The Viper (21 page)

Sneaking into an enemy fortress wasn't the wisest course of action for any of Bruce's men, but for the most hunted man in Scotland it bordered on foolhardy. If Lachlan was caught or anyone recognized him, he knew from experience exactly what would happen to him. Knowing he could withstand the most brutal torture sure as hell didn't mean he wanted to go through it again (although the current contraption he was wearing just about qualified), but an opportunity had presented itself, and Lachlan decided not to waste it. They had a much better chance of success if the countess was prepared and ready when the attack came. Besides, what was the chance of anyone recognizing him?

He pulled the cowl farther over his head, following the castle guardsman up the stairs. The young English soldier had turned to look at him more than once, but the deep hood hid Lachlan's features and his downcast head did not invite conversation.

If Lachlan hadn't already been guaranteed an eternity burning in hell's fires, this was sure to do it. He was the last man in the world who should be wearing a churchman's robes. God knew how many sins he was committing just by putting the bloody thing on. It itched like hell. Who needed a hair shirt with wool like this?

He'd wanted to leave his armor and clothes on underneath, but Boyd and MacLean had insisted they could be seen. The bastards probably just wanted to see him suffer. All four of his fellow guardsmen had howled with laughter as soon as he'd put the damned thing on. Even Seton, who'd borne a hefty percentage of Lachlan's barbs over the past few years--the young knight was an easy target--had snapped out of his brooding long enough to get in a few jibes.

Lachlan had let them have their fun, but he'd drawn the line when they'd tried to shave his head. He'd taken to wearing his hair short like the other members of the Highland Guard, but he didn't need a damned bald spot at the top of his head. Just his luck, the priest was also a monk.

It seemed as if he and the young soldier climbed forever, but five stories later they finally reached the top floor of the tower. The man leading him nodded a greeting to the guard at the door. "The priest," he said, "to see the lady."

The other man frowned. Lachlan didn't like the look of him. He was bigger, older, and shrewder than the soldier who'd led him to the tower. Though Lachlan had a small dirk strapped to his leg under the blasted robe, he didn't want to use it. Dead bodies were a sure way to put them on alert.

"Sir Simon didn't tell me there'd be any visitors today," the guardsman said. "Only the lady's attendant."

Lachlan affected his most pious and subservient pose, slouching to hide some of his height. But unfamiliar as he was with either piety or subservience, he feared he did a piss-poor job of it. He slid the parchment from his robe and handed it to the guardsman. "My instructions," he said with as much meekness as he could muster.

The guard's frown deepened at the deep sound of his voice that no amount of feigned humility could hide. The guard peered into the dark shadow of his hood but took the missive.

Lachlan kept his gaze down on his hands folded at his waist as the guard scanned the contents.
Damn
. He quickly stuffed them in the folds of his robe, hoping to hell the men didn't notice the battle scars and heavy calluses that covered his palms and fingers. He'd be hard-pressed to explain how a priest had come to have the hands of a warrior.

Sneaking around in the shadows was a hell of a lot easier than this. But he would never have made it past all these guards without leaving at least a few bodies behind. Intercepting the young priest in the forest beyond the gates of the castle had seemed a stroke of divine intervention, but now Lachlan was beginning to wonder. He had a bad feeling about this.

After what seemed an eternity, the guard folded the missive and handed it back to him. "You're to hear the lady's confession?"

Lachlan nodded. Seeing the man's continued scrutiny, he explained. "I'm to make sure the lady is ready to leave on the morrow. Body as well as soul," he said humbly.

The man held his eyes on him a moment longer, then grunted what Lachlan assumed was acquiescence when he removed the keys at his waist and began to unlock the door. "Ned here will wait to escort you down when you are done. It shouldn't take long. The lady is monitored too closely to get in any mischief; she hasn't seen anyone other than her attendant and my captain in months."

Lachlan debated moving his hand in the sign of the cross and saying "bless you my son." Though the situation seemed to warrant something priestly, he didn't want to overdo it. His disguise was perilously thin already.

