The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(18)

Still, she would have run to him. Done something incredibly foolish and launched herself into the warm solidness of his chest and arms, wanting nothing more than to feel safe. But the look in his eyes stopped her.

If she thought she’d seen him angry before, it was clear she hadn’t. His mouth was white, his jaw was clenched in a tight line, and his eyes were as cold and hard as chips of green ice. She could see his hand squeezing around the hilt of the dirk he still held. Every muscle in his body seemed drawn up tight, rigid with rage. She couldn’t look away from the muscle flexing ominously below his jaw.

There was something infinitely more dangerous about his cold control than the hot rage she’d met with before.

What was wrong with him?

She shrank back, but in two long strides he was at her side.

Taking her by the elbow, he hauled her up against the hard muscular wall of his chest. Heaven help her, she felt every ridge, every plane, every hard shard of muscle. Her heart pounded, not just with fear.

“If you’d wanted a man to help you bathe, you only had to ask.” She gasped, shocked by his accusation. “I told you not to leave my sight.” He was shaking her. “Why did you sneak away? What did you think you were doing?”

A ball of tears rose in her throat and burned behind her eyes. She didn’t understand why he was so angry. He sounded just like her husband. Yelling at her. Accusing her. Bullying her. “I just wanted to get clean. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think at all. God damn it, don’t you know what could have happened? You could have been killed!”

He shouted the last, the sound lingering in the thick forest air. It seemed to shock him out of his rage.

He dropped her as if scalded.

They stood there staring at each other in silence for a long heartbeat. Her chest rose and fell with the unevenness of her breath. He didn’t appear to notice, but to her shame, her ni**les tightened and her br**sts filled with a strange heaviness. He flinched as if with pain, but recovered quickly.

When he spoke, his voice was once again even and dispassionate. Indifferent. Not laced with … fear? Nay, it couldn’t have been fear. Fear would mean he cared. But Lachlan MacRuairi was incapable of caring about anyone.

“Next time, do what I say and there won’t be any problems.”

Angry tears pricked her eyes. How dare he try to blame this on her! She hadn’t wandered off and gotten herself captured. Those men had obviously been lying in wait for them. They would have taken her whether she’d been in his sight or not. “Maybe if you do your job a little better there won’t be a next time.”

She regretted her words before they’d left her mouth. It was just as unfair to him as his anger had been to her. He’d been protecting her, not scouting ahead for danger. MacKay had been scouting, but they’d anticipated being followed, not having men waiting ahead of them this close to Scone.

He cocked a brow. Rather than anger him, her remark seemed to have impressed him. “Keep up that spirit, Countess. You’re going to need it.”

Her mouth clenched. She hated when he talked to her like that. As if he knew something she didn’t. The cold, calculating mercenary to her naive idealist. It was easy to be cynical when you didn’t believe in anything.

Her fists balled at her side, resisting the urge to slap that mocking look off his face. “Go to hell, MacRuairi.”

He laughed. “You’re too late, Countess. I’ve already been there.” His eyes dipped infinitesimally, his expression as hard as ice. “For Christ’s sake, put some clothes on.”

If he meant to shame her with her nakedness, it didn’t work. She’d lost her modesty long ago. Her husband had forced her to stand before him naked for hours, commenting about every inch of her body, touching her, telling her in crude detail what he wanted to do to her, trying to humiliate and force some emotion from her. She was invulnerable. These naked br**sts, hips, and limbs weren’t her. MacRuairi didn’t see her at all.

Refusing to shrink from the scorn in his voice, Bella held her head high and walked—not ran—back to the edge of the loch. She could feel his gaze on her as she dressed, but when she glanced at him, his face was a stony mask.

When she’d finished, she followed him back to the horses in silence. Everything, it seemed, had been said.

But when she saw the half-dozen men he’d killed—single-handedly—she stopped with a horrified gasp.

He mistook her shock for condemnation. “War, Countess, in all of its vivid color. Get used to it—you’ll be seeing a lot more.”

She slammed her mouth shut, having been about to thank him for what he’d done to save her. Why bother? He would probably only yell at her again or taunt her with that barbed tongue of his.

Even if at times it seemed differently, Lachlan MacRuairi was a mean, vicious scourge, and she’d do well to remember it.

But she finally understood why Robert had hired him. She might question his loyalty, but a man who could kill so effectively was a valuable addition to any army.

MacKay caught up with them about an hour later, but she and MacRuairi didn’t speak again.

When they finally arrived at the Scone Abbey, it was to the disappointing news that the coronation had taken place two days before, on the Hill of Credulity. But their disappointment was short-lived. A second ceremony was being held—a secret ceremony set amongst the ancient stones of the Druids. If they hurried, they might make it.