The Viper (8 page)

He dismissed her with a curt nod and began to tend to the horses.

She frowned, watching him, wondering what she'd done to spark his anger. For a moment they'd actually been conversing normally.

She removed a few items from the pack tied to her saddle and started to walk down to the edge of the loch.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To wash." When he seemed about to argue, she cut him off. "I'm not going to crown Scotland's next king looking like a beggar woman."

He narrowed that eerie slitted gaze on her. "Be careful. Stay where I can see you."

Bella was glad her back was already to him so he couldn't see her blush. She intended to get good and clean and had no intention of letting him watch.

She quickly tended to her more pressing need, and after a quick glance around, removed her clothing. Gritting her teeth, she jumped into the freezing loch.

She was in and out in no more than two minutes, washing her hair as best she could with the thin sliver of soap MacKay had given her, and then using a cloth to scrub as much of her skin as she could reach.

"Countess!"

She winced; he sounded furious.

"I'm here," she said, frantically rubbing her hair with a fresh cloth and then drying herself as best she could with the now-sopping toweling. "Just give me a minute."

Her body wracking with shivers, she reached for her chemise. But before she could slip it over her head, someone grabbed her from behind.

The fleeting thought that it might be MacRuairi was gone the instant she inhaled. For a brigand, MacRuairi seemed to have an unusual penchant for cleanliness. He always smelled ... nice. Warm and leathery, with a subtle masculine spice. This man smelled like sweat and stale onions.

Dear God, she'd been captured!

Her blood ran cold, and terror jumped inside her, her senses sharpening with awareness.

She was painfully aware of her nakedness, but her first impulse was escape. She tried to kick and scream, but the man had his hand over her mouth and his other arm locked around her waist as he dragged her deeper into the woods.

"Don't make it harder on yourself than it already is, my lady," he warned in a harsh whisper. "The earl is eager to see you." He laughed. "Though I wager he'll be surprised to see so much of you." Bella stilled, hearing something in his voice. She knew it wasn't a mistake when his gauntleted hand slid up to squeeze her breast.

An entirely different kind of fear ran through her.

"Oops," he whispered. She tried to wrench away from his disgusting touch, but it only made his hand squeeze harder. "I can see why your husband is so anxious to get you back. I've never seen tits like these. If you weren't married to Buchan, I'd take my reward right now."

Suddenly, she jerked toward the sound behind her. Her heart dropped, hearing the unmistakable clang of steel on steel.

Her captor had heard it as well. "After the rest of my men take care of the rebel, you can scream all you want."

Oh God, Lachlan!
The pang in her chest was surprisingly strong.

He wasn't the man she would have chosen to escort her, but the thought that he was fighting for his life--or possibly already dead--right now proved ... distressing. Suprisingly distressing.

Bella went slack, as if the fight had gone out of her. Even if MacRuairi couldn't help her, she had no intention of allowing this man to take her back to her husband. She would fight until she couldn't.

Her apparent submission worked. That, and the fact that the forest had suddenly gone quiet resulted in her captor loosening his hold.

She had her opportunity and took it. She bit down as hard as she could on his meaty hand, stomped her heel on his instep, and thrust her elbow deep into his beefy belly.

Caught unaware, he let go with a grunt, more from the shock than the force of the blows.

She lunged toward the nearest gap in the trees, knowing she had only a few seconds before he recovered.

"You little bit--"

The rest of his curse was cut off by a sickening thud.

She chanced a glance behind her and saw him teetering like a big oak tree about to fall, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his neck.

Before he'd hit the ground, MacRuairi emerged soundlessly from the trees. He bent over the dying man, pulled out the dagger, and drew it across his throat with cool efficiency, putting a decisive end to the threat.

His gaze found hers through the filter of leaves, branches, and bracken. "Are you all right?" His voice was surprisingly thick. It made her feel the strange urge to cry the way she had as a little girl when her mother asked her the same thing after something horrible had happened.

Her throat tight with emotion, she could only nod.

"It's safe now; you can come out."

