The Viper (3 page)

Surely there must be some mistake. Lachlan MacRuairi would sell his mother to the highest bidder--if a woman could be found who would claim him. He was a bastard, but for his blood, heir to one of the largest dominions in the Western Isles. Though the clan lands had gone to his legitimate half-sister, Christina of the Isles, he was still titular chief. But he'd ignored his duty and responsibility, forsaking his clansmen, to pursue his own ends.

He was a black-hearted villain if ever there was one, rumored to have murdered his wife.

Bella was incredulous. With everything she was risking, she couldn't believe Robert had sent this ... this ... why, he was no more than a brigand!

She peered into the shadows, taking in the details she'd missed before. Saints preserve her, just look at him! He even looked like a brigand. She'd wager his jaw hadn't seen the side of a blade or razor in a week. A thin scar lined the underside of one cheek, and his sharp, slitted gaze was hard enough to cut rock. Below the edge of his helm, his dark hair fell in thick, disheveled waves to his chin.

What she could see of his face seemed cut from cold, hard granite. With some surprise, she realized that the hooded gaze, square jaw, high cheekbones, and wide mouth might have been considered handsome--
exceedingly
handsome even--were they not set at such a menacing angle. What a shame to have such a face destroyed by a black heart.

Their eyes met, and Bella realized that she was not alone in her study. He was watching her with equal intensity. She could feel his eyes rake her in the shadowy twilight.

The sudden flare made her uneasy, though she didn't know why. Bella was used to seeing that spark in men's eyes.

She'd been barely three-and-ten when it started. It was exactly the same time her breasts had filled, her hips had curved, and her face had lost its youthful roundness. Since then, men had looked at her differently. As if they wanted only one thing from her.

She'd learned to ignore it. But with him, it felt different. It felt threatening in a way she'd never experienced before. Her pulse spiked, and a strange flush skimmed over the surface of her skin.

Instinctively, she took a step back.

He noticed her reaction, and his gaze hardened. "Lachlan MacRuairi," he repeated, not hiding his impatience. "Bruce sent me."

"I know who you are," she said, unable to keep the distaste from her voice.

The tight seam of his mouth seemed to get a little tighter. "I know you were not expecting me tonight, but there's been a change of plans."

Bella almost laughed at the absurdity. To say that she was not expecting him was to put it mildly. What could Robert have been thinking to send such a man to her?

She was risking everything to go to Scone and place the crown upon his head. To do the duty her brother, a virtual prisoner in Edward's English court, could not.

When her mother, Joan de Clare, had first come to her with the proposition about a week ago, Bella had been dumbfounded. To place the crown on Robert Bruce's head--a man who'd been declared a rebel and an outlaw--would be to defy not only the most powerful king in Christendom, Edward of England, but also her husband.

John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, hailed from one of the most powerful families in Scotland who were the Bruces' fiercest rivals and foes. That rivalry had turned deadly a few weeks ago when Robert had stabbed her husband's cousin, the Lord of Badenoch, before the high altar of Greyfriars Monastery in Dumfries.

Even now her husband was in England demanding justice for his cousin's death from King Edward. Buchan despised Bruce and would rather see Edward as his master than Robert Bruce on the throne. He wouldn't listen to reason. The good of Scotland paled in the force of his hatred.

By doing this, her husband would never forgive her. He would consider her duty a betrayal. It would be the end of their marriage--such as it was.

But the MacDuffs held the hereditary right to enthrone Scotland's kings, and without one some would question the validity of the ceremony. As it was, Robert's claim to the throne would be contested by many of the important noblemen in Scotland, including her husband. To establish the legitimacy of his kingship among the rest, Bruce would need all the symbolism and adherence to tradition that he could find.

Even then it would be a challenge. Robert was in for a long, difficult struggle. His cause was anything but certain. Bella did not delude herself: in doing this, in aligning herself so publicly with Bruce, her future would be uncertain as well. She would be branded a rebel by the English king who claimed Scotland as his dominion.

