The Viper

by Monica McCarty

  “You make it difficult to trust you.”

  He gave her a long look. “Trusting me is the last thing you should do.”

  He walked away, his none-too-subtle warning ringing in her ears. She sensed he spoke the truth, but she also knew it was more complicated than that.

  Something had changed. She could no longer see him as the mean, opportunistic brigand, working completely for his own ends. Selfish men didn’t race into burning buildings to rescue a man who should have been dead. A heartless man wouldn’t have taken it upon himself to take a message to her daughter.

  There was good in him, whether he wanted to admit it or not. He wanted everyone to think that he was mean and heartless, a hardened mercenary who didn’t care about anything, but it was only a mask. Beneath the mask of mockery and indifference, she sensed the pain and restless energy teeming inside him, ready to explode.

  Something deep inside her made her want to trust him—despite what he said. And if her reaction to the thought of his death was any indication, she was no longer indifferent. Sometime in the past few months, Lachlan MacRuairi, the scourge of the West, had come to matter to her. Matter to her quite a lot. And no matter what he wanted her to think, she knew he was not indifferent to her.

  He wasn’t noble, damn it. And Lachlan didn’t need the countess looking at him as if he were.

  He didn’t leave men behind; it was as simple as that. He wasn’t going to let William die, not if he could do something to prevent it.

  If the face of his foster brother had flashed before his eyes, he’d pushed it aside. He’d done everything then, too, but it hadn’t been enough. This time it had.

  But if the countess’s newfound belief in his nobility had made him uneasy, he didn’t have time to think about it. After securing horses—which hadn’t been easy in the war-torn area—they were on the move. And moving is exactly what they did for the next two days. The women and children doubled up on the horses, while the men kept pace beside them. Sometimes at a fast march, more often at a slow run.

  He drove them relentlessly, mercilessly, stopping only for brief periods to rest. The men slept for a few hours at a time; the women took turns sleeping in the saddle.

  On the third day it started to rain. A nonstop heavy rain with swirling wind that lashed and flailed like a whip, sapping their strength and demoralizing their spirits. As they neared the Moray coast that night, he sent Gordon ahead to scout. He returned with bad news. Not only were the rough seas too perilous to attempt a journey, galleys patrolled the coastline.

  They had to go farther north.

  Waiting for the weather to break, Lachlan drove them on. He couldn’t escape the feeling that their enemies were closing in on them. The ships in Moray had bothered him. It was almost as if their enemies knew where they were headed.

  At dusk the following day, they stopped to water the horses just outside of Tain. He was bent over a crude map with MacKay and Gordon discussing their route. He wanted to get out of the area quickly. They were in Ross, and to say that he and the earl weren’t friendly was to put it mildly. Ross was every bit as much a threat as the English hunting them.

  “We’ll take the road north into Sutherland.” He indicated the route on the map. “And then into Caithness. Hopefully by the time we reach Wick, the weather will have calmed enough to make the crossing to Orkney.”

  It was MacKay country. Saint would be able to get them through it.

  He sensed her presence before she spoke. His skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending flaring to life.

  “We can’t go any farther tonight; we need to rest.”

  He turned slowly to face her. “Not yet.”

  An angry flush rose to her cheeks. “We have to. The children can’t go on like this, and some of the women are so weak they are about ready to fall off their horses. We are soaked to the bone, hungry, and need to sleep for longer than a few hours.”

  Lachlan’s mouth fell in a hard, unrelenting line. “It can’t be helped. You can sleep on the galley when we reach Wick.”

  “They won’t make it to the galley. Not at this pace.” Her eyes bored into his. “Why are you doing this? Why are you pushing us so hard?”

  He didn’t want to alarm her unnecessarily. All he had was a bad feeling. “We won’t be safe until we reach Norway.”

  “Please, Lachlan.” The sound of his name on her tongue made something in this chest tighten. “Just look at them. They can’t go on.”

  He did what he’d purposefully avoided. His gaze scanned the once fine ladies who now looked as scraggly as beggar women collapsed against the trees or rocks for support. The young earl was curled up in a ball in his mother’s lap, Mary Bruce lay with her cheek resting against a moss-covered log asleep, and Marjory, the young princess, was asleep in the queen’s arms.

  “There’s sanctuary in Tain,” she said. “We could take shelter at St. Duthac’s Chapel for the night.”

  She’d obviously thought about this. She was right; King Malcolm had granted Tain the status of sanctuary by charter over two hundred years ago. By law and tradition, it was a place where fugitives could take refuge.

  His mouth fell in a hard line. He knew he’d pushed them as far as he could. “Very well. We’ll stay the night in Tain.” He looked up to the sky; the rain had turned into a fine mist. “If the weather breaks, we can try to secure a galley from there.”

  Even before they reached the church, Lachlan regretted going against his instincts and acceding to the countess’s demands. What the hell was happening to him? Once again he was letting a woman control his actions.

  He couldn’t let her get to him like this. This fierce attraction, this … whatever it was that was making him feel like this, had to end. He wouldn’t let a woman hold that kind of power over him again. All his men had been killed because his cock was hard for a woman. The same weakness was biting him in the arse again.