The rush of relief that hit her was so profound that Bella felt tears spring to her eyes. She stepped into the clearing.

He took one look at her and went as rigid as stone. She'd forgotten she was naked until that moment. His eyes never left hers, but she sensed he saw everything.

Still, she would have run to him. Done something incredibly foolish and launched herself into the warm solidness of his chest and arms, wanting nothing more than to feel safe. But the look in his eyes stopped her.

If she thought she'd seen him angry before, it was clear she hadn't. His mouth was white, his jaw was clenched in a tight line, and his eyes were as cold and hard as chips of green ice. She could see his hand squeezing around the hilt of the dirk he still held. Every muscle in his body seemed drawn up tight, rigid with rage. She couldn't look away from the muscle flexing ominously below his jaw.

There was something infinitely more dangerous about his cold control than the hot rage she'd met with before.

What was wrong with him?

She shrank back, but in two long strides he was at her side.

Taking her by the elbow, he hauled her up against the hard muscular wall of his chest. Heaven help her, she felt every ridge, every plane, every hard shard of muscle. Her heart pounded, not just with fear.

"If you'd wanted a man to help you bathe, you only had to ask." She gasped, shocked by his accusation. "I told you not to leave my sight." He was shaking her. "Why did you sneak away? What did you think you were doing?"

A ball of tears rose in her throat and burned behind her eyes. She didn't understand why he was so angry. He sounded just like her husband. Yelling at her. Accusing her. Bullying her. "I just wanted to get clean. I didn't think--"

"You didn't think at all. God damn it, don't you know what could have happened? You could have been killed!"

He shouted the last, the sound lingering in the thick forest air. It seemed to shock him out of his rage.

He dropped her as if scalded.

They stood there staring at each other in silence for a long heartbeat. Her chest rose and fell with the unevenness of her breath. He didn't appear to notice, but to her shame, her nipples tightened and her breasts filled with a strange heaviness. He flinched as if with pain, but recovered quickly.

When he spoke, his voice was once again even and dispassionate. Indifferent. Not laced with ... fear? Nay, it couldn't have been fear. Fear would mean he cared. But Lachlan MacRuairi was incapable of caring about anyone.

"Next time, do what I say and there won't be any problems."

Angry tears pricked her eyes. How dare he try to blame this on her! She hadn't wandered off and gotten herself captured. Those men had obviously been lying in wait for them. They would have taken her whether she'd been in his sight or not. "Maybe if you do your job a little better there won't be a next time."

She regretted her words before they'd left her mouth. It was just as unfair to him as his anger had been to her. He'd been protecting her, not scouting ahead for danger. MacKay had been scouting, but they'd anticipated being followed, not having men waiting ahead of them this close to Scone.

He cocked a brow. Rather than anger him, her remark seemed to have impressed him. "Keep up that spirit, Countess. You're going to need it."

Her mouth clenched. She hated when he talked to her like that. As if he knew something she didn't. The cold, calculating mercenary to her naive idealist. It was easy to be cynical when you didn't believe in anything.

Her fists balled at her side, resisting the urge to slap that mocking look off his face. "Go to hell, MacRuairi."

He laughed. "You're too late, Countess. I've already been there." His eyes dipped infinitesimally, his expression as hard as ice. "For Christ's sake, put some clothes on."

If he meant to shame her with her nakedness, it didn't work. She'd lost her modesty long ago. Her husband had forced her to stand before him naked for hours, commenting about every inch of her body, touching her, telling her in crude detail what he wanted to do to her, trying to humiliate and force some emotion from her. She was invulnerable. These naked breasts, hips, and limbs weren't her. MacRuairi didn't see her at all.

Refusing to shrink from the scorn in his voice, Bella held her head high and walked--not ran--back to the edge of the loch. She could feel his gaze on her as she dressed, but when she glanced at him, his face was a stony mask.

When she'd finished, she followed him back to the horses in silence. Everything, it seemed, had been said.

But when she saw the half-dozen men he'd killed--single-handedly--she stopped with a horrified gasp.

