The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(2)

It was freezing, and it was only September. What would December be like—January?—when she was perched high on the tower with nothing to protect her from the brutal east wind but the cold iron bars of her prison cage? A shiver ran through her.

Her tormentor noticed. “Feels like an early winter this year, doesn’t it, Countess?” Simon sneered the last, and then pointed up in the direction of the tower. “Wonder how cozy that cage of yers will feel in the sleet and snow?” He leaned closer, his fetid breath singeing her skin. “I might be willing to help keep you warm, if you beg real nice.”

His eyes dropped to her br**sts. Though she was covered to her neck in layers of thick wool, she felt unclean. As if the lust in his eyes had somehow touched her, and no amount of bathing would remove the foul stench.

She shuddered with revulsion and fought the urge to follow the direction of his hand. Don’t look. She couldn’t look. If she looked at the cage she would never be able to do this. They would have to drag her across the courtyard after all.

She swallowed the knot of fear, refusing to let him know that he’d gotten to her. “I’d rather freeze to death.”

His eyes blazed, hearing the truth in her words. He spit on the ground, inches from the gold-embroidered edge of her fine gown. “Haughty bitch! You won’t be so proud in a week or two.”

He was wrong. Pride was all she had left. Pride would keep her strong. Pride would help her survive.

She was a MacDuff, from the ancient line of Mormaers of Fife—the highest of all Scottish noble families. She was the daughter and sister of an earl, and the disavowed wife of another.

An English king had no right to pass judgment on her.

But he had, in a particularly barbaric fashion. She was to be an example. A deterrent to the “rebels” who’d dared to support Robert Bruce’s bid for the Scottish throne.

Her noble blood hadn’t saved her, nor had her sex. Edward Plantagenet, King of England, didn’t care that she was a woman. She’d dared to crown a “rebel” king, and for that act she would be hung in a cage on the highest tower of Berwick Castle, open to the elements so that all who passed by could see her and be warned.

Bella never could have imagined how much that one act would cost her. Her daughter. Her freedom. And now … this.

She’d wanted to do something important. To help her country. To do the right thing. She’d never wanted to be a symbol.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

God, what an idealistic fool she’d been. Just like Lachlan had accused her. She’d been so smug. So self-assured. So bloody certain that she was right.

Now, look at her.

No! He wasn’t right, he wasn’t. She couldn’t let him be. Then it would all be for nothing.

She couldn’t think about the brigand. It hurt too much. How could he have done this?

Not now. Later, there would be plenty of time to curse Lachlan MacRuairi back to the devil that had spawned him.

She fisted her hands at her side, trying to muster strength. She wouldn’t show fear. She wouldn’t let them break her. But her heart drummed in her throat as she marched slowly across the courtyard.

It took her a moment to realize what was wrong. The crowd gathered to witness her punishment should be shouting, jeering, taunting, calling her names, and throwing rotten fruit and scraps of food at her. But it was deathly quiet.

The people of Scotland’s once greatest market town were intimately familiar with the King of England’s ruthlessness. Ten years ago, Berwick had been destroyed and its people massacred in one of the greatest atrocities committed in the long and destructive war between Scotland and England. Women, children—no one was spared in the sacking of Berwick, which had lasted for two long, bloody days and claimed the lives of thousands.

The crowd’s silence was a protest. A condemnation. An admonition to King Edward of the horrible wrong being done this day.

Emotion swelled in her chest. She felt the heat of tears burn at the back of her eyes, the unexpected show of support threatening to snap the fragile threads of pride barely holding her together.

Not everyone had deserted her.

Suddenly, she caught the flash of a movement out of the corner of her eye. She flinched instinctively, thinking someone had finally decided to throw something at her. But instead of an apple or a rotten egg, she glanced down at her feet and saw the bud of a perfect pink rose.

One of the guards tried to stop her when she bent down to pick it up, but she waved him off. “It’s only a rose,” she said loudly. “Does Edward’s army fear flowers?”

The jab was not lost on the crowd, and she heard the murmur of jeers and snickers. Edward’s knights were supposed to be the flower of chivalry. But there was nothing chivalrous about the deed being done this day.

Simon would have ripped it out of her hand, but Sir John stopped him. “Let her keep it. For pity’s sake, what harm will it do?”

Bella tucked the rose in the MacDuff brooch that secured her fur-lined mantle, and then bowed her head to the crowd in silent acknowledgment of their solidarity.

The rosebud—insignificant though it might seem—gave her strength. She hadn’t been forsaken by everyone. Her countrymen were with her.

But when she entered the tower, she did so alone. The sudden darkness enveloped her like a tomb. Thoughts of what awaited her closed in on her. Each step became slower, heavier, harder to make as they led her up the stairwell. It felt as if she were walking deeper and deeper into a bog, drowning, and helpless to get out.