The Viper

by Monica McCarty

  He was going faster now, any pretense at control long gone. His body was on fire. He heard the quickening of her breath and knew she felt it, too. The urgency, the need, that had descended over them both. There was nothing to come between them. No husband to stop her. She was free. She was his.

  His lips trailed over the tender, sensitive skin of her throat. He nuzzled her with his nose, licked her with his tongue, devoured her with his mouth.

  His hands slid up her tiny waist to cup her breasts. A bolt of pure lust shot through him, as the soft mounds of flesh spilled over his palms. He felt her nipples pressing against him like two hard pebbles. He couldn’t stop himself. They were too incredible. Too lush. Too ripe to the touch. He needed to squeeze, to caress, to lift the perfect round globes of flesh in his hands and rub the taut bead of her nipples between his thumbs.

  The soft sigh of pleasure that slipped from between her parted lips drove him wild. He had to taste her. To put his mouth on bare skin. Nothing could have denied him from putting his lips around those firm, succulent nipples and sucking. From circling them with his tongue and nibbling them with his teeth.

  He was going to have her. Knowledge pounded through him. Finally, after two years of wanting her, she would be his.

  He slid his mouth lower, moving toward the open neck of her shirt. Easing the fabric aside with his chin, he feasted his eyes on the pale, creamy white skin—

  He stilled. Everything inside came to an abrupt stop—his breath, his racing heart, his surging passion.

  His half-slitted gaze slowly came into focus.

  Straightening, he pushed aside the fabric, tearing the neck opening of her shirt a little to get a better look. But there was no mistaking it. Dark, mottled bruises marred the creamy perfection of ivory skin around the inner curve of her right breast.

  Fingerprints.

  His heart started to beat again. Louder. Harder. Passion had been replaced by another primal urge—this one to kill.

  She must have realized what had gotten his attention, because she pulled away with a gasp and gripped the open ends of her shirt back together to try to cover herself.

  But he was having none of it. He grabbed her arm, forcing her to look at him. “Who did this to you?” His voice held the cold edge of one of the most feared and dangerous men in the Highlands. “Who hurt you?”

  Bella was in another world. Transported to a place of feeling and sensation that she’d never been to before. The heat of his kiss. The pressure of his hands. The feel of his body against her. It was too much.

  It felt too good.

  She’d been alone for so long, and her body responded. She wasn’t strong enough to fight. Imprisonment had taken more from her than she wanted to admit. She was weak. Needy. And he was strength.

  But she knew it wasn’t just the imprisonment that caused her to react with such need and hunger. It was Lachlan. He alone had the power to turn her into a mindless wanton.

  She’d never responded to a man the way she did him. She hadn’t understood it then, and she didn’t understand it now.

  The difference was she no longer cared.

  So she gave over to the sensations. Let them consume her. Let him take her where he would. She hadn’t felt anything for so long, and he made her feel alive again.

  He’d flamed the passion, kissed her and touched her until she thought she had glimpsed a piece of paradise, only to bring her harshly back to earth. Who hurt you?

  She gathered up the torn edges of her shirt, wishing her tattered pride was as easily managed.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, trying to turn away. “It’s none of your concern.”

  But he wouldn’t let her. He grabbed her by the arm and turned her back to him. “I’m making it my concern.”

  The flatness of his tone didn’t fool her. He was furious. Peeking up from under her lashes, she glimpsed the terrifying, slitted, green-eyed gaze of a mercenary. He looked every bit as mean and merciless as she remembered. The latent dangerousness that surrounded him was still there.

  She hadn’t realized Simon had left marks. He’d come to her chamber well before dawn this morning. Her imminent departure had forced all subtlety from his exhausted repertoire of attempts to coerce her into his bed. He’d promised to keep them from forcing her to take the veil if she would let him have her. When she refused, his “request” had become physical. He’d squeezed and twisted her breasts with his brutish hands, put his foul mouth on hers until she couldn’t breathe, and attempted to wedge himself between her legs.

  For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t stop. That the threat of rape that had hung over her head like an axe would finally fall. But she’d stood there cold, letting him push her into the stone wall until she thought she would be crushed, and eventually, he’d let her go.

  In the end it was only incrementally more horrible than the many previous instances she’d had to endure over the years. So why did it feel so much more so now with Lachlan to witness her shame?

  She brushed the errant dampness from her eyes. She was a fool. What difference did it make?

  “My jailor,” she said. “Sir Simon Fitzhugh.”

  He stared at her intently, his cold, eerie gaze as hard as granite. “Did he force you?”

  The emptiness of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She shook her head, eyes glued to her feet. “Nay, my rank had some benefits.” Her attempt at a wry smile wobbled. But it didn’t matter. Lachlan would see through her bravado; she hated how easily he could read her. “There are some things even the English will not tolerate.”

  “But he wanted you?”

  Bella didn’t want to talk about this anymore. Didn’t like the probing intensity of his questions, or, when she forced herself to look up at him, his gaze. “He was a brute who at times got a little rough. It’s over, Lachlan. There is nothing you can do to fix it; it’s in the past. I just want to forget about it.”

