His grin appeared, broadened. "That, I consider a challenge, madame. I would never allow such a thing."

"Everything is not under your command or control." She forced the words out.

Lachlan moved forward, closer to her but she stood firm, her heartbeat accelerating. I do not find him appealing. Not his big, strong body nor his clean male scent. Not the seduction gleaming in his eyes, nor the smile on his sensual lips. Though she tried to convince herself these things were true, her instinctive side would not listen.

"There are different kinds of control. My own is very subtle." He bent to her ear and lowered his voice. "And I wager you will like it." His breath and lips brushed her ear; tingles raced down her chest. Her nipples hardened against her corset and she silently cursed them…but they craved his touch, his roughened but gentle fingertips squeezing them. His subtle control, his hot breath and wet tongue upon them.

Ma foi! She swallowed hard and tried to extract herself from beneath his seduction by turning away. She licked her lips and noticed they had become overly sensitized, as if craving… no, do not think it.

Several paces away from him, she gauged his reaction. He watched her from the corner of his eye, his gaze astute and delving.

She couldn't allow him to perceive even one small speck of her feelings, nor her uncontrollable and instinctive yearnings.

Clearing his throat, he strode away from her. "I'll be in the great hall…or 'haps outside, meeting some of the clansmen. I shall see you at supper." He bowed and exited.

Meeting the clansmen? He was trying to get ahead of her already, exerting his male power.

She ran to the door only to come upon two footmen carrying her trunk, several more servants and Camille waiting there.

Parbleu. She must see to them before she followed Lachlan.

***

During supper, Angelique sat beside Lachlan at the great hall's high table. She squirmed, wishing this meal finished. His friends, the king's retainers, the steward and his wife, along with Camille sat with them. The rest of the clan ate at lower tables, a loud drone of conversation echoing toward the lofty ceiling. Angelique couldn't recall half the names of the people who'd been introduced to her this evening. Some of them, she remembered from her childhood. With others, her mind drew a blank a moment after they'd given their names. What was distracting her?

She picked at her fish. She'd had no appetite since her illness on board the ship.

The way the clan—both men and women—watched her, flicking covert glances her way when they thought she wasn't looking, disturbed her. Were they suspicious of her? One woman in particular—the steward's wife—glared at her. What was amiss?

She wanted to edge closer to Lachlan's protective presence, though she forced herself not to. He was more pleasant to focus on than her clan, and nothing about him escaped her notice. He had cleaned himself up and changed clothes since she'd last seen him that afternoon. His voice rumbled in conversation with the steward, Fingall Drummagan, on his other side.

Rebbie sat by her on one side and Camille next to him. She only caught a few sentences of Lachlan's discussion as Fingall filled him in on the food and drink he was so proud of, where it came from and its cost. Rebbie seemed intent on distracting her with frivolous conversation she had no interest in, though Camille ate it up. Angelique wished to learn every detail of how the estate was run.

"The late Laird Drummagan, God rest him, preferred Gascoigne wine from Bordeaux. He considered it the finest of its sort and always imported large amounts so he'd never be without, you see." Fingall downed a long swallow. "Though he always insisted on ale served at midday meal. Our own ale, made right here on the estate. 'Tis the finest in Scotland."

Lachlan nodded, his neutral gaze shifting to Angelique. Was he angry about the way she'd challenged him earlier? She didn't know what had possessed her; she simply had to keep him at a distance. And sitting by him was not helping.

"We're glad you've come home, m'lady, m'laird." Fingall toasted them.

"I thank you," Angelique said.

"Mmph," said the woman sitting across from Fingall, his wife, Bernice. "'Twould've been better if the lady hadn't shot my brother."

Parbleu! The sister of the traitor?

"Close your mouth, Bernice," Fingall said in a low growl then gave Lachlan and her a placating grin. "I apologize for my wife. She often speaks when she should not."

"Your brother should not have tried to kill the new laird," Angelique snapped, sending the woman her most intimidating glare. "I will not abide such violence, treachery and insolence."

"Indeed," Lachlan said, his approving gaze locked on Angelique, then he winked.

Heavens, could he take nothing seriously? He could've died out there.

"My brother was not trying to kill him." The woman's tone was grumpy and defensive.

"Bernice!" her husband warned. "Shut your mouth."

She glared a hole through him. "She better hope he lives," Bernice muttered.

"Go!" Fingall pointed toward the stairs that led down to the kitchens. "I will deal with you later."

Once she stalked away, Fingall again apologized several times for his wife's poor manners and traitorous talk. "You don't have to worry about her, m'laird. I have her well in hand."

"I'm glad," Lachlan said.

Angelique hoped the man she'd shot would live, in truth. But she did what she felt right at the time, acted on impulse to protect Lachlan. But she feared Bernice would cause trouble. She might even try to poison their food. If the two lived in the castle she would have to see about securing them a cottage in the nearby village. And Bernice would be relieved of her duties here.

Moments later, a fiddler struck up a tune. Perfect time to make good her escape. Angelique excused herself. Lachlan's perceptive gaze trailed after her toward the stairs and she prayed he would not follow.

***

Sleep eluded Angelique for the next hour, no matter that exhaustion weighed her limbs and scratched at her eyes. She pounded her fluffy pillow covered in a clean, lavender scented linen case. The raucous music filtering up from the great hall—mostly bawdy Scottish jigs—ground on her frayed nerves.

She had too much on her mind, but at least part of her clan made her feel welcome. Mistress Mayme had assigned a trained lady's maid, Inga, to Angelique as well as a chambermaid. Inga had helped her undress and take down her hair while the chambermaid had built a cozy fire, then they'd left. Angelique stared into the flames, trying to sort through the mayhem her life had become.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Angelique jerked upright. What if Bernice had come to exact revenge for her brother? No, maybe Camille, finally tired of the celebration, stopped by to wish her a bonne nuit.

Angelique rose, pulled on a dressing gown over her smock and approached the door. "Who is it?" she called, trying to adopt the habit of speaking the Scots variant of English instead of French in hopes her clan would accept her more quickly.

"'Tis me, Angelique," Lachlan said.

His baritone voice pronouncing her name in that Highland accent spread a pleasant shiver through her. But he could be here for the "wedding night" bedding. She froze. Sacrebleu. Why hadn't she barred the door?

Too late; it opened. Her pulse-rate spiked and she backed up a step. Lachlan entered with a basket and closed the door. "I missed you at the céilidh."