The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(24)

Was it true? Perhaps that explained why she’d done it. Why she’d risked so much to crown Bruce.

Lachlan shoved the extra plaid that he used as his bedroll into the bag so hard it rattled the tent.

“What in Hades is the matter with you, Viper?”

Lachlan glanced around, making sure no one else was near before responding. “Nothing,” he snapped. “Have care, Gordon, what you say. This isn’t one of our typical missions.”

When Bruce had given them war names at the private ceremony after the second coronation, he’d done so in a bid to keep their identities as members of the Highland Guard secret. On Highland Guard missions they used war names, but otherwise they were to blend into the army as regular soldiers. Officially the Guard didn’t even exist.

As the mystery of the secret band of warriors grew, Lachlan knew it was going to be difficult but imperative to keep their identities hidden. Not only did the secrecy add to the mystique of the group, but it also made them harder to kill. War names would help.

He’d been surprised when Bruce had named him Viper, but as there was more truth in the name than jest he could hardly object. Originally an insult coined by Tor MacLeod for Lachlan’s venomous disposition, the name was actually quite apropos. Like a snake, he was slippery when evading capture and had a silent, deadly strike. He’d been recruited for his ability to get in and out without being seen, which was useful for extracting people and information.

His Norse ancestors had names like “Eric Bloodaxe” and “Thorfinn Skull-Splitter,” so he supposed Viper wasn’t so bad.

Unfortunately, his warning hadn’t distracted Gordon. “I don’t understand. I thought you hated taking orders from MacLeod and would welcome the chance to be in charge.”

Gordon was right. He didn’t like taking orders from anyone—especially MacLeod. There were few men that were a match for Lachlan on the battlefield, but the leader of the Highland Guard was one of them. Still, not wanting to take orders didn’t mean he wanted the responsibility of the king’s women.

The countess thought he’d shirked his duty in refusing to lead his clansmen. She was right. After forty-four of his men had followed him into a death trap, because he’d been foolish enough to trust his wife, he’d abdicated the duties of chieftain to his younger brother.

He’d been so crazed with lust that he hadn’t seen the warning that his young wife was tiring of him. Spoiled and too beautiful for her own good, Juliana regretted her impulsivity in marrying him—a chieftain, but a bastard without the lands to go along with the title. When she found a more lucrative suitor, she’d convinced her brother, John of Lorn, that MacRuairi intended to betray him. Instead of a surprise raid on a small band of MacDonalds, Lachlan and his men had found over a hundred English soldiers waiting for them at the bay of Kentra.

The MacDonalds, his enemies and kinsmen, had found him with a spear through his shoulder, left for dead. He’d been the only damned survivor. Men—friends—he’d known his entire life, who’d trusted him, had been slaughtered like pigs before his eyes. That he’d survived at all had been a miracle. Or a curse, depending on your perspective.

For reasons that today he still didn’t understand, his cousin Angus Og, the younger brother of the MacDonald chief, had helped him escape from a MacDonald prison. But when Lachlan returned from the dead to find his wife betrothed to another man and removed to her brother’s castle at Dunstaffnage, he found himself exchanging one prison for another. Angus Og had warned him, but he hadn’t wanted to listen. Lachlan had been declared a traitor, his holdings and wealth forfeit, becoming a convenient scapegrace for Lorn, who was trying to make peace with the English and needed someone to blame for the recent spate of attacks against the king’s men.

Disgraced, having been declared a rebel, and under suspicion of murdering his now dead wife, Lachlan knew it would be better for everyone—his family, his clan, and himself—if he left. So he’d sailed to Ireland, making his way as a gallowglass mercenary for anyone willing to pay his price.

His shoulders stiffened. Just because he didn’t want to lead the party didn’t mean he wanted to hear Bella MacDuff pleading for the same thing. “I’m surprised you’re still around.”

Her disdain pricked. She didn’t know him, damn it. She thought she knew him because of his reputation, but just because he took money to fight didn’t make him disloyal. It made him practical. Cynical perhaps, but also honest.

When he agreed to do something he did it. Lachlan might not have wanted to lead the ladies’ party, but that didn’t mean he didn’t intend to get the job done.

God damn it, why did what she thought even matter?

“I’m needed more out west,” he said to Gordon. “God knows what kind of trouble MacSorley is going to get in without me watching over him.”

Gordon laughed, though Lachlan hadn’t meant it as a joke. Erik MacSorley was the best seafarer in a kingdom of seafarers, and he liked to prove it whatever chance he got. As a result, he was always in trouble.

“Hmm. I thought it might have something to do with the countess.”

Lachlan stopped what he was doing long enough to level a blank stare on Gordon. “Why the hell would you think that?”

If his voice held the hint of a warning, Gordon didn’t pay it any mind. Lachlan knew he was treading dangerous ground. Gordon was beginning to think himself a friend. But Lachlan didn’t have any friends. Not anymore.