The Viper
Page 8
Lachlan stormed into the tent he shared with a few of the men, ignored Gordon, and began stuffing his belongings into the leather bag he attached to his saddle.
He refused to acknowledge the burning in his chest, and the fierceness of the emotions surging through his blood. He didn’t have time for this shite.
Like it or not, he was going to lead this party. He needed to focus on getting the job done. The sooner this was all over, the sooner he could return to his kinsmen in the west, and the sooner his body would stop aching for her.
But he couldn’t shake the image of what he’d seen.
He jammed his hand deeper into the bag just thinking about it. When he’d come out of the temporary stables and seen Bella and Bruce standing there, the scene—the intimacy of the scene—hit him like a fist in the gut.
Her words had annoyed him, but it was her method of persuasion that sent his blood raging. Bella and Bruce had been standing as close as lovers. Her breasts, big and lush enough to tempt a monk, were grazing the king’s chest. And the way she touched his arm, tilted her head back, and pleaded with that soft, beseeching mouth made a man think of one thing.
God knew he couldn’t think of anything else since that day in the forest. The memory of her nakedness still tortured him. Apparently, four months in The Isles hadn’t dulled his lust for her. If the jealousy raging through him was any indication, it had only gotten worse.
Robert. The king’s given name had slid so easily from her tongue. The way a lover’s would.
Could the rumors be true?
He hadn’t wanted to believe it. Though he wouldn’t put it past Bruce—the king had more than his fair share of bastards—he’d thought she was different. He’d actually come to admire her, which for him was a rarity. But if what he’d just seen was any indication, Buchan’s attempt to set aside his wife as an adulteress, and his claim that she’d risked so much to crown Bruce because she was his lover, might have some truth.
With Scotland under interdict, a dispensation from the pope was impossible. But Buchan had set her aside anyway. A divorce a mensa et thoro, of bed and board, enabled the couple to live separate lives but not remarry. Annulment was the only way to do that. If grounds could be found, however, it would make their daughter a bastard.
Was it true? Perhaps that explained why she’d done it. Why she’d risked so much to crown Bruce.
Lachlan shoved the extra plaid that he used as his bedroll into the bag so hard it rattled the tent.
“What in Hades is the matter with you, Viper?”
Lachlan glanced around, making sure no one else was near before responding. “Nothing,” he snapped. “Have care, Gordon, what you say. This isn’t one of our typical missions.”
When Bruce had given them war names at the private ceremony after the second coronation, he’d done so in a bid to keep their identities as members of the Highland Guard secret. On Highland Guard missions they used war names, but otherwise they were to blend into the army as regular soldiers. Officially the Guard didn’t even exist.
As the mystery of the secret band of warriors grew, Lachlan knew it was going to be difficult but imperative to keep their identities hidden. Not only did the secrecy add to the mystique of the group, but it also made them harder to kill. War names would help.
He’d been surprised when Bruce had named him Viper, but as there was more truth in the name than jest he could hardly object. Originally an insult coined by Tor MacLeod for Lachlan’s venomous disposition, the name was actually quite apropos. Like a snake, he was slippery when evading capture and had a silent, deadly strike. He’d been recruited for his ability to get in and out without being seen, which was useful for extracting people and information.
His Norse ancestors had names like “Eric Bloodaxe” and “Thorfinn Skull-Splitter,” so he supposed Viper wasn’t so bad.
Unfortunately, his warning hadn’t distracted Gordon. “I don’t understand. I thought you hated taking orders from MacLeod and would welcome the chance to be in charge.”
Gordon was right. He didn’t like taking orders from anyone—especially MacLeod. There were few men that were a match for Lachlan on the battlefield, but the leader of the Highland Guard was one of them. Still, not wanting to take orders didn’t mean he wanted the responsibility of the king’s women.
The countess thought he’d shirked his duty in refusing to lead his clansmen. She was right. After forty-four of his men had followed him into a death trap, because he’d been foolish enough to trust his wife, he’d abdicated the duties of chieftain to his younger brother.