  But Bella was nothing like his wife … was she?

  He couldn’t get that image of her and Bruce out of his mind. It gnawed at him, festering, like a sore under his skin.

  He was in a foul temper by the time they reached the old chapel nestled on a rise overlooking the sea. No more than thirty by twenty feet, the stone building with a vaulted wood roof held a few benches, a stone altar, and little else. Fortunately, as it was late, it was also deserted. The priest probably slept in the nearby rectory.

  He made sure the women were settled before heading out to scout the area to ensure they hadn’t been followed. Since the rain had stopped, he would also look for a galley. The sooner they were on the way, the better.

  He’d just closed the wooden door behind him when Bella turned the corner, nearly running into him.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. Her eyes raked his face. “Is something wrong? You seem angry.”

  He doubted she realized she’d taken a step toward him, but he did. Every muscle in his body pulled taut as her soft scent rose to play havoc with his senses—and his sense.

  “To look around and see about finding a galley,” he said in a tight, clipped voice.

  He wondered if she knew how much effort it took not to touch her. Not to push her up against the door and give in to the maelstrom raging inside him. Maybe then he would rid himself of this ache of need that seemed to be consuming him. She’d shredded years of control to ribbons. He didn’t want to feel like this, damn it.

  He gritted his teeth. Get the job done. But he didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

  She had her head tilted back to look up at him, and he could see the mark of sadness in her eyes. “Must we leave Scotland? Is there no place else we can hide?”

  He knew she was tired. That she wasn’t thinking rationally. That the thought of leaving her daughter was tearing her apart. But he felt the anger flare inside him.

  He’d warned her what she risked, but she hadn’t wanted to listen to him. Part of her still didn’t realize the magnitude of what she’d done. Whether
in Norway or in Scotland, the truth was the same. “Don’t you understand, Countess?”

  His darkly mocking tone caused her to draw back a little. “Understand what?”

  “Your daughter was lost to you the moment you put the crown on Bruce’s head. Buchan will never let you take the lass. For all you know, he’s probably already hidden her away in England.”

  She gasped, but he forced himself not to react to the stricken look on her face.

  “Why are you saying this? Why are you being so cruel?”

  “Because it’s the truth, whether you want to see it or not.”

  “You’re wrong. I will never stop fighting to get my daughter back. I’ll find a way. When Robert—”

  The mention of the king’s name made something inside him snap. He grabbed her by the arm, wanting to shake her as badly as he wanted to pull her up against him. “Robert?” he scoffed. “Bruce is done, Bella. He’ll be lucky to make it out of the country alive.” He hated himself for asking the question, knowing the weak emotion that was driving it. “Why did you do it? Why did you risk so much?”

  Her eyes scanned his face; it was clear she didn’t understand the intensity behind his question. “Because I believe in him, and things you believe in are worth fighting for.” She waited, hoping for him to say something—probably to agree with her—and seemed disappointed when he didn’t. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing when I had a chance to help. Robert is Scotland’s best chance for freedom. He sees what the men who came before him did not: that to win we must not only defeat the English on the battlefield, we must also not defeat ourselves. He will do whatever it takes to unify Scotland behind him, even if it means forgiving old enemies. And you’re wrong. He isn’t done. Done is how legends are born.”

  Her endless idealism where Bruce was concerned only fueled his suspicions. “And that’s the only reason?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What other reason could there be?”

  He didn’t say anything, but merely held her gaze.

  Suddenly, shock transformed her features. Her eyes widened and her lips parted with a harsh gasp.

  If he was in his right mind, he would have understood the flicker of pain in her eyes, would have realized that his accusation had hurt her. That he’d hit a nerve and found another vulnerability beneath the proud mask. And if he could think about anything other than crushing her mouth to his, he would have seen that he was wrong. That once again jealousy had made him act like an arse.

  But he wasn’t in his right mind. He was consumed by feelings he didn’t understand. Anger, jealousy, lust, and something he rejected with every fiber of his being.

  All he could think about was pulling her against him, covering her mouth with his, and kissing her until she stopped making him feel this way. Until she denied the unspoken accusations. But one look in her eye told him she wasn’t going to do that.

  If he’d stabbed her with a knife, the wound would have been no less painful. Bella couldn’t believe it. Were all men the same? He was no better than her husband, jealous and suspicious, believing that large breasts and a wide mouth left her without honor.

  Lachlan thought she was doing all this because she was carrying on some illicit liaison with Robert. How could he think such a thing? How could he believe the rumors?

  He didn’t know her at all. She couldn’t believe she’d let herself be deceived into thinking he was different, that he might actually care for her, if only for a moment.

  If he thought her a whore, she would not disabuse him of the idea. She lifted her chin defiantly and met his angry gaze with a gleam of pure wickedness. She tossed her shoulders back and stuck out her chest to better vantage.

  He made a sharp sound and his face went white.

  A deep feminine instinct rose inside her. She slid her tongue across her bottom lip, as if she were a hungry spider waiting to trap her next meal. Her eyes slitted and her voice deepened seductively. “What do you think?”

