“Don’t you see, it isn’t about me. It never has been.”
He didn’t see it at all. He never would. That was part of the problem. Things bigger than yourself, she’d said once. “Was it worth it?”
She flinched as if he’d hit her. The stricken look on her face almost made him wish his question back. Her chin quivered. “It has to be.”
The desperate plea in her voice did something to him. For one moment he almost thought he could be the man to help her make sure it was.
Apparently, she was under the same foolish impression, because she would not relent. “I thought you were a man who finished the job, not left it half done.”
The words pricked. She knew him better than he wanted to admit. Not my fight …
“I’ve done what I set out to do. It’s over for me.”
But not for her. She was a fighter. She would go on fighting as long as there was a breath in her body. Even for lost causes like him.
“So none of it matters to you?” she taunted. “You don’t care about anything? Not whether Robert succeeds in freeing Scotland from England? Not whether your friends die?”
He just wanted to shut her up. He stepped closer, looming over her threateningly, fists clenched at his side. “They’re not my friends.”
“They aren’t?” she challenged. He knew what she was going to say. Don’t say it. “And what about me, Lachlan. Don’t you don’t care about—?”
He grabbed her before she could say it, backing her against a tree. He didn’t want to care about her, about any of it. But she just kept digging and digging until she drew blood.
He’d had enough. She’d pushed him too damned far.
He pressed his body into hers, crudely wedging his cock between her legs. “You want to know what I care about, Bella? This is what I care about. I want to fuck you so badly, I can’t think straight. I want to bury my tongue between your legs and lick you until you come against my face.”
She gasped.
He sneered. “So unless you’re ready to get down on your knees and wrap that incredible mouth around my cock, leave me the hell alone.”
She should have told him to go to hell. That’s what he wanted her to do. But Bella never did what she was supposed to do. Instead she smiled knowingly—as if she understood him. Which was impossible, since he didn’t even understand himself.
“Am I getting a little too close to the truth, Lachlan?” The subtle taunt infuriated him. “Be as mean and crude as you like—you won’t frighten me away.”
His eyes darkened. Maybe not. But this sure as hell would. His mouth fell on hers in a rush of savage ferocity.
He’d warned her.
Fifteen
Bella had pushed him too far. Perhaps it was what she’d intended all along. This heat, this passion, this madness simmering between them had gone on for too long. She was done fighting it.
There was nothing stopping her. Buchan was dead. Her duty to him—if she’d owed him one—was gone.
Her long imprisonment, not knowing when or if she would ever be free, had taught her to take what moments of joy and pleasure she could eke out of life when she could. There might not be another chance.
And somehow she knew this would give her pleasure unlike anything she’d ever known. She wanted to feel passion just once in her life. Even if that were all that could ever be between them. His offer was clear—as it had always been. He’d never claimed to want anything more from her than this.
She didn’t want anything more from him … did she?
On the surface nothing had changed. He was still a bastard. Still the man who was said to have betrayed his clan and murdered his wife. Still a ruthless mercenary who sold his sword to the highest bidder and claimed to care about nothing.
But he cared far more than he let on. His reaction to her questions told her that. The meaner he got, the cruder he got, the more she knew she’d gotten to him. He used his forked tongue as a weapon and a shield—to push people away when they got too close and prevent them from looking at him too closely. But she sensed a deep sadness inside him. The blackness wasn’t in his soul, but in the dark cloud hanging over it.
Still, his coarse words had shocked her. Of all the licentious acts her husband had forced upon her, he’d never done that. The thought of Lachlan’s mouth there, his hot tongue probing her intimately …
She shuddered, her body quivering where he was so firmly notched against her.
The moment his mouth fell on hers, Bella knew there was no going back. His kiss was hot and hungry, every bit as raw and primal as the passion storming between them.
He bent her into him. Kissing her deeper. Molding her to the hard length of his body. She could feel every ridge, every bulge, every steely edge of muscle, as his body seemed to consume hers, melding together in a perfect fusion of heat.
His tongue circled against hers, urging—nay, demanding—her response.
She kissed him back, matching every carnal thrust with one of her own. His dark, spicy taste filled her senses, blinding her to anything but him.
This was no tender wooing, no smooth seduction, but a violent conflagration of desperate need between two people who wanted only one thing.
This fierce need, this desperation, this passion … she’d never thought to feel like this. Never imagined she could be so overcome. Never imagined she could feel this kind of connection to anyone. It seemed unreal that this could be happening to her. That the woman who’d experienced only coldness for years could find pleasure in the arms of one of the meanest, most feared and reviled men in Scotland.
But there was more to him than that. He was hard but not bad. Not as bad as he wanted to be, anyway. He’d just never had anyone to care for him. Never had anyone he could trust. She just needed to give him a chance. He was worth fighting for.
His mouth was so hot, each slanted movement, each swirl of his tongue stoking the flames a little higher. The heat of his kiss seemed to reach down to her toes, dragging her under. Her heart seemed slammed against her chest, fluttering wildly with every stroke.
She gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging into the studded leather of his cotun, needing to feel him even closer. He was so big and strong, and on some base level she needed that, his warrior’s body as hard and unyielding as steel but as warm and comforting as the softest, warmest plaid.
In his arms, she would never be cold again.
She groaned when his big hands cupped her bottom, bringing her firmly against his hardness. A strange shudder trembled through her. Fear and excitement all at once. He seemed so … big. Every inch of the thick column of his manhood felt branded against her.
How would he …?
She bit her lip. How would they …?
Surely it would hurt?
But then he thrust against her, moving his hips in a slow, wicked rhythm that mimicked the movements of lovemaking, and she no longer cared.
Heat rose inside her. She felt the need intensify. Dampness flooded between her legs in a hot rush. Gathering. Concentrating. Coiling in a tight ball of restless desire.
Her skin flushed. Her breath hitched in uneven gasps.
He rubbed against her, increasing the friction, increasing her need.
She needed to move faster. Harder. She arched against him, feeling something strange come over her. She was climbing, reaching for something that hovered just out of her reach.
She didn’t recognize the sounds coming from her. Urgent little moans she didn’t fully understand.
He’d stopped kissing her. His mouth was on her neck, trailing down her throat, delving between her breasts. Ravishing. The scrape of his beard sending a delicious burn along the sensitive path of her skin.
He was groaning too, sounding almost as if he were in pain.
She sucked in her breath. Her body stilled, quivered, and then catapulted into a place of utter ecstasy. A place she’d never been before.
She cried out her pleasure, shattering into a thousand rays of
shimmering light.
Lachlan didn’t care that he had her pressed up against a tree. He didn’t care that Boyd and Seton could return from the village with the horses at any time.
He’d lost the ability to think the moment his mouth had fallen on hers. Any hope that he could take this slow, that he might be able to exercise some semblance of control, died when she started to move against him. The proof of her desire was a powerful aphrodisiac. When he’d heard her little gasps of need turn insistent, heard her cry out her pleasure as her body spasmed against him, and knew he’d made her come …
He lost his mind. He couldn’t think about anything other than getting inside her and making her his. His, damn it.
But it had been too long. He wasn’t going to make it. Next time. Next time, he swore he would make it up to her. Next time he would make it good for her. Next time he would taste every inch of her. But right now he’d be lucky if he could get his braies open before he came.
Barely had the last spasm of her release ebbed when his mouth fell on hers again.
Leaving his chausses in place, he fumbled with the ties of his braies, pushing down just enough to spring his cock from the tight confinement. It bobbed hard against his stomach, the rush of cool air a blessed relief against the hot skin stretched painfully thin. He was as hard as steel, ready to explode at the barest nudge.
He didn’t even take the time to touch her. He feared that one stroke of that delicate, silky pink flesh, damp with the evidence of her desire for him, would send him spinning in a whirlpool from which he would not be able to tear free.
He tugged the conveniently too-loose breeches down her hips and lifted her to position himself between her legs. Nudging her gently with the thick head, he groaned as the warm dampness of her release met the spongy sensitive flesh.
It was too much. His body shuddered, clenching hard to contain the pressure hammering at the base of his spine.
God, he wanted to come.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Sliding his arm behind her back to protect her from the bark of the tree, he thrust into her with a hard slam of possession.
Mine! Finally. And nothing—nothing—had ever felt so good.
She gasped in surprise, her eyes widening on his. He held her gaze, his jaw clenched too tightly to talk or murmur encouraging words or apologies for taking her with all the skill of a squire with his first maid. But he told her with his eyes. They bored into her with all the intensity of the fierce emotions flaring inside him.
Emotions he didn’t understand. Emotions that made his chest tighten as he looked into her eyes and filled him with a swell of something warm and soft. He wanted to hold on to her, make this moment last forever. But it had been too long. He’d wanted her too badly.
It felt too good.
She felt too good. Warm and soft, her body gripped him like a fist. He held himself inside her, buried to the hilt, reaching for those last shreds of control, trying to fight the nearly overwhelming urge to thrust.
He kissed her again, trying to distract himself. But he was so hot. His skin was burning. Sweat gathered on his brow and blood pounded in his ears.
He wanted to thrust so badly he couldn’t think.
He wanted to dig his fingers through her hair, letting the silky softness slide over him. But she still had her hair pinned up tightly atop her head in a plait for the cap.
She circled her arms around his neck, responding to his kiss with all the passion and enthusiasm of before.
Killing him with every eager stroke of her tongue.
He started to shake, his muscles trembling with the effort of keeping himself still.
He couldn’t do it. The drive was too strong. He had to move.
He thrust hard and deep. He couldn’t hold on any longer. It felt too good. He thrust again. “Oh God, I can’t …” he bit out through clenched teeth. “Sorry … been too long.”
He let go, sinking deep inside her one more time with a masculine roar of pure pleasure. Pleasure more raw, intense, and powerful than he’d ever experienced before. His mind went black as wave after wave of sensation exploded inside him. He didn’t think it was ever going to stop.
