The Viper (2 page)

Her heart caught in another hard gasp of panic. Days? Months? She tried to swallow. God help her,
years
?

She pushed back the bile that rose in her throat, but her stomach clenched as she followed the constable out of the small room in the guardhouse that had served as her temporary prison.

The first thing she noticed on stepping outside after over a month of imprisonment wasn't the brightness of the daylight, the freshness of the air, or the vastness of the crowd gathered to watch her torment, but the sharpness of the wind and the piercing, bone-chilling cold. The heavy layers of wool she'd donned as protection felt as gossamer as the linen of her chemise.

It was freezing, and it was only September. What would December be like--January?--when she was perched high on the tower with nothing to protect her from the brutal east wind but the cold iron bars of her prison cage? A shiver ran through her.

Her tormentor noticed. "Feels like an early winter this year, doesn't it,
Countess
?" Simon sneered the last, and then pointed up in the direction of the tower. "Wonder how cozy that cage of yers will feel in the sleet and snow?" He leaned closer, his fetid breath singeing her skin. "I might be willing to help keep you warm, if you beg real nice."

His eyes dropped to her breasts. Though she was covered to her neck in layers of thick wool, she felt unclean. As if the lust in his eyes had somehow touched her, and no amount of bathing would remove the foul stench.

She shuddered with revulsion and fought the urge to follow the direction of his hand.
Don't look
. She couldn't look. If she looked at the cage she would never be able to do this. They would have to drag her across the courtyard after all.

She swallowed the knot of fear, refusing to let him know that he'd gotten to her. "I'd rather freeze to death."

His eyes blazed, hearing the truth in her words. He spit on the ground, inches from the gold-embroidered edge of her fine gown. "Haughty bitch! You won't be so proud in a week or two."

He was wrong. Pride was all she had left. Pride would keep her strong. Pride would help her survive.

She was a MacDuff, from the ancient line of Mormaers of Fife--the highest of all Scottish noble families. She was the daughter and sister of an earl, and the disavowed wife of another.

An English king had no right to pass judgment on her.

But he had, in a particularly barbaric fashion. She was to be an example. A deterrent to the "rebels" who'd dared to support Robert Bruce's bid for the Scottish throne.

Her noble blood hadn't saved her, nor had her sex. Edward Plantagenet, King of England, didn't care that she was a woman. She'd dared to crown a "rebel" king, and for that act she would be hung in a cage on the highest tower of Berwick Castle, open to the elements so that all who passed by could see her and be warned.

Bella never could have imagined how much that one act would cost her. Her daughter. Her freedom. And now ...
this
.

She'd wanted to do something important. To help her country. To do the right thing. She'd never wanted to be a symbol.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

God, what an idealistic fool she'd been. Just like Lachlan had accused her. She'd been so smug. So self-assured. So bloody certain that she was right.

Now, look at her.

No!
He wasn't right, he wasn't. She couldn't let him be. Then it would all be for nothing.

She couldn't think about the brigand. It hurt too much. How could he have done this?

Not now
. Later, there would be plenty of time to curse Lachlan MacRuairi back to the devil that had spawned him.

She fisted her hands at her side, trying to muster strength. She wouldn't show fear. She wouldn't let them break her. But her heart drummed in her throat as she marched slowly across the courtyard.

It took her a moment to realize what was wrong. The crowd gathered to witness her punishment should be shouting, jeering, taunting, calling her names, and throwing rotten fruit and scraps of food at her. But it was deathly quiet.

The people of Scotland's once greatest market town were intimately familiar with the King of England's ruthlessness. Ten years ago, Berwick had been destroyed and its people massacred in one of the greatest atrocities committed in the long and destructive war between Scotland and England. Women, children--no one was spared in the sacking of Berwick, which had lasted for two long, bloody days and claimed the lives of thousands.

The crowd's silence was a protest. A condemnation. An admonition to King Edward of the horrible wrong being done this day.

Emotion swelled in her chest. She felt the heat of tears burn at the back of her eyes, the unexpected show of support threatening to snap the fragile threads of pride barely holding her together.

Not everyone had deserted her.

Suddenly, she caught the flash of a movement out of the corner of her eye. She flinched instinctively, thinking someone had finally decided to throw something at her. But instead of an apple or a rotten egg, she glanced down at her feet and saw the bud of a perfect pink rose.

One of the guards tried to stop her when she bent down to pick it up, but she waved him off. "It's only a rose," she said loudly. "Does Edward's army fear flowers?"

The jab was not lost on the crowd, and she heard the murmur of jeers and snickers. Edward's knights were supposed to be the flower of chivalry. But there was nothing chivalrous about the deed being done this day.

Simon would have ripped it out of her hand, but Sir John stopped him. "Let her keep it. For pity's sake, what harm will it do?"

Bella tucked the rose in the MacDuff brooch that secured her fur-lined mantle, and then bowed her head to the crowd in silent acknowledgment of their solidarity.

The rosebud--insignificant though it might seem--gave her strength. She hadn't been forsaken by everyone. Her countrymen were with her.

But when she entered the tower, she did so alone. The sudden darkness enveloped her like a tomb. Thoughts of what awaited her closed in on her. Each step became slower, heavier, harder to make as they led her up the stairwell. It felt as if she were walking deeper and deeper into a bog, drowning, and helpless to get out.

She tried to push aside the fear, but it was nipping at her like a pack of hungry wolves.

Somehow she made it to the top. She stood in the crowded stairwell as the constable fumbled with the new lock on the door to the tower battlements. A guard would be posted as well. They weren't taking any chances of her escape.