  She realized her mistake right away. Or maybe she’d known what would happen all along and wanted it to happen. She wanted to have even more of a reason to hate him. Lachlan MacRuairi was not a man to provoke.

  He pulled her into his arms. Pulled her against the powerful chest that she’d noticed far more times than was proper.

  She gasped as her body came into contact with his. He was so hard. His chest was like a wall of granite. It should be uncomfortable—intimidating—but it wasn’t. The visceral awareness of his strength made her feel safe and protected.

  As he lowered his head, her heart seemed to stop, pausing in that terrifying, agonizing moment that she’d both dreaded and craved. Finally, he covered her mouth with his.

  She felt his groan all the way to her toes. The primitive, masculine sound poured through her veins like molten lava.

  The first taste of him was like a shock. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Sensation exploded inside her. His lips were so soft and warm, his taste sublime. Like a dark, rich wine mulled with cloves.

  She felt infused with it. Infused with him. As if one touch—one taste—could mark her forever.

  His mouth moved over hers deftly, passionately, demanding a response.

  She should push him away. This was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Usually she didn’t feel anything. Except this time she did. She felt her body flush, her pulse race, and her senses fire with unfamiliar yearnings.

  Bella didn’t understand what was happening to her. She felt so warm, her body so heavy. And there was an insistent knot coiling low in her belly.

  She waited for her body to stiffen. For the vague feeling of revulsion to come over her as his mouth accosted hers.

  But it didn’t happen. For a brigand who took what he wanted, there was nothing forceful about Lachlan’s kiss. His passion was warm and enticing, not cold and cruel. It was not an assault or mauling but a dark seduction.

  Lachlan made her want to wind her arms around his neck and pull her body closer. To melt against him. To mold her soft curves to every hard inch of him.

  Lachlan made her want to yield. To open her mouth and give freely of what her husband had tried to take.

  Lachlan made her … want.

  God help her, she wanted him. Desperately. Like she’d never wanted anyone before. She’d thought herself incapable of desire. Every bit as cold to passion as her husband accused. But she felt it now. Felt it awaken in a tingling rush of heat and pleasure.

  She sank against him, savoring the wicked sensation of her breasts crushing against his chest. And then with a sigh, she opened her mouth.

  Lachlan let out a growl of satisfaction when he felt her yield. He’d wanted to punish her for making him lose control. For giving in to the lust that he’d sworn to avoid. He was mad. Angry. Pushed to the edge. But his anger dissolved the moment he touched his lips to hers. A wave of something soft and powerful crashed over him. Tenderness, damn it. He could never hurt her. He’d told her he would never use force, and he meant it.

  God, she was sweet. Sweeter even than he’d imagined. He couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted to.

  He half—more than half—expected her to push him away. But her tentative, innocent response nearly undid him.

  The sensation of her soft, sensual lips opening under his drove him wild. He slid his tongue into her mouth, kissing her deeper, harder, claiming every inch that she was willing to give.

  She was kissing him back, her sweet little cries urging him on. He could feel her press against him. Feel the desire building inside her. Feel the increasing urgency of her kiss.

  His tongue circled hers. Slowly at first, then faster, as the sensations swirling between them built.

  He’d been waiting so long for this, he couldn’t take it slow.

  Heat surged through his veins. His skin was hot. Tight. Too small for his body. His muscles flexed, straining against the sensations. His cock lengthened and hardened against her.

  He could feel every one of those lush, soft curves
against him, but still it wasn’t enough. Closer. He had to get closer.

  He plunged his fingers through the soft silk of her hair, cushioning her head as he leaned her up against the door, bending her deeper into him.

  There. Oh, Jesus, right there. A wave of heat nearly dragged him under.

  His body melded to hers, his cock wedged in that soft place between her legs. The urge to thrust taunted.

  It felt too good. Too right. He could almost feel what it would be like to slide into her. How he could cup her bottom with his hands and lift her against him, wrap her legs around his waist and push into that soft, wet glove of her heat.

  He’d rip open her bodice so he could feel the hard points of her breasts raking against his skin. Her skin would be flushed, hot, the scent of roses even stronger.

  He could feel the frantic beat of her heart as he brought her mouth more fully against his and gave over to the passion long denied unfurling inside him.

  Bella was lost in a haze of desire unlike anything she’d ever imagined. His kiss grew more insistent. Each carnal slide of his tongue against hers licked the flames a little hotter.

  She could feel his hardness between her legs, and it flooded her with even more intense yearnings. He moved against her. A slow grind of the hips that sent a flutter of awareness shooting up her spine. She wanted to feel him inside her. Wanted to feel him moving—

  Dear God!

  The wickedness of her thoughts brought her harshly back to reality. What was she doing? How could she have succumbed so easily, so completely? What was wrong with her?

  A flush of shame replaced the heat of passion. After years of suspicion and irrational jealousy, she’d finally made her husband’s accusations come true.

  She pushed him away. “Stop!”

  He pulled back, his eyes dark with desire. With lust. Seeing what she feared so badly made her lash out. She slapped his face. “How dare you touch me like that!”

  She didn’t know who was more shocked by the violence of her reaction. His face turned back to her slowly, and she cringed seeing the imprint of her palm.