  It was the truth. Simon held no power over her any longer. Soon he would be one more bad memory.

  If only Lachlan were as easy to forget. She could still feel the heat of his kiss on her swollen lips. Still feel his hands on her breasts, the frantic quivering between her legs, and the burn of his beard on his skin.

  How did he manage to devastate her so quickly and completely? To make her feel weak and vulnerable?

  “I’m sorry, Bella. So damned sorry for what you had to go through.”

  “Then take me to my daughter.” She knew she was playing on his guilt, but didn’t care.

  He was quiet. Too quiet. His expression gave no hint of his thoughts.

  She drew herself up, trying to push aside the memory of that devastating kiss and remember what was truly important. Putting aside her pride, she did what her captors had wanted her to do: she begged. “Please, Lachlan. Please, take me to Joan. I need to see my daughter.”

  His stony expression didn’t move. Not one little flicker. Not one hint that her pleas might have some effect on him. That she might have some effect on him. He’d kissed her as though he couldn’t live without her, but it made no difference.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s too dangerous.”

  Sorry? Tears started to fall from her eyes. How could he stand there like that—after everything they’d been through—and deny her the one thing that mattered to her? The one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world.

  At that moment she hated him. Hated him for his strength and her weakness. Hated him for kissing her and making her think …

  What had she thought? That those foolish thoughts she’d harbored two years ago were true? That she actually meant something to him? That there was a reason other than a mission that he’d come for her?

  She blinked up at him through the hot haze of tears. Stared at the handsome battle-scarred face, wanting something from him with all her soul, with every fiber of her being, but not knowing what—except that he could never give it. It seemed she always wanted something from a man who could not
give it.

  Suddenly, it became too much. The kiss. His refusal. The escape from the nightmare of her prison. All the emotions that she’d held in check, that pride had forbidden her from shedding, came pouring out in one torrential rush of tears.

  Bella MacDuff had finally broken.

  Lachlan swore. But the crude oath only made her cry harder.

  She slid to her knees, holding her arms around her waist as if in pain, her shoulders wracking with shuddering sobs, tears pouring down her cheeks, and Lachlan had never felt so at a loss in his life.

  He didn’t know what the hell to do. He dragged his fingers through his hair, feeling as if the rats from John of Lorn’s pit prison were crawling all over him again. The leather cotun he wore suddenly felt too tight. He couldn’t breathe.

  Jesus, he couldn’t take this. He couldn’t see her suffer like this. Each tear fell like acid on the steel of his resolve.

  Not knowing what else to do, he bent down and awkwardly wrapped his arms around her. To his surprise she didn’t push him away, but grabbed onto him like a lifeline. Her tiny fingers dug into his chest like kitten claws.

  After a moment of panic when he realized he didn’t know what the hell to do—he’d never tried to offer anyone comfort before—he found himself stroking her back, smoothing her hair, whispering soothing words, and eventually pleading—anything to make her stop. “Don’t cry, Bella. Please, don’t cry.”

  He hated seeing her so miserable, but damn, it felt good to hold her in his arms again. It had been too long. He remembered every time he’d touched her, every time he’d held her. The memories seemed burned into his brain. But memories couldn’t replicate the silkiness of her hair or the delicate fragrance of her skin.

  He savored the sensation of her tiny body pressed against him, her cheek pressed against his chest, her tiny fingers clutching him as if he were her only hope. For a moment, he could almost convince himself that she needed him. He knew he was taking far too much pleasure from it, but hell, he’d never been known for his sensitivity.

  Eventually, the sobs ebbed, and she blinked up at him through the watery haze of tears. “If you won’t help me, I’ll go myself.”

  Christ’s bones! So much for being needed. Even shattered, she still managed to be stubborn. He couldn’t take this anymore. “Damn it, Bella, you’re not going anywhere by yourself.”

  Her eyes searched his, and the hope shimmering in the sparkling blue depths tore at the last vestiges of his resolve. “Does that mean you’ll take me?”

  Could he offer her a compromise? He supposed there was a first time for everything. But he hoped to hell he didn’t end up regretting this. He could manage one short—very short—detour.

  “It’s too dangerous to take you”—her face fell—“but …” She looked up at him again. “But I will see if I can get a message to her.”

  The look of abject joy on her face was almost harder to take than her tears. “Oh, Lachlan, thank you—”

  He stopped her. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not making you any promises. And you must swear to do exactly as I say. I don’t want you anywhere near danger. Where is she?”

  “Roxburgh.”

  He lifted a brow. “Your daughter is at Roxburgh Castle?”

  She nodded. “Aye, her cousin Alice Comyn is marrying Henry de Beaumont—he’s just been appointed constable.” She must have sensed the interest in his tone. She pulled away, wiping her eyes. “Does it matter?”

  He shook his head. “Nay.” But it might explain why Mary Bruce was being moved from her prison. He hoped MacLeod and his other Highland Guard brethren attempting to free Mary had found the same success he had. But unlike with Bella, they didn’t know when Mary was supposed to be moved. He knew his fellow guardsmen could still be there and didn’t want to interfere with their plans—nor would he say anything to Bella or anyone else that might compromise the mission. But at the same time, the wedding could provide a good distraction. There would be lots of people—and lots of celebrating.

