The Viper (10 page)

She'd been a girl no older than Joan the first time she'd met the handsome, young squire who'd come to train with her father. Even at ten-and-seven, he'd seemed larger than life. Gallant and charming, he'd tweaked her nose and told her she'd be trouble some day. Spirit to spare, he'd said.

Little did he know she'd need every ounce of it when she'd married.

Robert was the only man who'd ever made her think her opinions mattered. He was like the older brother she'd always wanted. Patient. Interested in what she had to say. Kind. And most of all, a fierce protector.

In those months he'd spent with them before her father's death, he'd saved her from countless beatings at her father's hand. Bella's father was a cruel man with a volatile temper, prone to striking her whenever she displeased him--which was frequently. But Robert had an uncanny ability to distract him. To turn his attention from the awkward girl who'd dropped the bread, or dribbled her soup, or laughed too loud.

When some of his kinsmen had murdered her father, she'd been heartbroken. Not in mourning the death of a man who'd seemed a tyrannical stranger to her, but because she knew it meant Robert would have to leave.

She'd seen little of him once she was married, until a few years ago when they were both in London. Her face darkened at the humiliating memories. It was the one time her husband had struck her. He'd caught her and Robert in the garden talking and saw their friendship as something else. She loved Robert like a brother, and now as a loyal subject loved her king, nothing more. But her husband had tried to make it into something illicit.

"Is it true, Robert? Are you sending us away?"

The sadness in his eyes broke her heart. "Not sending you away, Bella, giving you a chance." When he saw her questioning look, he explained. "They'll follow me."

Of course. He hoped to draw their enemies away, giving the women a chance to escape. Even now, he was still trying to find a way to protect them.

"Nigel is holding Kildrummy," he said, referring to his youngest brother. "You should be safe there for a while. But if the English get too close, I've instructed Vi--" He stopped himself. "MacRuairi to take you to my sister, the queen, in Norway."

He noticed her expression, but put up his hand to cut her off.

"I know you don't like him, but he spent many months in Norway in his youth." It didn't surprise her. Of the
Gall-Gaedhil
half-Norse, half-Gael descendants of Somerled, which included the MacDougalls, the MacDonalds, and the MacRuairis, the MacRuairi branch was the most closely aligned with the Norse. "He knows it, and if need be, he can get you there. You know how these West Highlanders are in their galleys."

Pirates were excellent seafarers, but that didn't mean she wanted to entrust her life to one. "It's not that I don't like him," she explained. "I don't trust him."

Robert studied her face, his expression darkening. "Is there something you haven't told me, Bella? Did he do something to offend--"

She shook her head furiously, cutting him off. "Nay, it's nothing like that." A few heated looks didn't signify. No matter how they affected her.

"Then is it his skills you object to?"

She shook her head again, recalling the half-dozen men littered on the forest floor. She could hardly complain of that. "It's his loyalty that I question. How can you be certain of his allegiance? The man is little better than a brigand."

His mouth curved, the first sign of amusement she'd seen on his face in a long time. "Aye, he is that. But you have nothing to fear, Bella. If MacRuairi says he'll do something, he does it. It's getting him to agree that can be tricky."

The distinction did little to reassure her. "Please, Robert." She put her hand on his arm, her cheeks pinkening. "I couldn't help but overhear ..." She bit her lip. "He doesn't want to go with us either. He's forsaken his own clansmen; what makes you think he can lead us? Isn't there someone else who could take us?"

Robert shook his head. "I've made my decision, Bella. I'm not asking you to trust him, I'm asking you to trust me."

She did trust him. Even with everything that had happened, she believed in him. Her conviction in that had not wavered. Scotland had lost its champion, and its hope for freedom.

"Of course I do." She bowed her head in acquiescence, tears shimmering in her eyes as everything that had been lost, and everything that might have been, came crashing down on her.

"Go then, lass, get your things. There isn't much time. The Lord of Lorn will be hunting us."

A hot lump seemed stuck in her throat, knowing this was goodbye. "Where will you go?"
What will you do?