Finally, the door swung open. The sudden gust of wind knocked her back.

Dear God!
It was so much colder than she'd feared. Instinctively, she jerked back, not wanting to go any farther, but the guards behind her started to walk, compelling her forward onto the roof.

The wind whipped around her, nearly tearing the mantle off her shoulders. She gathered it around her, gripping it tightly, and followed the guardsmen onto the battlements.

When they stopped, she knew the time had come. She could avoid it no longer.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to view Edward's punishment for the first time.

A startled cry emerged from her throat. She'd known what to expect, but her knees buckled all the same. There, built into the parapets, was her stone and iron cage in the shape of a cross.

But Christianity was the farthest thing from her mind as she gazed upon the monstrosity. The walls were of latticed wood, crossed by bars of iron and secured to the parapet wall with stone and iron. It was so small--so confining--no more than six feet wide by four feet deep. Good God, she'd barely be able to move around. There wasn't even a bed, only a pallet to lie upon. The single small brazier would provide little comfort against the bitter cold. A crude bench was built into one corner, and in another stood a strange wooden box ...

Her stomach dropped, realizing what it was. She would not even be permitted to leave the cage to use the garderobe. The box was a privy.

She staggered, overwhelmed by horror. By the fear that not even her formidable will could keep in abeyance.

Instinctively, she stepped back, but her jailor was there to prevent her. "Second thoughts, Countess? I'd say it's too late for that. You should have known better than to defy the greatest king in all of Christendom."

Bella was ashamed to admit that as she stood there looking at the horrible cage, knowing that she had to go in and not knowing when she might come out, she wondered if the brute was right. At that moment her beliefs, her conviction in what she'd done, wavered under the force of fear.

But only for a moment.

It was only a cage, she told herself. She'd weathered worse. Her husband's accusations and suspicions. Being hunted across Scotland like a dog. Betrayal by a man she never should have trusted. And the worst of all, the separation from her daughter.

Her daughter would give her strength. She had to survive this to see Joan again.

She looked the foul fiend straight in the eye. "He's not my king." And then, head high, Bella MacDuff, Countess of Buchan, walked through the iron gate of the cage.

One

Balvenie Castle, Moray, Six Months Earlier

Bella was distracted, her mind whirling with all that she had to do before she left.
The brooch!
She couldn't forget the MacDuff brooch for the ceremony.

She didn't notice the guard missing outside her door until it was too late. A man took her by surprise, grabbing her from behind as she entered her chamber.

Her heart jumped to her throat in shock and panic, immediately sensing the danger radiating from the intruder. He was big and strong and about as pliable as rock.

But she wouldn't be taken without a fight. She lashed out trying to break free, but it only made his hold clamp down on her tighter. She tried to scream, but his hand muffled any sound.

"Calm down," a rough voice whispered in her ear. "I mean you no harm. I'm here to take you to Scone."

She stilled, his words penetrating through the haze of terror. Scone? But she was to leave for Scone tomorrow. And Robert's men were to come to her in the woods, on her way back from church, not in the castle.

Her heart pounded wildly as she tried to sort it out, tried to decide whether to believe him, all the while conscious of the steely strength of the leather-clad arm wrapped tightly around her chest. Good God, the brute could snap her in two with one hard squeeze!

They stood there like that for a minute in the semidarkness, unmoving, while he waited for his words to sink in.

"Do you understand?"

The gravelly voice did little to reassure her, but what choice did she have? She couldn't breathe with his hand covering her mouth so tightly. Besides, he could have killed her already if that was what he intended.

With that pleasant thought filtering through her mind, she nodded.

Slowly--cautiously--he released her.

Once the air had returned to her lungs, Bella spun in anger and indignation. "What is the meaning of this? Who--"

She gasped at the sight of him. Though little light streamed through the tower window with night almost fallen, there was enough to know that she'd been right to fear him. He was not the kind of man any woman would want to be alone with in the dark--or in bright daylight, for that matter--and her heart gave an involuntary start.

Good God in heaven, could this man really have been sent by Robert?

Built to intimidate, he was tall, broad-shouldered, and packed with layers--and layers--of muscle. He was every inch a powerful warrior: solid, strong, and deadly.

But he was no knight. One glance told her that. He had the look of a man born to fight. Not on a steed of white, clad in mail, but a brute who liked to brawl in the dirt.

He seemed to have enough weapons strapped to his body to equip a small army, including the hilts of two swords she could see worn across his back. He wore little armor: only a black leather
cotun
and chausses studded with small rivets of steel. His mail was limited to a blackened coif to protect his neck.

But it was his eyes that stopped her. Beneath the ghastly steel nasal helm they were unnaturally vivid, the color so piercing in the darkness, they seemed to glow.

She'd never seen eyes like that in her life. A shiver ran down her spine, spreading over the surface of her skin like a prickly sheet of ice.

Cat eyes
, she thought.
Feral
cat eyes. Chilling in their intensity and undeniably predatory.

"Lachlan MacRuairi," he said, answering her unfinished question. "I'm sorry for surprising you, Countess, but it couldn't be avoided. We don't have much time."

For the second time that night Bella was stunned speechless. Lachlan
MacRuairi
? Her eyes widened.
This
was the man Robert had sent to see her safely to Scone? A mercenary? And not just any mercenary, but a man whose exploits in the Western Isles had made him the most notorious gallowglass in Scotland. The greatest scourge of the seas in a kingdom of pirates.