If Robert lost, if he failed to gather enough support from Scotland's nobles, he would stand no chance against Edward. And defying Edward Plantagenet was a grave risk indeed.

Bella had looked to her mother for guidance. Though her mother had recently married one of Bruce's men, she would not be asking Bella to crown Robert for that alone. Like Bella, her mother wanted to see Scotland freed from English tyranny, and both believed that Robert Bruce was the man to see it done. Her mother's conviction in Bruce's cause was just as strong as her own. Edward Plantagenet had tightened his iron fist around the neck of Scotland, and Robert Bruce was its last breath. If anyone could do this, he could.

She had to take the risk. In many ways this was the moment she'd been waiting for throughout her entire life. A chance to do something truly important. A chance to stand up for what she believed in. Duty, loyalty, putting her needs behind the good of her family and Scotland. These weren't mere words or ideals, but something real. Something worth fighting for.

Duty had kept her by her husband's side for so long, but Buchan had never earned her loyalty. For the sake of their daughter she'd weathered his storm of jealous rage, suspicion, and obsessive lust.

To protect her daughter she might have had second thoughts, had her husband not mentioned that he was considering betrothing the twelve-year-old Joan, named after her grandmother, to one of his cronies, a man four times her age.

Bella would die before she let that happen.

Once her mother had assured her that Joan would be able to come with her, Bella had agreed.

But seeing the man he'd sent for her, she wondered what she'd gotten herself into. If Lachlan MacRuairi was the sort of man Robert was relying on, the rebellion was doomed before it had begun.

How much had he had to pay him? She doubted there was an amount high enough to ensure the loyalty of a brigand like MacRuairi.

MacRuairi folded his arms across his chest, an impatient gesture made threatening by the massive size of his arms. Muscles like that could be earned only on a battlefield.
Many
battlefields.

"Is there a problem?"

"I was expecting ..." She glanced into the darkness behind him, hoping to see a party of shiny, mail-clad knights rush out of the shadows.

His eyes narrowed to slits, almost as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

"Where are the rest of the men?" she finished lamely.

Her question seemed to amuse him, if the twist in his mouth could be construed as a smile. "Waiting below."

"How did you get in here? What happened to the guard?"

"Guards," he corrected. He gave her a hard look. "I thought Buchan did not suspect anything?"

Bella almost laughed. All her husband did was suspect. Falsely--not that it mattered anymore. But she knew that Lachlan was referring to her plans to crown Bruce. "That's not why he has me watched."

He gave her a questioning look but didn't ask what she meant. She wouldn't have told him anyway.

The brigand had extinguished his pleasantries--if they could be called such--and was obviously anxious to get on with his reason for being here. He moved to the window, careful to stay out of sight but sneaking a glance at the courtyard below. "Come." He took her elbow, and every nerve ending sparked at his touch. "We have to go. There isn't much time. Fetch your cloak and anything else you wish to take with you. But be quick about it."

What was he talking about? They weren't supposed to leave until tomorrow. Nothing was ready. She'd left the evening meal early to start gathering their belongings.

Bella jerked her arm from his hold, having no wish to go anywhere with him. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about."

She didn't think it was possible for his face to grow more menacing. He leaned closer, his eerie, piercing eyes pinning her. Green, she realized. Even in the darkness his eyes glowed like two golden emeralds in the sun.

"What this is about?" he repeated. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he thrust her toward the window. "It's about those banners in the distance just beyond the trees. In about ten minutes your husband and his men are going to ride through that gate, and if I were you I wouldn't want to be here when he arrives."

She gasped, the color draining from her face. Her eyes searched the brigand's hostile, merciless gaze and read the answer to her question: Her husband knew. Somehow, Buchan had learned of her plans.

And God help her, he was going to kill her.

Lachlan saw her blanch and almost regretted his harshness. Almost. But the way the haughty little countess looked at him, the way she flinched from his touch, pricked.

It shouldn't.

