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!"

"Nor can they keep me out. I alone must show them who is leader. You must trust me on this. I will send a message to Kormad he cannot ignore."

She grasped his sleeve and appeared as if she might argue further, but her mouth became a firm line. "Have a care," she said and released him.

"Always." He winked, leaned quickly forward and gave her a peck on the lips. Her jaw dropped.

Smiling, he opened the door and motioned her inside. She obeyed but held out her hand for the pistol, giving him a stern look.

"Put it away before you kill yourself with it," he whispered, relinquishing the wee weapon. "Don't allow her out," he told the royal guard. Lachlan wanted to continue smiling because she worried about his safety but he forced it away. That kiss had been too brief and he was in need of more.

He again faced the "leader" of this ragtag group of rebels, praying the whole of the Drummagan clan did not side with them and Kormad.