The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(23)

Neither of them believed it. Robert Bruce’s cause was lost. He’d be lucky to make it out of Scotland with his life.

The tears began to fall. “Goodbye, Robert.”

He pulled her into his arms and hugged her hard. “Goodbye, brat.” Despite the circumstances, she smiled through her tears at the memories of what he’d called her when they were young. “Take care of my wife.” He hesitated. “This has been difficult for her. Elizabeth isn’t used to hardship. She doesn’t have your fighting spirit.” He drew back and gave her one last look. “I’m sorry, Bella. I never meant …”

His voice dropped off.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for. I’ve done nothing that I wouldn’t do again today. You are The Lion.”

The symbol of Scotland’s kingship. And despite all that had happened and the uncertain fate that awaited them all, she meant it.

She watched Robert walk away, and with a sigh turned back to the woods. She could only pray the king knew what he was doing.

She glanced up and startled, finding herself staring right into the eyes of the brigand himself. Her heart jolted. She couldn’t look away, caught—trapped—by the force of the connection. She’d forgotten how intense his eyes were. They bored into her, hot and penetrating.

She flushed, awareness rippling across her skin like wildfire. To her disappointment, she realized her reaction to him hadn’t changed. If anything it had grown stronger.

But it wasn’t just her reaction that caused her pulse to flutter and race. One look in his eyes and she knew he’d heard her.

He was furious. And something else. Something raw and primal flashed in his eyes. Something that made her want to turn and run.

But she’d learned long ago to never show weakness. Controlling her emotions was how she’d survived her marriage. Stoic submission and indifference, not tears and fear. A man could control her body but not her will.

She lifted her chin and forced herself to walk toward him, giving no hint of the furious pounding of her heart. Their eyes held in a silent duel.

“Countess,” he said with a nod of the head, an unmistakable note of mockery in his voice.

She pretended that it didn’t grate. Instead, she lifted a single brow. “I’m surprised you are still around.”

He smiled, but she sensed that her comment had bothered him more than he wanted to let on. “Just waiting for a better offer.”

She knew he was trying to get to her, but it didn’t prevent her mouth from tightening. Her attempt to combat his anger with disdain wasn’t working. Lachlan MacRuairi was nothing like Buchan. There wasn’t a weak bone in his body. It would take more than a few words and a cold look to defy him. But she wouldn’t let him intimidate her. Her eyes skidded over him. “How much is a hired sword worth these days?”

He didn’t say anything for a minute. But he held her gaze. “More than you could pay.”

There was an edge to his voice that she didn’t understand. But it made her feel as if she’d done something wrong. As if she’d pricked beneath the seemingly impenetrable surface of mockery and struck emotion. As if, like her, he was good at masking his emotions. She just hadn’t thought he had any.

But as he turned on his heel and strode away, she had to wonder why a man who didn’t care about anything was so angry.

Lachlan stormed into the tent he shared with a few of the men, ignored Gordon, and began stuffing his belongings into the leather bag he attached to his saddle.

He refused to acknowledge the burning in his chest, and the fierceness of the emotions surging through his blood. He didn’t have time for this shite.

Like it or not, he was going to lead this party. He needed to focus on getting the job done. The sooner this was all over, the sooner he could return to his kinsmen in the west, and the sooner his body would stop aching for her.

But he couldn’t shake the image of what he’d seen.

He jammed his hand deeper into the bag just thinking about it. When he’d come out of the temporary stables and seen Bella and Bruce standing there, the scene—the intimacy of the scene—hit him like a fist in the gut.

Her words had annoyed him, but it was her method of persuasion that sent his blood raging. Bella and Bruce had been standing as close as lovers. Her br**sts, big and lush enough to tempt a monk, were grazing the king’s chest. And the way she touched his arm, tilted her head back, and pleaded with that soft, beseeching mouth made a man think of one thing.

God knew he couldn’t think of anything else since that day in the forest. The memory of her nakedness still tortured him. Apparently, four months in The Isles hadn’t dulled his lust for her. If the jealousy raging through him was any indication, it had only gotten worse.

Robert. The king’s given name had slid so easily from her tongue. The way a lover’s would.

Could the rumors be true?

He hadn’t wanted to believe it. Though he wouldn’t put it past Bruce—the king had more than his fair share of bastards—he’d thought she was different. He’d actually come to admire her, which for him was a rarity. But if what he’d just seen was any indication, Buchan’s attempt to set aside his wife as an adulteress, and his claim that she’d risked so much to crown Bruce because she was his lover, might have some truth.

With Scotland under interdict, a dispensation from the pope was impossible. But Buchan had set her aside anyway. A divorce a mensa et thoro, of bed and board, enabled the couple to live separate lives but not remarry. Annulment was the only way to do that. If grounds could be found, however, it would make their daughter a bastard.