The Viper

by Monica McCarty

  L achlan felt himself pulled by the strange emotion he saw in her eyes. Curiosity. Attraction. And most dangerous and tempting of all: possibility.

  He could almost believe she meant it.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth. He leaned closer. Her lips parted instinctively at his movement. He smothered an oath. Knowledge surged inside him, hot, primitive, and raw. He could kiss her. And God, he wanted to. Wanted it so badly it scared him. Christ, he could almost taste her on his lips.

  He’d been careful to hide his desire after that night by the loch, but it was still there, simmering just under the surface. And he felt it now. Felt it rise up and grab him in its steely grip, trying to drag him under.

  His hand reached out. Slowly. Carefully. As if she were the most delicate piece of porcelain, his finger grazed the side of her cheek.

  His heart jammed in his chest. Jesus! He groaned. So damned soft. As smooth and velvety as a bairn. His big, battle-scarred hand looked ridiculous against something so fine.

  He tipped her chin, feeling himself falling, lured by the promise in her eyes. His mouth lowered …

  He caught himself at the last moment.

  The Viper is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Monica McCarty

  Excerpt from The Saint copyright © 2011 by Monica McCarty

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Saint by Monica McCarty. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53147-6

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration: Franco Accornero

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from The Saint

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  FOREWORD

  The period from March 1306, when Robert Bruce makes his desperate bid for the Scottish crown, to the late summer of 1308, when he defeats the MacDougalls at the Battle of Brander, marks one of the most dramatic falls and subsequent comebacks in history.

  By September 1306, six months after Bruce is crowned king at Scone by Isabella MacDuff, Countess of Buchan, his cause is all but lost. He is forced to flee his kingdom a fugitive, taking refuge in the shadowy mists of the Western Isles.

  Yet from the jaws of certain defeat, with the help of his secret band of elite warriors known as the Highland Guard, Bruce returns to Scotland six months later and defeats not only the English, but also the Scottish nobles who stand against him.

  Yet this is only half of the story. Not all of Bruce’s supporters have escaped the wrath of the most powerful king in Christendom: Edward Plantagenet, King of England, the self-styled “Hammer of the Scots.” Many have paid the ultimate price, but others still are suffering for freedom’s call.

  In these merciless times, when the line between life and death is merely a shadow, once again Bruce will call on the legendary warriors of the Highland Guard to set them free.

  Prologue

  “Because she has not struck with the sword, she shall not die by the sword, but on account of the unlawful coronation which she performed, let her be closely confined in an abode of stone and iron made in the shape of a cross, and let her be hung up out of doors in the open air at Berwick, that both in life and after her death, she may be a spectacle and eternal reproach to travellers.”

  Order of Edward I imprisoning Isabella MacDuff, Countess of Buchan

  Berwick Castle, Berwick-Upon-Tweed, English Marches, Late September 1306

  They’d come for her.

  Bella heard the door open and saw the constable flanked by a handful of guardsmen, but her mind still didn’t want to accept the truth.

  This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

  In the weeks it had taken them to build her special prison, she’d told herself that someone would intervene. Someone would put a stop to this barbarity masquerading as justice.

  Someone would help her.

  Perhaps Edward would relent, as he’d done for Robert Bruce’s daughter and wife, and send her to a convent instead? Or maybe Bella’s erstwhile husband, the Earl of Buchan, would see beyond his hatred and plead for mercy on her behalf?

  Even if her enemies did nothing, surely she could count on her friends? Her brother might use his influence as a favorite of the king’s son to help her, or Robert … Robert would do something. After all she’d risked to crown him king, he would not forsake her.

  In her weaker moments, she even convinced herself that she might have been wrong about Lachlan MacRuairi. Maybe when he heard what Edward planned to do to her, he would come for her and find a way to get her out.

  She told herself these men wouldn’t leave her to this horrible fate.

  But no one had come for her. No one had intervened. Edward intended to make an example of her. Her husband despised her. Her brother was a prisoner, even if a favored one. Bruce was fighting for his life. And Lachlan … he was the one who’d put her here.

  She was alone, but for her cousin Margaret, who would serve as her attendant. The one concession Edward had made to her noble blood.

  The constable of Berwick Castle, Sir John de Seagrave, one of Edward’s commanders in the campaign against Scotland, cleared his throat uncomfortably. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. Apparently even Edward’s lackey didn’t approve of his king’s “justice” this day.

  “It’s time, my lady.”

  The flash of panic came so hard and fast it stopped her heart. She froze like a doe in the hunter’s sights. But then instinct set in, and her pulse exploded in a frantic race. She felt the overwhelming urge to run, to flee, to save herself from the arrow aimed at her heart.

  Perhaps guessing her thoughts, one of the guardsmen stepped forward to grab her arm and hauled her to her feet. She flinched at his touch. Sir Simon Fitzhugh, the cruel captain of the guard, made her skin crawl with his florid, sweaty face, stale breath, and lecherous stares.

  He pulled her toward the door and for a moment her body resisted. She leaned back, her feet planted firmly on the stone floor, refusing to move.

  Until she saw him smile. The excited spark in his eye told her this was what he wanted. He wanted her to resist. He wanted to see her fear. He wanted to drag her across the bailey in front of all those people and see her humiliated and humbled.

  The stiffness slid from her limbs as the resistance went out of her. She ga
ve him an icy stare. “Get your hands off of me.”

  He flushed with anger at the haughty contempt in her voice, and Bella knew goading him had been a mistake. She would pay for her words later, when she was completely at his mercy. He wouldn’t abuse her person. Though she’d been branded a rebel and found guilty of treason, she was still a countess. But he would find millions of ways to exact his punishment and make her life miserable over the next …

  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 G
od, 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