Lachlan nudged her. "Say 'I will,'" he whispered without moving his lips.

"I will," she said in a strong voice. She could have been agreeing to anything. The minister droned on. In shock, wishing this over with, she let her attention slide away to other things, the creaking of the old building, Lachlan's warm, slightly roughened fingers on hers as he pushed another ring onto her finger, a shiny gold band.

"With this ring, I thee wed. This gold and silver, I thee give. With my body, I thee worship." Lachlan's smooth baritone voice reciting those vows stripped away the fog. Her attention riveted upon him, and she knew she would remember this moment forever.

She repeated her own vows rather stiffly, in a halting voice. Only Lachlan's steady hands kept her upright. She wanted to do nothing but burst into tears, though she didn't know why. The way she was dressed—or rather undressed—like a whore for her wedding, or the satisfied, hopeful expression in his eyes, such a contrast to her own misery.

Naturally, he should be pleased. He would be an earl and worth a goodly sum. Her possessions became his. He owned her now.

Sliding his fingers into her unbound hair, Lachlan lowered his head toward her and panic tightened her throat. He touched his lips to hers, the first contact startling, but warm and compelling. His full lips sipped at hers gently, drew away a breath and came back for a firmer, more possessive kiss. His beard stubble rasped her chin and the tip of his tongue tasted her lips, between. Such an unexpected and erotic action. She could not even draw breath.

Whistles and yelps from his friends echoed into the rafters. The minister cleared his throat.

I must shove him away. But no, she couldn't. Not because he was her husband, but because the damnable seducer had mesmerized her.

***

"With my body, I thee worship," Angelique whispered next to the velvet draperies of the room they'd locked her in alone at the earl of Knightly's residence.

Lachlan's eyes, as he'd said those words, had gleamed gold and sincere. He knew her not. How could he look at her as if she were the only woman in the world? When but days ago he had been fornicating with two different women in the space of two nights.

He was a talented liar. So good at it, so good at everything…especially kissing. The moment they'd sealed their vows had been the most shockingly arousing of her life—in a church, no less. The kiss couldn't have lasted more than five seconds, but had instigated such conflictive feelings within her.

The bedchamber door opened and closed back with a soft thud. Her new husband sauntered toward her in the dark English clothing he'd worn for the wedding. It lent him a dashing grace with his light hair pulled into a queue. A mask was all he required to become the epitome of a roguish highwayman. A pistol grip and the polished steel basket hilt of his sword gleamed at his waist.

What did one say to a new husband? Especially when she didn't trust him…nor herself.

"You did not wear your belted plaid," she said to fill the void.

He halted two yards away. "Nay. Draws too much attention here in London, and 'tis best to wear black for secret movements at night. I'm hoping my father was not here in spirit to witness it. I wouldn't have any of the MacGrath clan ken I wore English clothes to mine own wedding."

"They are better than a shift and a blanket."

"I'm sorry for that, but it couldn't be helped. We'll have another ceremony at Draughon Castle, afore your clan—our clan—if you wish. You can wear your wedding gown then."

His words disoriented her. "In truth?"

"Aye. Would you not like that?" His gaze remained steady and sincere upon her.

"Oui. But…why do you care?"

"Why should I not care?"

She shook her head. "You are a man."

"Aye. And?" Waiting, he stared at her with lifted brows.

"Men have no patience for…never mind."

"I have much patience. I'm not a demonic goat as you assume." With that he removed his sword belt and started disrobing, throwing each article of the rich clothing into a heap on a chair. First his doublet, then waistcoat and trews. He was certainly acting like a goat with his lack of modesty.

She turned her gaze to the window before he removed the long shirt. Parbleu, she could not look at him unclothed. Could she?

She cleared her throat. "Where is your Highland clothing?"

"I don't ken. In one of these trunks, I'm thinking."

Her gaze darted to his nakedness, then away. Sweet heavens. He possessed defined muscles as if he were carved in warm, burnished marble, like the statues she'd seen in Italy. A wickedly improved version of Michelangelo's David with a pagan's long golden mane. A feverish heat consumed her.

She forced air into her constricted lungs. "Need I remind you this is a marriage in name only?" Was she proclaiming that to him or herself?

"The king wants the marriage consummated to make it legal and binding."

The king? Plague take the king. She had done what he commanded. But her body was her own, to give to whom she chose, when she chose.

"Tonight," he added.

She stared at a blue vase of white lilies on the dresser, surprised it did not shatter beneath her glare. "I do not care what the king wants."

"Are you wanting to be the one to tell him that?" A tinge of amusement crept into Lachlan's voice.

"Non."

"Well, then." Lachlan waited. "He wishes proof given to his men within the hour."

"Proof?" Her gaze darted to him again. He still had not donned clothing, damn him. She gave him her back.

"Aye. Your virgin's blood on the sheet."

"The king is naught but a Scottish barbarian!"

Lachlan snickered. "Indeed. 'Haps you would like to tell him that as well."

"I have no virgin's blood. I am not a virgin." There, she hoped that shocked him speechless.

"I'd heard," he said in a mild, almost pleasant tone. The bastard.

"From whom?"

"It matters not." He strode toward the other side of the room and flipped open his trunk. "But I didn't ken the king would want a bloody sheet until a short time ago. I'm not saying I agree with it, but he's the king. To oppose him is not wise. Besides, he but wants to assure the marriage is legal and your estate is secure."

Did Lachlan not care she wasn't a virgin? Most men—husbands—would be furious. She peeped at him from the corner of her eyes. His back was toward her, and she could not help but stare at his wide, muscular shoulders, arms thick from swinging a sword, his narrow waist and compact derriere. Sacrebleu! All men were not built like him. The sight of his nude body usurped her other thoughts, even her anger.

"Aha." He withdrew his plaid, a linen shirt and various other articles of clothing along with a flask. He threw his clothes on the foot of the bed and unsheathed a small knife.

She backed up a step. "What are you…?"

He flung back the covers to expose the white linen sheet. He stared at her then down at his own body. "Which part of my body do I wish to mutilate?"

None of it! Was he a lunatic? Though he already had several pale scars on his chest, arms and leg, she didn't want to see a fresh wound.

"God's bones. The things I'll do for a hellish woman." He opened the pewter flask, drank a long swallow, and then poured some of the liquid upon the knife blade. He set the flask on the bedside table and climbed onto the huge bed to sit upon his knees.