The haunted look returned to his eyes. "We'll make for the coast. I have friends in the west. We'll rebuild. Gather more troops and try again."

Neither of them believed it. Robert Bruce's cause was lost. He'd be lucky to make it out of Scotland with his life.

The tears began to fall. "Goodbye, Robert."

He pulled her into his arms and hugged her hard. "Goodbye, brat." Despite the circumstances, she smiled through her tears at the memories of what he'd called her when they were young. "Take care of my wife." He hesitated. "This has been difficult for her. Elizabeth isn't used to hardship. She doesn't have your fighting spirit." He drew back and gave her one last look. "I'm sorry, Bella. I never meant ..."

His voice dropped off.

"You've nothing to apologize for. I've done nothing that I wouldn't do again today. You are The Lion."

The symbol of Scotland's kingship. And despite all that had happened and the uncertain fate that awaited them all, she meant it.

She watched Robert walk away, and with a sigh turned back to the woods. She could only pray the king knew what he was doing.

She glanced up and startled, finding herself staring right into the eyes of the brigand himself. Her heart jolted. She couldn't look away, caught--trapped--by the force of the connection. She'd forgotten how intense his eyes were. They bored into her, hot and penetrating.

She flushed, awareness rippling across her skin like wildfire. To her disappointment, she realized her reaction to him hadn't changed. If anything it had grown stronger.

But it wasn't just her reaction that caused her pulse to flutter and race. One look in his eyes and she knew he'd heard her.

He was furious. And something else. Something raw and primal flashed in his eyes. Something that made her want to turn and run.

But she'd learned long ago to never show weakness. Controlling her emotions was how she'd survived her marriage. Stoic submission and indifference, not tears and fear. A man could control her body but not her will.

She lifted her chin and forced herself to walk toward him, giving no hint of the furious pounding of her heart. Their eyes held in a silent duel.

"Countess," he said with a nod of the head, an unmistakable note of mockery in his voice.

She pretended that it didn't grate. Instead, she lifted a single brow. "I'm surprised you are still around."

He smiled, but she sensed that her comment had bothered him more than he wanted to let on. "Just waiting for a better offer."

She knew he was trying to get to her, but it didn't prevent her mouth from tightening. Her attempt to combat his anger with disdain wasn't working. Lachlan MacRuairi was nothing like Buchan. There wasn't a weak bone in his body. It would take more than a few words and a cold look to defy him. But she wouldn't let him intimidate her. Her eyes skidded over him. "How much is a hired sword worth these days?"

He didn't say anything for a minute. But he held her gaze. "More than you could pay."

There was an edge to his voice that she didn't understand. But it made her feel as if she'd done something wrong. As if she'd pricked beneath the seemingly impenetrable surface of mockery and struck emotion. As if, like her, he was good at masking his emotions. She just hadn't thought he had any.

But as he turned on his heel and strode away, she had to wonder why a man who didn't care about anything was so angry.

Lachlan stormed into the tent he shared with a few of the men, ignored Gordon, and began stuffing his belongings into the leather bag he attached to his saddle.

He refused to acknowledge the burning in his chest, and the fierceness of the emotions surging through his blood. He didn't have time for this shite.

Like it or not, he was going to lead this party. He needed to focus on getting the job done. The sooner this was all over, the sooner he could return to his kinsmen in the west, and the sooner his body would stop aching for
her
.

But he couldn't shake the image of what he'd seen.

He jammed his hand deeper into the bag just thinking about it. When he'd come out of the temporary stables and seen Bella and Bruce standing there, the scene--the
intimacy
of the scene--hit him like a fist in the gut.

Her words had annoyed him, but it was her method of persuasion that sent his blood raging. Bella and Bruce had been standing as close as lovers. Her breasts, big and lush enough to tempt a monk, were grazing the king's chest. And the way she touched his arm, tilted her head back, and pleaded with that soft, beseeching mouth made a man think of one thing.

God knew he couldn't think of anything else since that day in the forest. The memory of her nakedness still tortured him. Apparently, four months in The Isles hadn't dulled his lust for her. If the jealousy raging through him was any indication, it had only gotten worse.