God knows he was used to suspicion and disdain--hell, it was warranted. Bastard. Ruthless. Predatory. Opportunistic pirate. Those were a few of the more flattering things he'd been called. Most of them were true. Even among the other members of the newly formed Highland Guard he was suspect.

He didn't give a shite what anyone thought. Usually. But the scorn in those big, flashing blue eyes set him on edge. Actually, a number of things about Bella MacDuff set him on edge.

Christ
. He could still feel the bolt of lust reverberating through his body. He hadn't felt anything like that since ...

His mouth flattened. Not since the first time he'd seen Juliana. If there was anything guaranteed to chill his blood, it was the thought of his deceitful bitch of a wife. But Juliana was no longer his concern and hadn't been for eight blessed years. She was where she belonged: in hell, tormenting the devil.

On the surface, Bella MacDuff didn't look anything like his dead wife. Juliana had been tall and slender, with delicate features, and hair as pitch black as her heart. The countess was fair, with hair the color of flax and bold features, of medium height, and curvy.
Very
curvy, if the weight of those breasts on his arm had been any indication.

Both women were attractive--beautiful even--but that was not what made them alike. It was that indefinable quality, that
je ne sais quoi
as the French called it, that stirred the blood. It was the slant in the eyes, the curve of a mouth, the raw sensuality that grabbed a man by the bollocks and didn't let go.

They were the kind of women men wanted to fuck.

Had he left it at that with Juliana, he would have saved himself a lot of trouble. But lust had blinded him to the truth about his wife until it was too late. His cock had made him a fool once. It wouldn't happen again.

"Have care with the countess," Bruce had said with an enigmatic smile. "She can be ... distracting."

At least now he understood Bruce's warning. But the king had no cause for concern. Lust was the last thing Lachlan would ever let get in the way of a mission.

He had enough problems as it was. Their fairly straightforward job had taken a complicated turn about an hour ago when MacKay intercepted two of Buchan's guardsmen on the way to the castle to prepare for the earl's arrival.

Buchan's return by itself wouldn't have been much of a problem. They still would have been able to proceed with their prearranged plan to intercept the countess and her daughter on their way back from Sunday services--the one time the countess was certain to be permitted to leave the castle.

But Lachlan better than anyone knew that missions rarely went according to plan. MacKay had also learned from his interrogation of the riders that the earl had gotten wind of the coronation and the countess's part in it.

That changed everything. Once the earl returned, the castle would be locked up tight as a nun's thighs, and he doubted there would be any outings for the countess for months to come, even to church.

MacKay figured they had about an hour.

Lachlan had needed a quarter of that to breach the castle gate and nearly twice as long to find the countess. Leaving him with five minutes--give or take--before Gordon set off their escape.

He sure as hell didn't have time to ease his haughty little companion's misgivings about his suitability as an escort.

His harsh words, however, seemed to work a miraculous change in her manner. Fear was a powerful motivator. She raced to the ambry, pulled out a dark cloak, which she hastily tossed around her shoulders, and retrieved a small, intricately carved wooden chest from a shelf.

Lachlan's guess that it was her jewelry was confirmed when she opened the lid to reveal a sultan's treasure trove of gold and jewels.
God's blood!

He expected her to stuff the contents in the finely embroidered purse she had tied around her waist, but instead she retrieved one item, closed the lid, and returned the box to the shelf.

Once her task was done, she turned back to him. "I'm ready."

Lachlan glanced to the box. "Is that all you're taking?"

Her eyes narrowed as if she expected him to take the box himself. Hell, he was more than half-tempted. Jewels like that would pay a lot of debts.

"The rest belongs to my husband. This is the only piece that matters."

Spoken as only someone who'd been rich her entire life could say. It was easy to be sanctimonious when you were dressed in finery that would feed an entire village for weeks. He scanned from the thick gold circlet that secured her long, lustrous hair to the rich, gold-embroidered fabric of her surcotte, the fur-lined cloak, the heavy pearl and sapphire necklace, the slim, milky-white fingers laden with rings, and the tips of her dainty silk slippers.