He’d been so crazed with lust that he hadn’t seen the warning that his young wife was tiring of him. Spoiled and too beautiful for her own good, Juliana regretted her impulsivity in marrying him—a chieftain, but a bastard without the lands to go along with the title. When she found a more lucrative suitor, she’d convinced her brother, John of Lorn, that MacRuairi intended to betray him. Instead of a surprise raid on a small band of MacDonalds, Lachlan and his men had found over a hundred English soldiers waiting for them at the bay of Kentra.
The MacDonalds, his enemies and kinsmen, had found him with a spear through his shoulder, left for dead. He’d been the only damned survivor. Men—friends—he’d known his entire life, who’d trusted him, had been slaughtered like pigs before his eyes. That he’d survived at all had been a miracle. Or a curse, depending on your perspective.
For reasons that today he still didn’t understand, his cousin Angus Og, the younger brother of the MacDonald chief, had helped him escape from a MacDonald prison. But when Lachlan returned from the dead to find his wife betrothed to another man and removed to her brother’s castle at Dunstaffnage, he found himself exchanging one prison for another. Angus Og had warned him, but he hadn’t wanted to listen. Lachlan had been declared a traitor, his holdings and wealth forfeit, becoming a convenient scapegrace for Lorn, who was trying to make peace with the English and needed someone to blame for the recent spate of attacks against the king’s men.
Disgraced, having been declared a rebel, and under suspicion of murdering his now dead wife, Lachlan knew it would be better for everyone—his family, his clan, and himself—if he left. So he’d sailed to Ireland, making his way as a gallowglass mercenary for anyone willing to pay his price.
His shoulders stiffened. Just because he didn’t want to lead the party didn’t mean he wanted to hear Bella MacDuff pleading for the same thing. “I’m surprised you’re still around.”
Her disdain pricked. She didn’t know him, damn it. She thought she knew him because of his reputation, but just because he took money to fight didn’t make him disloyal. It made him practical. Cynical perhaps, but also honest.
When he agreed to do something he did it. Lachlan might not have wanted to lead the ladies’ party, but that didn’t mean he didn’t intend to get the job done.
God damn it, why did what she thought even matter?
“I’m needed more out west,” he said to Gordon. “God knows what kind of trouble MacSorley is going to get in without me watching over him.”
Gordon laughed, though Lachlan hadn’t meant it as a joke. Erik MacSorley was the best seafarer in a kingdom of seafarers, and he liked to prove it whatever chance he got. As a result, he was always in trouble.
“Hmm. I thought it might have something to do with the countess.”
Lachlan stopped what he was doing long enough to level a blank stare on Gordon. “Why the hell would you think that?”
If his voice held the hint of a warning, Gordon didn’t pay it any mind. Lachlan knew he was treading dangerous ground. Gordon was beginning to think himself a friend. But Lachlan didn’t have any friends. Not anymore.
“I couldn’t help noticing that you didn’t part on the best of terms last time. You seemed a little … edgy.”
The smile on Gordon’s face pricked him more than it should. “A situation I remedied soon enough,” he lied. “One pair of velvety thighs is as good as another.”
Before Gordon could ask any more questions about the countess, Lachlan ordered him to gather everyone and meet by the shieling. The king had decided to let the ladies take the few remaining horses. Bruce and the handful of men who would accompany him were taking to the heather and mountains, where the horses would only slow them down.
Lachlan followed Gordon a few minutes later. His anger had cooled, though not completely abated. He was more upset at himself than anything else. He should have more control.
If his reaction after the attack in the forest hadn’t warned him, this should. The sight of her naked … the vision had been haunting him for four damned months. Christ, his body hardened just thinking about it. It had taken everything he had to not react. To not let his eyes gorge on every inch of that creamy naked flesh. One glance had been enough to nearly push him over the edge.