Robert
. The king's given name had slid so easily from her tongue. The way a lover's would.

Could the rumors be true?

He hadn't wanted to believe it. Though he wouldn't put it past Bruce--the king had more than his fair share of bastards--he'd thought she was different. He'd actually come to admire her, which for him was a rarity. But if what he'd just seen was any indication, Buchan's attempt to set aside his wife as an adulteress, and his claim that she'd risked so much to crown Bruce because she was his lover, might have some truth.

With Scotland under interdict, a dispensation from the pope was impossible. But Buchan had set her aside anyway. A divorce
a mensa et thoro
, of bed and board, enabled the couple to live separate lives but not remarry. Annulment was the only way to do that. If grounds could be found, however, it would make their daughter a bastard.

Was it true? Perhaps that explained why she'd done it. Why she'd risked so much to crown Bruce.

Lachlan shoved the extra plaid that he used as his bedroll into the bag so hard it rattled the tent.

"What in Hades is the matter with you, Viper?"

Lachlan glanced around, making sure no one else was near before responding. "Nothing," he snapped. "Have care, Gordon, what you say. This isn't one of our typical missions."

When Bruce had given them war names at the private ceremony after the second coronation, he'd done so in a bid to keep their identities as members of the Highland Guard secret. On Highland Guard missions they used war names, but otherwise they were to blend into the army as regular soldiers. Officially the Guard didn't even exist.

As the mystery of the secret band of warriors grew, Lachlan knew it was going to be difficult but imperative to keep their identities hidden. Not only did the secrecy add to the mystique of the group, but it also made them harder to kill. War names would help.

He'd been surprised when Bruce had named him Viper, but as there was more truth in the name than jest he could hardly object. Originally an insult coined by Tor MacLeod for Lachlan's venomous disposition, the name was actually quite apropos. Like a snake, he was slippery when evading capture and had a silent, deadly strike. He'd been recruited for his ability to get in and out without being seen, which was useful for extracting people and information.

His Norse ancestors had names like "Eric Bloodaxe" and "Thorfinn Skull-Splitter," so he supposed Viper wasn't so bad.

Unfortunately, his warning hadn't distracted Gordon. "I don't understand. I thought you hated taking orders from MacLeod and would welcome the chance to be in charge."

Gordon was right. He didn't like taking orders from anyone--especially MacLeod. There were few men that were a match for Lachlan on the battlefield, but the leader of the Highland Guard was one of them. Still, not wanting to take orders didn't mean he wanted the responsibility of the king's women.

The countess thought he'd shirked his duty in refusing to lead his clansmen. She was right. After forty-four of his men had followed him into a death trap, because he'd been foolish enough to trust his wife, he'd abdicated the duties of chieftain to his younger brother.

He'd been so crazed with lust that he hadn't seen the warning that his young wife was tiring of him. Spoiled and too beautiful for her own good, Juliana regretted her impulsivity in marrying him--a chieftain, but a bastard without the lands to go along with the title. When she found a more lucrative suitor, she'd convinced her brother, John of Lorn, that MacRuairi intended to betray him. Instead of a surprise raid on a small band of MacDonalds, Lachlan and his men had found over a hundred English soldiers waiting for them at the bay of Kentra.

The MacDonalds, his enemies and kinsmen, had found him with a spear through his shoulder, left for dead. He'd been the only damned survivor. Men--friends--he'd known his entire life, who'd trusted him, had been slaughtered like pigs before his eyes. That he'd survived at all had been a miracle. Or a curse, depending on your perspective.

For reasons that today he still didn't understand, his cousin Angus Og, the younger brother of the MacDonald chief, had helped him escape from a MacDonald prison. But when Lachlan returned from the dead to find his wife betrothed to another man and removed to her brother's castle at Dunstaffnage, he found himself exchanging one prison for another. Angus Og had warned him, but he hadn't wanted to listen. Lachlan had been declared a traitor, his holdings and wealth forfeit, becoming a convenient scapegrace for Lorn, who was trying to make peace with the English and needed someone to blame for the recent spate of attacks against the king's men.