As the guard started to open the door, Lachlan studied the crude leather tips of the too-small shoes he'd borrowed along with the robe, which he'd be almost as glad to give back to the priest when he woke from his drunken sleep as the robe. Lachlan didn't want the men to see his face, fearing they'd sense the excitement coursing through him. Excitement that was too palpable to hide.

This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for. The culmination of more than two years of agonizing delays, waiting until he could free Bella from the hell that he'd foisted upon her.

Unwittingly perhaps, but it was his fault all the same. He'd let it happen again. Instead of leading his men into a trap, he'd led Ross's men to the women.

He'd been distracted. Angry. Trying to calm the violent, unfamiliar emotions twisting inside him and cool his heated blood, his body teeming with the aftereffects of a kiss that had stripped every last vestige of his control. Christ, he'd been moments away from taking her right there against the chapel door.

She'd had every right to stop him. To slap him. But that didn't lessen the sting of her rejection. What was it about her that brought out the blackest part of him? That made him want to lash back when she taunted him?

He'd been so caught up in what had happened with Bella that he'd missed the threat. Because of his desire for a woman, he'd failed his duty, and those he'd been charged to protect had been captured. He knew that Bella thought he'd betrayed them. He hadn't, but it was his fault all the same.

The door opened.

He'd steeled himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the fist of emotion that hit him in the gut as his eyes fell on her for the first time in over two years.

His knees nearly buckled before he caught himself. Christ, he'd taken sword blows across the chest that had packed less of a wallop.

She stood with her back to him at the far end of the small chamber, silhouetted against the window in the fading daylight. She'd loomed so large in his memory, it was a shock to see how small she was in reality. Her back was slim, her shoulders as narrow as a child's. She was much more delicate than he remembered.

She tilted her head toward the door but didn't turn around, nor did she speak. The cool hauteur of that gesture released something inside him that he didn't know he'd been holding.
Fear
, he realized. A deep-seated fear that they might have broken the spirit and fierce pride that had at times infuriated him, but that had made her different from any other woman he'd ever known.

"A priest, my lady," the guard said. He waited for her nod, and then closed the door.

They were alone.

After so many months, he was so close he could almost reach out and touch her. Though he could practically span the small room with his arms, she seemed so far away. The forlorn look in her eye cut him to the bone.

She glanced in his direction. "The constable has sent a priest? He must fear for my soul to warrant such consideration the eve before I am to enter a nunnery."

A nunnery? So that's what they intended. But from her tone he suspected there was more.

Knowing the guard could well be listening and unsure of how she would react to seeing him, Lachlan crossed the room in two quick strides, slid his hand over her mouth, and pulled her against him so she couldn't move. He suspected she'd like it this time as much as the first time they'd met.

Shock nearly made him release her the instant he touched her.
God's blood!
His memory hadn't been faulty at all. What the hell had they done to her? There was nothing to her. She was so slim and slight as to be almost frail. The soft, lush curves that had so torturously haunted him had all but disappeared. Only the weight of her breasts on his arms felt familiar.

By all that was holy, someone would pay for this.

But touching her had been a mistake. His body hummed with other memories that apparently hadn't died.

He wasn't alone in his shock. Bella froze at his unexpected movement. But then he heard her gasp. Her gaze shot toward his face, hidden in the shadows of his hood.

Two big blue eyes dominated her pale face, made more pronounced by the dark shadows underneath and the deep hollows below her high cheekbones. A hand fisted against his chest. Gaunt and fragile, she seemed a ghostly shadow of the woman he remembered. She was still beautiful, but the once bold and sensual beauty was now ethereal and achingly delicate.

Even before he lifted the hood from his head, every inch of her body--what was left of her--turned as cold and stiff as a slab of ice.

Her eyes bored into his, shooting him with daggers of pure hatred.

Time, apparently, hadn't dulled her feelings for him.

