Camille.
Philippe was short enough that looking up into his face did not hurt her neck. His pale skin was flushed.
"Mademoiselle Angelique." Bowing over her hands, he kissed her gloved fingers. "I'm sorry I could not request an audience with the king again this morn," he said in French. "I feared he would have me hanged. He does not like me."
Angelique nodded, her heart softening with understanding. Philippe was her own age, still a youth really, rather than a man.
"Do not worry over it. I will have to marry the Highlander, but he is better than the other two. At least, I think he is."
Philippe glanced toward Lachlan and his eyes widened. He immediately dropped her hands and stepped back.
"What is it?"
Philippe shook his head. "I must be going. I wish you good luck. Au revoir." He turned and fled into the palace.
Lachlan approached and indeed he did look fearsome, a bit like one of the young male lions King James kept in the Tower for fighting mastiffs and bears.
"What did you do?" she demanded. "Draw your sword? Show him your dagger?"
"Nay. I did naught but look at him. He is a cowardly lad, that one. He couldn't protect you from Kormad even if he tried. You should be thankful the king won't let you marry him."
"Forgive me if I disagree. And I shall always remain very fond of Philippe no matter what."
***
Hours later, after the evening meal at the palace, Lachlan requested three armed royal guards placed before Angelique's bedchamber door, and made sure they were on the job. Whether Angelique appreciated his protection or not, she was getting it. Her comment about how fond she was of the whey-faced Frenchie lad still irked him. But what did he care? Philippe was not the problem. Kormad was.
After dark, Lachlan left Whitehall Palace in search of friends he trusted and strode down King Street. As he approached Charing Cross, footsteps echoed behind him. Hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, he halted and turned, his gaze searching along the shadowed buildings and the mist off the Thames.
Silence. Nothing moved. Damnation, he hated having no one to watch his back on these dark and deadly streets.
With more purpose, he continued on his way.
A form leapt from the shadows beside him.
"'Slud!" He dodged aside and drew his sword.
Two more men rushed in behind him, grabbed his arms and pulled him off balance. Determined not to lose his grip on the sword, Lachlan lowered his body and yanked at his captors. They clung to him like tenacious wolfhounds, rendering his arms useless.
"A mhic an uilc!" Lachlan yelled.
The first attacker punched him hard in the stomach. His breath whooshed out, leaving suffocating pain.
He kicked the man and tried to twist away from the other two, but the bastards were strong. He stomped the toes of the man on his right, freed his sword arm and lashed out.
The man recovered and both of them tackled him to the street. One struck his arm, causing him to lose his grip. The sword clattered away.
"Damnation!" He struggled against them, tried to throw them off.
"Come now, grab his arms and drag him! This is the quickest way to the river," their leader ordered in a Lowland Scots dialect.
"We need to knock him in the head first, else he'll just swim out."
"Then do it!"
"And what are you doing but playing boss?"
Still lying on the ground, Lachlan shoved a knee toward the whoreson's bent head, but he dodged aside.
"You mewling jolthead. Hold him still."
One of the men grabbed for Lachlan's hair.
Evading him, Lachlan kicked the man in the stomach and he back-flipped into the ditch. He then jammed his elbow against the other man's stomach and punched him in the face.
"Omph!"
Their leader advanced, carrying a massive stick. Lachlan sprang from the ground, snatched the stick and landed a quick blow to the man's face with his fist. His nose made a satisfying crunching sound before he staggered backwards and fell on his arse.
Ha! Now he was getting somewhere. Lachlan hauled him up by his doublet. "Who sent you? Who do you work for?"
"To hell with you!" The ruffian tried to kick Lachlan in the groin.
He stepped aside and shoved the man to the ground.
The blackguard leapt up and fled. His cohorts scrambled from the ditch, sewage and foul water dripping from their clothing, and ran after.
"Bastards!" Lachlan retrieved his sword, gleaming from the shadows, followed a short distance but lost them to the fog.
Kormad's men—he would place silver on it.
"Iosa is Muire Mhàthair," he muttered and proceeded to The Golden Cross Inn.
Upon entering the sizable main room lit by lanterns, Lachlan sheathed his sword and scanned the patrons eating and drinking at the many tables. His stomach ached where the ruffian had landed two punches. He straightened his hair and clothing as he made his way toward the table where Robert "Rebbie" McInnis, earl of Rebbinglen, future marquess of Kilverntay, sat swilling ale.
Lachlan dropped into a chair, glanced down at his burning, bloody knuckles and cursed.
"What happened to you, then?" Rebbie asked, black brows lowered.
Lachlan wrapped a handkerchief around his hand. "I was in a fight outside. Three bastards jumped me from the darkness, then attempted to drag me to the river and drown me. I sent them scurrying like wee mice."
"What was their dispute with you?"
Suddenly thirsty from the exertion, Lachlan held up two fingers at the tippler. The barrel-chested man nodded.
"Well, I'm waiting," Rebbie said.
"I'm thinking they object to my future bride."
Rebbie coughed, almost choking on his ale. "What the devil are you speaking of?"