God, those breasts … sinfully big, perfectly round, and tipped with tight pink nipples. His mouth watered just thinking about them.
Bella MacDuff had been built for men’s fantasies. He’d wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman in his life. Instinctively, he knew that after years of self-control, he’d met the woman who could break him.
He’d been furious. At himself. At her. So he’d lashed out. Not just with lust, but also, he knew, with something equally unsettling: fear. Seeing her vulnerable in that bastard’s arms had chilled his blood.
And now he was jealous, for Christ’s sake. What the hell was happening to him? He knew better than to fall prey to that weakness. Jealousy fueled by lust had wreaked enough havoc in his life. The last time people had counted on him he’d let his emotions distract him. His men had lost their lives because of it, and he’d lost everything. Now, when he was so close to getting some of it back, there was no way in hell he was going to travel down that path again. He’d worked too hard to risk it.
He weighed the sack of gold at his waist. Bruce had kept his promise so far, and Lachlan intended to keep his. The first chance he had, this gold would be on its way to the Isles. One more payment on a debt he hoped to pay in full in two and half years’ time.
What was it about Bella MacDuff that got to him? Her bold tongue? Her harlot’s body? He didn’t know. But since he couldn’t very well cover her with a sack for the next God-knows-how-long (no matter how much he was tempted), he’d do his best to avoid her.
He suspected he was going to be too damned busy getting the women to safety to worry about one lass no matter how distracting, anyway.
A suspicion that was confirmed a few minutes later when he got his first glimpse of his new charges.
Ah, hell.
The man known as the most feared mercenary in the Western Isles, meaner than a snake and just as deadly, who’d never backed down from a fight no matter how bad the odds, wanted to walk—nay, run—away.
He’d become a hired sword just to avoid this kind of situation. The king asked too much. No debt, no land, no amount of coin was worth this.
One, two, three … three children, damn it! And more women than he wanted to count.
Jesus. He felt ill. He didn’t need this. How the hell was he going to get them a hundred miles across some of the most difficult terrain in Scotland to safety with half the English army hunting them?
Almost as if she knew what he was thinking, he met the bold, blue-eyed gaze of Bella MacDuff. The hint of challenge there was enough to spur him to action. He had a job to do, damn it, and he’d do it.
But the weight of responsibility sat heavy on his shoulders. He’d had enough death on his watch.
He quickly organized the men, giving them their instructions for the first part of the journey, but it took longer to sort out the horses than it should have, as it turned out a number of the ladies had limited riding experience.
He, in turn, had limited experience commanding a group of women. Hardened warriors didn’t have tender feelings, and they sure as hell didn’t look like they were about to burst into tears when you snapped an order or two.
When one of the ladies balked at getting on the big war horse with MacKay, his frustration nearly got the better of him. He was half a second away from tossing her on the horse himself—or telling her she could wait for the English to arrive to escort her if she didn’t get on the damned horse—when he found relief from an unexpected source.
The countess put her hand on his arm. He stilled, a fierce swell rising inside him. The gentle touch had an instant calming affect. She looked up at him, and for a moment he was lost in a sea of blue.
Beautiful, he thought. With lashes as long and feathery as the wing tips of a raven.
“Perhaps I might be of some help?”
He’d forgotten how husky her voice was. How it spread over his skin and seeped into his bones.
When she looked at him like that—with kindness and understanding—it felt as though his chest had suddenly grown too tight. The unfamiliar reaction rattled him. Lachlan had survived this long by an acute sense of danger, and right now every instinct flared with warning.
Hell, he liked it better when all he could think about was swivving her.
Not wanting her to guess the force of his reaction to her, he managed to nod, more grateful for her help than he wanted to admit.
After some encouraging words from the countess, the woman was on the horse with MacKay a few moments later. As she seemed to have a good idea of the relative riding strengths of the rest of the ladies, he welcomed her suggestions as to the other pairings, and in less time than he would have thought possible they were on their way.