He mistook her shock for condemnation. "War, Countess, in all of its vivid color. Get used to it--you'll be seeing a lot more."

She slammed her mouth shut, having been about to thank him for what he'd done to save her. Why bother? He would probably only yell at her again or taunt her with that barbed tongue of his.

Even if at times it seemed differently, Lachlan MacRuairi was a mean, vicious scourge, and she'd do well to remember it.

But she finally understood why Robert had hired him. She might question his loyalty, but a man who could kill so effectively was a valuable addition to any army.

MacKay caught up with them about an hour later, but she and MacRuairi didn't speak again.

When they finally arrived at the Scone Abbey, it was to the disappointing news that the coronation had taken place two days before, on the Hill of Credulity. But their disappointment was short-lived. A second ceremony was being held--a secret ceremony set amongst the ancient stones of the Druids. If they hurried, they might make it.

With MacRuairi leading, the three raced across the countryside, traveling the short distance east from Scone Abbey through Scone Wood to the circle of stones. The setting chosen by Bruce for the ceremony did not surprise her. Edward had stolen Scotland's famous Stone of Destiny, the traditional seat upon which its kings were enthroned, ten years before. The Druids' stones were a link to Scotland's past, and a symbol--just as she was--of the strength and continuity of the realm.

The haunting drone of the pipers drifted through the wind, stirring the soul, as they crested the hill and the stone circle came into view. Bella sucked in her breath, awed by the sight before her. Golden rays of sunlight streamed like fingers between the mysterious stones, as if the hand of God himself were reaching down from heaven to bless this sacred event.

Robert stood before the largest stone, magnificently attired in his royal vestments. Only a handful of witnesses were gathered around him. She recognized William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, at his left, but not the formidable-looking warrior to his right. As they came to a stop, she noticed Christina Fraser among the gathering of warriors lined up before him.

Ignoring MacRuairi's attempt to help her down--and the resulting look of fury on his face--Bella hopped off her horse and hurried toward Robert. "Your Grace," she said, with a curtsy. "I came as soon as I could. I hope I am not too late?"

She couldn't resist the pointed look at MacRuairi, nor the resulting satisfaction when his mouth tightened.

Robert gave her the broad, brotherly smile that had earned her eternal loyalty all those years ago. "Nay, Bella, not too late. Never too late. Not when you have risked so much to be here."

Bella smiled back at him. She might never want to see Lachlan MacRuairi again, but at least he'd done his job. He'd gotten her here in time.

A short while later Bella stood opposite Scotland's last hope, the man she believed in with all her heart, and listened to the bishop recite his descent from the great King Kenneth MacAlpin, the first King of Scots, establishing Robert's lineage and right to the throne. When the bishop had finished, Bella stepped forward--the MacDuff brooch displayed prominently on her cloak--to take her place in history, claiming the hereditary right held by her family: the right to crown a king.

The bishop handed her the crown. The weight of responsibility felt heavy in her hands; she knew the import of what she was about to do.

But when the moment came, Bella did not pause or hesitate. Hands steady, she lifted the circlet of gold high in the air, letting the sun catch it in a halo of blazing light before setting it upon Robert's head. With the full force of her ancestors behind her and the absolute certainty in the righteousness of the cause for which she'd defied a husband and a king, Bella repeated the words that had been said two days earlier, "
Beannachd De Righ Alban
." God Bless the King of Scotland. The words might be the same as those said at the first ceremony, but there was one important difference: this time they'd been said by a MacDuff.

Bella felt a wave of relief crash over her. It was
done
. There was no going back.

Her duty done, she stood to the side, watching as the witnesses came forward one by one to bow before the king. When it was Lachlan's turn, she stiffened, instinctively bracing herself. It didn't help. The brigand shot her a glare, then lifted a brow with a cynical smirk.

She flushed, feeling the heat of anger spread over her skin. Damn him, she knew what she was doing.

But whatever events this day set in motion, she was glad it was over. She was even more glad that she would never have to see Lachlan MacRuairi again.