"My first battle wound for you, sweet wife." With a flick of his wrist, he placed a short cut on his abdomen several inches above his waist.

"Ma foi!" She covered her mouth and gaped at him. What in Heaven's name possessed him?

His blood dripped onto the pristine sheet for a few seconds. He smeared it in. "There's your virgin's blood, lass. And don't be telling anyone how it got there." Glaring at her, he yanked at the top sheet and pressed it against his cut. "Damn, who kenned I was such a free-bleeder?"

She rushed forward. "You have cut yourself too deeply. Lie down."

He obeyed. "'Tis but a scratch. But I am oft too enthusiastic about things. Here, pour some of this on it." He handed her the flask from the table.

"What is that?"

"Uisge beatha. Water of life. The best, made in the Highlands of course. Take a sip."

The strong whisky burned her nose. "Non." She poured a dribble on his wound.

He jerked, breath hissing through his teeth.

She pressed hard against the sheet over his cut. The material draped down, covering his man parts, thank heavens, or she would've been too nervous to remain this close to him. He was her husband, oui, but something about him defied her to touch him, like a hot kettle. He would sear her in the same manner as that kiss at their debacle of a wedding.

"Are you in pain?"

"Nay. 'Tis fine now, I'm thinking." He lifted the edge of the sheet.

"I shall make you a wrap for it, else you will bleed on your clothing and our ruse will be for naught." She ripped the bottom edge off the sheet. "Stand, s'il vous plaît."

Again he obeyed her, rising without the sheet to cover him. "You enjoy ordering me about, aye?"

She tried not to let her gaze drift below his waist as she wrapped the strip of cloth around his trim, muscled abdomen, but his male member was impossible to ignore, especially when it appeared larger each time she happened to glimpse it. She thought her imagination was playing tricks on her, but then it started jutting out toward her.

She moved to his side to avoid contact.

His lips slowly lifted into a smirk. "You have a lovely blush, Frenchie."

"I am not blushing." But contrary to her words, her face heated furiously.

"Och! Pray pardon, but you look very virginal. Are you sure you're not one?"

"Of course."

"So, you have seen a man naked afore?"

She thought he must be teasing her, but his voice had hardened a bit. She concentrated on her work, keeping the bandage tight around his ribs.

"Angelique?"

Damn him, why could he not leave her be? "No, not completely. Do not most people…couple in the dark?"

His grin was pure mischief. "If they're Puritans."

"It is not only the Puritans."

"Catholics, too, huh? Ah, well. I'm glad then you're not too familiar with men's bodies."

She tied a knot in the bandage beneath his arm. Her task complete, she stepped away to the window, refusing to look again at his nicely formed body and growing, erect tarse. She had, in truth, never seen one before and found she was more curious than she wished. Was he normal sized? Surely, he was large enough to cause great pain during coupling. But if that were the case, why did women clamor to occupy his bed? Her body felt as if she'd been standing inches from a roaring fireplace. Sweat chilled her skin.

"I thank you," he said.

"C'est rien. I thank you for your…blood sacrifice."

He chuckled and she glanced back at him. He held the plaid before him, but his eyes met hers, the expression wicked, perceptive. Dropping his plaid, he stepped forward, and she stared out the window again.

Non. Go away. Do not touch me.

"Angelique." When he traced a fingertip down the sensitive skin of her neck, she stifled a shiver. He placed his large hands at her waist, the strength of them possessive. With seeming affection, he kissed her temple, her ear, feather-light, his warm breath teasing her. He trailed his lips down to nibble at her neck and the bend of her shoulder. His beard stubble lightly rasped her sensitive skin, causing both slight pain and alluring tingles to dart down her arms and to her breasts.

He pushed his hand around to her stomach and drew her back. The heat of his skin near burned her through the thin silk smock and caused a liquid swirling sensation low in her belly beneath his hand. Sacrebleu! What was he doing to her?

His body was a solid wall at her back. She had not yet put on her stays and farthingale and his hard shaft prodded her derriere. Her body's primitive instincts urged her to arch her back and wantonly grind her hips against him. Non! She forced herself not to respond.

But she could not get the image of that part of his body out of her head.

His other hand splayed on the upper part of her chest, his fingertips stroking her throat even as he teased and seduced the skin of her neck, her jaw line with his lips. She would only need to turn her head a bit to experience another kiss like the one in the chapel.

"Allow me to give you pleasure, Angelique," he whispered.

Her traitorous body sang with tingles and strange yearnings. Her lungs locked down and she gasped for breath. He was naught but the god of lust and fornication casting his spell upon her.

"Saints, you're lovely. Your skin tastes like honey."

What if he forced her?

"Non." She pulled away. "I do not want to hear the practiced lies you tell your paramours."

"I was telling you true, lass." His deep voice was softer than it had a right to be, a bit rough and intimate. He waited quietly. "You're beautiful. As delectable as a puff pastry I wish to taste every inch of."

She pressed her eyes tightly closed, willing the images away—images of his mouth on her, all over—willing the disturbing arousal to drain from her body and leave her cold. But it was stubborn. And dear heaven, his voice was as persuasive as his touch.

"We are wed," he said. "There is no shame."

She forced air into her lungs. "I do not care. You will not touch me." You will not hurt me. You will not take away my control. A tear slipped from beneath her lashes. With her back to him he would not see it, thank the saints.

He released a tired breath and stepped away.

"Mayhap one of your paramours will give you a wedding night you will enjoy."

He muttered blunt words in a language she didn't understand, Erse, without doubt. Good, she had driven him away. Excellent indeed, even though her body was frustrated and restless. She fought down her own irrational desires.

A loud knock sounded at the door. She jumped and quickly swiped the damnable tears away.

He yanked on his long-tailed shirt and opened the door. After murmuring a few words she couldn't understand, he handed the rolled up, bloody sheet to one of the king's men and locked the door back.

"We leave on one of the king's smaller galleons for Perth in a half hour." Lachlan finished dressing. He spent so much time glaring at Angelique's rigid back that he did a shoddy job pleating his kilt. The damned cut on his abdomen stung like a bee possessed of a kelpie.

Devil take having a wife. He should've known this would happen. Luscious, alluring, hell-hated wench.

God's teeth, he yearned for her. Her skin was like finest ivory silk sheened with honey dust. And her mouth, when he'd kissed her in the chapel, had tasted like—he didn't know what. But he hadn't been able to resist dipping his tongue inside for a fuller taste. He wished to suckle her tongue like a sweet comfit even as he slid himself deep inside her and near drowned in her wet pleasure. He wished to take her hard and fast, while she moaned—nay—screamed his name and begged for more.