  “When is the wedding?” he asked.

  She shook her head, eyeing him curiously. “I don’t know.” She stared up at him, big blue eyes dominating her pale, tear-stained face. He felt something inside him tug, and it was too high and too close to his heart to be lust. What the hell was she doing to him? “Did you mean it, Lachlan? You aren’t saying this just to appease me. Will you really take me to Roxburgh?”

  He nodded grimly. At most it would add a day to their journey, but he did not delude himself: Every minute they stayed in the borders—on the English or Scottish side—was a minute too long. If anyone recognized them … he’d better make damn sure they didn’t.

  Although Roxburgh was technically in Scotland, the English had garrisoned all the major strongholds in the Marches.

  “We’ll go,” he said. “And I’ll see what I can find out, but you aren’t going anywhere near the castle. I mean it, Bella. Do you understand?”

  The sternness in his voice fell on deaf ears. She nodded exuberantly and then tossed her arms around his neck, hugging him with all her strength.

  Gratitude was a new experience for him, and if the swell in his chest meant anything, he suspected he could get used to it if he wasn’t careful.

  The smart thing to do would have been to extricate himself, step away, and return to his duties. But he’d never been smart when it came to Bella MacDuff. So he let his arms circle around her and savored the strange peace that came over him just from holding her.

  It would be over soon enough.

  Twelve

  With the long journey ahead of them, Lachlan ordered Bella to get some rest as they waited for night to fall. A wait that seemed interminable. But finally, as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, they were on their way.

  As he’d promised, MacLean and Lamont had stayed behind in Berwick for another couple of days to watch the convent, leaving their party at four: him, Boyd, Seton, and Bella.

  Traveling at night was fraught with risk and usually undertaken at a slow pace, but Boyd had been raised in the Marches and knew every inch of the terrain. With his skilled navigation, they kept a steady pace on the darkened road that ran along the banks of the River Tweed.

  Every instinct urged him to push hard and get out of the area as quickly as possible, but Lachlan was conscious—too damned conscious for his peace of mind—of Bella. He knew he should be paying attention to the road, but more often than not, his eyes were on the slim back riding a few feet ahead of him, making sure she was all right.

  Though her spirit seemed undiminished—he still couldn’t believe she’d managed to get him to agree to this—her frailty worried him. The imprisonment would have taken a toll on her physical strength. When he’d been released from prison, he’d felt as weak as a kitten.

  He frowned. Was it his imagination, or was she slumping more in the saddle with each passing mile?

  Although it was a fairly warm autumn night, she had two plaids wrapped around her narrow shoulders. His mouth fell in a grim line, suspecting the cause. He’d been imprisoned before. He knew what it was like to be cold. The kind of cold where you never thought you’d be warm again. But his icy pit in the ground wasn’t a cage high on a tower exposed to the elements. He couldn’t imagine—

  Damn it. He couldn’t think about it. He’d go half-crazed if he thought about it.

  She might look soft and feminine on the outside, but that fragile exterior hid a will of steel. He’d always admired her strength but had never realized its magnitude.

  “Here,” he said, unfastening the plaid he wore around his shoulders and passing it to her as they rode. “It’s getting cold.”

  A small furrow appeared between her brows. “But you only have a cotun.”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Take it.”

  Her gaze met his in the moonlit darkness, but she didn’t protest further, taking the plaid and wrapping it around her shoulders. He didn’t miss the little sigh of contentment as she
snuggled in its deep folds. She gave him a sidelong glance from under her lashes. “You gave this to me once before.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember.” One side of her mouth curved as if she knew he lied, and he decided to change the subject. “Are you holding up all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said firmly, sitting up a little straighter in her saddle—trying to convince herself or him, he didn’t know.

  He held her gaze, wanting to say something more, but not wanting to upset her with bad memories. Finally, he nodded. “Let me know if you need to rest.”

  She started to protest—stubbornly—but he cut her off with a sharp glance. Though it was dark, he swore he could see the soft pink of a flush rise to stain her cheeks before she nodded. “As you wish.”

  Suspecting that was about as much compliance as he would ever get from her, he left it at that.

  They rode through the long hours of the night. Although they would take care to avoid contact with anyone and veer well off the road whenever they drew near a village, danger lurked around every bend.

  He’d feel a whole hell of a lot better when they were back in the Highlands. But at this pace that might take some time.

  His gaze slid back to Bella just in time to see her head roll forward and her body start to fall to the side.

  Damn it! He yelled her name as he lurched his mount forward. She startled back awake with an upright jolt at the same time that his arm latched around her waist to catch her. Because it was easier—and his heart had taken enough of a strain tonight—he gave momentum a little help and pulled her right onto his lap.

  She stiffened, cranking her ahead around to peer up at him in the darkness. “What are you doing?”

  His mouth thinned. “What does it look like I’m doing? You’re riding with me.” He pulled her in tight against his chest. Only to make his point, of course—not because having her pressed against him was about the best damned feeling in the world.

  Her eyes widened in the darkness. “That isn’t necessary, I’m not a child—”