He came back to consciousness slowly, his heartbeat and breathing a step behind.
Jesus. He didn’t know how he was still standing, let alone holding her up. But he couldn’t seem to let go, not ready to break the connection. Although God knew, it hadn’t been a long one. He grimaced; even as a lad he’d had more control.
He pulled back a little to look into her eyes. They were still hazy with passion and he felt another twitch of pleasure.
“Jesus, Bella, I’m sorry.”
He might have explained, or tried to make it up to her—he’d been serious about his eagerness to taste her with his tongue—but at that moment the hair at the back of his neck stood on end.
He heard a sound behind him.
Lachlan’s exhausted limbs and aching muscles came instantly back to life, as the reflexive heat of battle surged through his veins. Every muscle in his body flared.
Connected as they were, Bella sensed the change immediately. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
He didn’t have time to explain. They were right behind them. He lowered her to the ground, separating them. “Run,” he ordered, a fierce edge to his voice. “Don’t stop and don’t look back. Just run.”
Her eyes grew wide with fear. He couldn’t look at her, knowing he had to act fast. If they caught her, he didn’t have a chance.
He spun around, pulling up his braies even as he slid one of the swords from the baldric at his back. “Damn it, Bella,” he jerked out his other sword, “run.”
This time she didn’t hesitate. He could hear the sound of her footsteps trailing away behind him as the first men entered the small clearing.
But any hope that she might have gotten away before they’d seen her faded when one of the men yelled. “Hurry, one of them is getting away!”
At least a dozen men on horseback headed off in her direction; the others—at least two times that many—headed for him.
Lachlan let them come.
He fought like a man possessed. One after another of the attackers fell under the skilled edges of his two swords. He blocked with one; sliced, cut, and jabbed with the other. No one could stop him. No one could beat him. He was indestructible. Invincible.
Almost.
But every man had his weakness. And when the men returned, one of whom was holding a wriggling Bella in his arms, a blade to her throat, Lachlan knew he’d found his. He’d thought his weakness was lust. He was wrong. His weakness was Bella.
“Drop your weapons,” the man said with a sneer. “Or the lass dies.”
Lachlan would die before he surrendered. But he would not watch her die.
One by one, his weapons clattered to the ground.
One minute Bella was overcome by emotions, wondering what Lachlan was apologizing for—although it had been over rather quickly, the feel of him driving inside her, filling her, claiming her in a way she’d never imagined, had been incredible. And when he’d made her come apart … she’d never felt anything like that before. The next she’d been captured by a vile group of ruffians and was being led into a guard room in Peebles Castle.
She was terrified. More so because of what had happened when they’d separated her from Lachlan than because she’d been captured again.
He’d managed to whisper something to her right before: “You don’t know me.”
She didn’t even have time to ponder his words. They’d put him in chains and hit him so hard in the head with the hilt of a sword he’d crumpled to the ground like a big, armored poppet of rags.
“Don’t hurt him,” she’d pleaded. Assuming it was her they were after, she added, “I’ll go with you willingly. Just please, don’t hurt him.”
The brute who’d captured her had given her a queer look. “What in Hades’ bowels do I care if you come with us willingly? You’ll come with us
to encourage him to talk—willingly or nay.”
Bella barely hid her surprise. Dear God, they didn’t know who she was! It wasn’t she they were after.
Then it must be Lachlan. But what could they want with him?
She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Hands tied behind her back with ropes, she was pushed forward into the small room near the gate of the castle by a man leading her from behind. A few minutes later, Lachlan was tossed in after her. She lunged toward him, but another man grabbed her before she could reach him.
“I don’t think so,” he said, thrusting her onto a wooden bench.
Bella couldn’t tear her eyes from Lachlan. Her heart rose in her throat. There was so much blood. It stained one side of his face and seeped from the big gash at his temple to pool in a puddle beneath his head.
Tears choked in her throat. He was so still. “You’ll kill him if you don’t stop that wound from bleeding.”
The big, bearded brute of a man who seemed to be in charge laughed at her. “Don’t worry, he’ll live. At least until we get our reward,” he added with an ominous chuckle.
He motioned to one of the three other men who’d crowded into the small chamber. About ten feet by ten, the room was well lit by torches on either side of the arched entry. She saw another door on the far side of the room, but as guard rooms also usually housed the pit prison, she didn’t want to think about it. The man he’d motioned to lifted a bucket from the ground and poured the contents on Lachlan.
He immediately stirred, and she gave a little cry.
“Reward?” she asked their captor, while keeping her eyes fixed on Lachlan.
“Aye, three hundred marks.”
She gasped, turning her full attention to the leader. It was a fortune. “But why?”
His eyes narrowed, under a heavy brow. “Who are you?”
“Isabella,” she said, uncertain whether they’d heard her name. “Maxwell,” she added, picking the first lowland clan that came to mind.
“And who are you to Lachlan MacRuairi?”
The Viper Page 24