Lachlan grinned. He did have a talent for finding beautiful, willing ladies. "You could get married, too."

"Och! Not for a long while yet. Not while my dear da still draws breath. And he's in fine health."

The tippler delivered the fresh ales and Lachlan raised his glass in toast. "'Tis time to think of settling down. We've had more than our share of fun these ten years past."

"Aye, and they're over now."

A week ago, if someone had suggested that Lachlan settle down and get married, he would've had the same reaction as Rebbie. But now, he was excited about the prospect—a new adventure of sorts, in a whole different direction. Something he had never attempted. And he felt, for the first time in ages, a sense of purpose. A need to accomplish much and succeed in this new venture.

"You must join me when I go to Perth," Lachlan said. "I need your help. And Dirk's as well."

"Dirk, aye. He isn't married yet." A ray of hope gleamed in Rebbie's dark eyes. "I cannot see you married. Are you thinking you'll be happy?"

Lachlan shrugged and stared into his ale. Would he? He wished to be, but his future bride was more wasp than butterfly. "Probably not, but I'll be somebody."

"What are you blathering on about? 'Tis not as if you're a nobody. Your da was an earl."

"Aye, but I'm the second son, with no lands or titles. Until I marry."

"I never kenned you were greedy and would exchange your freedom for a marriage noose and some coin."

"I'm not greedy! You ken me better than that. But I'm not a wee lad anymore either. I'm thinking I need a purpose in life. Some respect."

Rebbie sputtered. "Respect?"

"Aye, my brother has much respect, a noble chief and earl, the leader of our clan. I have naught. I am a jest." Though he had never uttered those words before, they always hovered in the back of his mind.

"Who have you been listening to?"

"Everyone. I ken well what people think of me."

"So you like the wenches. 'Tis not a crime…unless you get caught by an enraged father or husband." Rebbie grinned. "Well, then…what is your future bride like?"

"A wee lass of a score years, flaming, curling, ginger colored hair. Eyes, green as the hills of Scotland in summer." She did have lovely eyes. And an adorable but too stern mouth that desperately needed his attention to soften it up a bit. He had a fantasy about kissing her, parting those lush lips and sliding his tongue between to sample her, without being bitten. Well, he'd always loved danger, so 'twas fitting.

"Och, God's bones, would you listen to yourself?" Rebbie scoffed. "You'll tire of her in a fortnight."

"'Haps." Indeed, what if he did? He would make the best of it.

"Is she smitten with you, then, like all the other lasses?"

"Nay, she's a prickly wench who thinks she's naught but French silk. She detests me. Would rather stab me than kiss me." Imagining his fire-breathing nymph wielding a weapon, Lachlan smiled. She was different, and that held his interest.

"'Tis clear. You're a bedlamite."

"She fancies herself in love with a wee French laddie named Philippe."

"You're not wantin' a happy marriage then?" Rebbie asked in a dry tone.

Lachlan sipped his ale. "I am a man in need of a challenge."

"You're bored so you get hitched?"

"Not bored, exactly. Just tired of wandering. Tired of being shiftless with no plan or purpose. I want something for my lads. I'm thinking she could be a good mother to them."

"Pray pardon, but a lady such as herself will not take to raising your bastards. She'll be wanting bairns of her own."

"Aye, and I'm all for it—the bairns, that is. She'll learn to accept Kean and Orin as well." Lachlan imagined his two endearing, fair-haired sons, wee versions of himself. Och, how he missed them. He was thankful to his brother for acting as guardian of them in his absence.

Rebbie shook his head. "You've gone daft as a sheep."

Lachlan leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. "The lass isn't the problem. Sorlie MacGrotie is."

"Who?"

"Baron Kormad. Her distant cousin, next in line to inherit. He is covetous of the title and lands. He sent his ruffians after me tonight, and he has plans to hurt Lady Angelique. Dirk and I heard him talking."

A maniacal glow lit Rebbie's eyes. "You need help?"

"Aye. I'd like it if you would join me at court and watch my back. Dirk has already agreed. I'm to meet him at the Black Spur shortly."

"Count me in."

After glancing about to make certain no one was watching, Lachlan drew his jewel-hilted dagger—the one his father had given him—from its scabbard within his doublet and placed it on the table. "How much will you give me for this?"

"What, you're wanting to sell it now? I'm not believing it." His friend scrutinized him.

God's blood! How he wished he had enough coin not to worry about things like this. "I would like to buy her a gift."

"How much? I shall loan you the money."

"Nay. You ken I don't borrow money," Lachlan snapped.

"You can pay it back after you're married."

"I won't buy her a ring with her money, but mine own. So, do you want to buy the dagger or not? I wager Dirk will. Or 'haps Miles."

"I'll be damned if the Sassenach will get such a valuable Scottish weapon. I'll give you ten pounds for it." Rebbie opened his sporran and covertly withdrew some coins. "A ring, eh? Must be a fancy one."

Lachlan shrugged. Earlier that day, he'd spoken with a goldsmith at a booth in Britain's Burse who would custom-make the ring, and it should be ready on the morrow. Though 'twould be a small token, he hoped it would say to Angelique that he was trustworthy and honorable.

Watching Rebbie take possession of the dagger felt like someone ripping out his spleen. His father had given him the weapon on his deathbed, and Lachlan had sworn never to part with it. But at the moment he had little choice. He couldn't risk gambling, nor could he part with his sword.

"Don't worry, man. 'Haps I'll let you buy it back someday…if I don't get too attached to it." Rebbie sent him an evil grin. "And if you can afford my price."

"To hell with you. I will not want it back."

"Bah! You're a terrible liar."

Lachlan drained his ale tankard. "Time to meet Dirk."

***

The next day, Angelique sat in the richly appointed drawing room with the other ladies who had accompanied her from the queen's court, but she was in no mood for conversation. She would rather be in bed with her head covered. Camille was the only person who understood her, but she was not entirely welcomed into these social gatherings.

How Angelique wished she could have married Philippe or another biddable man before her mother had passed away. Maman would not have approved of the Highlander as a husband. She would say Angelique was headed for a repeat of her parents' marriage. And she knew this to be true. Scotsmen knew not how to remain faithful—her mother had said it many times.

"'Twas in this very room where you intruded upon Sir Lachlan and me…" Eleanor whispered and took a seat beside her on the burgundy velvet settle.

Disgust rising within, Angelique glared at the other woman.

"In the throes of passion."

"I understand your meaning, Eleanor." The putain was worse than a cat in heat. "And where was it you crawled away to hide that night?"