He deserved it--had expected it, even--but damn it, one foolish part of him had hoped she might not have believed the worst of him.

"The guard," he whispered. "Have care. I think he's listening." Her eyes flared mutinously. He cursed silently, knowing the moment he took his hand off her mouth, she was going to let out a bellow that would bring the entire English garrison down on him.

She might appear fragile, but she still had fight. He was more relieved than he wanted to admit. They hadn't broken her. He'd hoped for as much but didn't know what to expect after what she'd been through. He, better than anyone, knew the toll suffering could take.

"Damn it, Bella, I'm here to help you. Give me a chance to explain before you do anything rash." He peered into her glaring eyes. "Please."

Her gaze narrowed as if the plea were some kind of trick. He didn't blame her. His plea surprised him.
Please?
The word had fallen so casually from his mouth, yet he could count on one hand the times he'd ever used it. He'd been tortured for nearly a week before Lorn's men had managed to wrest that word from him.

For a moment he'd didn't think she would relent, but just when he was trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do, she nodded.

He let her go.

She stood where he'd released her, staring at him with an intensity that made him step back and give her a little space. He didn't want to give her any excuse to change her mind.

She lifted her chin, and for a moment she looked like the Bella of his memories, not the delicate creature who stood before him now. "A priest?" she scoffed. "I'm surprised you did not burst into flames. Was my punishment not enough? Did you come to finish me off?"

Knowing he deserved her scorn didn't prevent the prick of his temper. She might look like a fragile piece of porcelain, but some things hadn't changed. She was still as stubborn and proud as he remembered, and still possessed the unique ability to get under his skin. "The king sent me," he said.

She made a harsh sound in her throat. "Which king has bought your sword this month?"

He clenched his jaw, reminding himself to be patient. "My loyalty is to the Bruce," he said solemnly. "As it's been for the past three years."

Outrage flashed in her deep-blue eyes. "You expect me to believe that? Were you fighting for Robert when you betrayed us to Ross?"

He was glad to see the rush of healthy color to her pale cheeks, but her voice had risen with emotion as well. He held his finger to his mouth to remind her of the guard. "I didn't betray you." He cut her off before she could argue. "I know what it looked like, damn it, but I didn't tell Ross where to find you. I was angry after I left you at the chapel. I wasn't being careful, and one of his men caught sight of me down by the docks, trying to arrange a
birlinn
. They followed me to the edge of the church lands and surrounded me before I could warn you. It might have been my fault, but I didn't betray you."

She didn't look as though she believed a word he said. Hard blue eyes bit into him. "That's quite a coincidence. They just happened to see you, recognize you, and guess that you would lead them to us?"

"There was nothing coincidental about it at all. They were waiting for us." From the flicker in her eyes, he knew he'd managed to surprise her. "We were betrayed, but not by me."

"Then by whom? As I recall, you were the only one not in chains."

He ignored the jibe. He had been in chains; she hadn't seen them from where she stood. "Do you remember the blacksmith and his sons bringing grain into the Great Hall at Kildrummy the night before we left?" She gave an impatient nod. "He overheard our plans and sold them to the English. They knew we were headed north. The blacksmith was the one to light the fire to the grain in the Hall a few days later that forced Nigel to surrender."

He saw the flash of pain on her face and knew she'd learned of the fate that had befallen the men at Kildrummy. After the castle surrendered, most of the garrison had been put to the sword. Nigel Bruce had been brought to this very castle at Berwick, where he'd been hanged and beheaded. He hoped to hell she hadn't been forced to witness it.

But the treacherous blacksmith Osborn had received his just reward. The gold he'd been promised had been melted down and poured down his throat by the very English soldiers he'd betrayed his countrymen to help.

"That's a nice story, but I
saw
you with Ross. He told me that you owed him a debt and that we were payment." Her voice shook. "How could you, Lachlan? I know you cared nothing for me, but what about the others? What about the children?" Her voice broke, and the sound tore at something deep and impenetrable inside him. "Do you know what they did to Mary?"