One queen, one princess, two countesses, five lady attendants, a young sister to a king, two earls—one only four years old—and a young knight anxious to prove himself.
Five members of the Highland Guard were all that stood between them and the army of the most powerful and vengeful king in Christendom.
Lachlan gave no acknowledgment of the sense of doom that came over him, but it followed them like a dark, maleficent shadow into the forests and hills of Atholl.
Five
Bella didn’t know how much more of this she could take. Three days of evading the English, while trying to keep more than half their party from falling apart in a panic, had taken its toll. She’d been stretched to the breaking point.
She told herself it was the ever-present fear of what would happen to them if they were captured, the pressure of keeping everyone’s spirits up—especially the children’s—and the bone-weary exhaustion of riding all day and being too scared to sleep well at night.
Her frayed emotions had nothing to do with the man who led them.
“I’m tired,” Lady Mary Bruce said.
Bella’s heart squeezed as she gazed at the girl riding beside her. Every time she looked at Mary she thought of her daughter. The girls were so close in age, even if they were nothing alike in temperament or appearance. Joan was as quiet and reserved as Mary was bold and outspoken, and although both girls were dark in coloring, Mary, at a year older, had already developed a woman’s body. The constant reminder of her daughter caused her pain, but she also felt a fierce protectiveness toward Robert’s youngest sister.
“I know, sweetheart, I know.” They were all tired. But they had to keep pushing toward Kildrummy. When they reached the castle they would be safe. She hoped. “Do you wish to ride with Magnus for a while?”
Bella, Queen Elizabeth, Robert’s sister Christina, and the queen’s lady-in-waiting were the only four women who’d been given mounts of their own. The other women and the children were being shuffled around, at times riding on their own, at others riding with one of the men.
After so many hours on the road, certain preferences in riding companions had developed. The four-year-old Earl of Mar, Christina Bruce’s son with her first husband, had taken to riding with her new brother-in-law, Sir Alexander Seton. Christina’s second hus
band, Christopher, had been missing since Methven, and the fear of what had happened to him hung like a dark cloud over them all. He was one of the greatest knights in Christendom.
Robert’s ten-year-old daughter Marjory by his first wife had been taken under the protection of one of the most intimidating-looking warriors Bella had ever seen. Robert Boyd hailed from the Scottish Marches, and she doubted there was a man on either side of the borders more formidably built. If sheer brute strength counted for anything, the princess was in the best hands. Like Sir Alex, Boyd’s brother was also missing and feared dead.
Mary rode with Magnus or, at times, Lachlan—who seemed willing to share a horse with everyone except Bella. Not that she noticed.
Mary shook her head. “I’m fine. For now.” Bella knew who she was waiting for. She feared Mary had developed a young girl’s tendre for their disreputable leader. Big, anxious dark eyes looked up at her. Her voice came out in a near whisper. “Do you think something happened to them?”
Bella shook her head vehemently. “No,” she said firmly, hearing the fear in the girl’s voice that mirrored her own. “No.”
But where were they? They’d been gone so long. Too long. Lachlan had ridden out with Sir James Douglas and William Gordon after they broke their fast to scout for enemy soldiers or other war parties. It wasn’t just the English after them; their own countrymen were hunting them. The men were constantly taking turns scouting, but they’d never been gone for so long.
“Shouldn’t they be back by now?”
Bella heard her own thoughts echoed in her cousin’s voice. Though Margaret was riding behind them—the narrow mountain pass barely accommodated two—she was close enough to have heard Mary’s question. Her cousin, too, looked worried. And also, Bella thought with a touch of uncharitable resentment, very fragile and scared.
It was exactly how Bella felt, though she could never show it. The other women and children needed someone to be strong, and that someone had turned out to be her. They were looking to her, and she would do whatever she had to do to keep them from falling apart, even … lie. “I’m sure they’ll return soon,” she assured her cousin. “The captain said they would be gone most of the day.”