The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(28)

It was intrigue and curiosity at work, nothing more—at least that’s what she told herself.

“I suspect some of it is true and some exaggerated,” she hedged.

Mary’s gaze flickered to him and back. “Do you think he killed his wife?”

Bella quickly covered her shock and gave the girl a stern look. “You shouldn’t repeat such things. Of course it’s not true.” She conveniently ignored that she’d wondered the same thing. “Do you think your brother would put a man who’d killed his wife in charge of his family?”

Mary had the good grace to blush, but the girl was not easily cowed. “I didn’t make it up. I’m only repeating what I heard.”

Bella raised a brow. “How do you think he would feel if he heard you repeat such a thing?”

Actually she doubted he would care, but Mary didn’t know that, and importing the lesson was what mattered.

Mary’s eyes widened. “You won’t tell him?”

Bella pretended to think about it. Her mouth quirked, trying not to laugh at the girl’s horrified expression. “I won’t if you promise to go to sleep right after the evening meal tonight. No more listening through the tent to the men’s conversation.”

Rather than be embarrassed, Mary only giggled. “I find them very … instructive.”

Bella tried not to laugh. No doubt very instructive. “Promise?”

Mary nodded. “I’m so tired tonight, I doubt I could stay up if I wanted to.”

Bella knew exactly how she felt. She couldn’t wait to collapse on her makeshift pallet of animal skins and thick woolen blankets. Tonight, she might even get some sleep.

Lachlan sat alone in the dark, listening to the sounds of the forest. It was the dead of night; two, perhaps three hours after midnight. It was his favorite time of day. Everyone else was sleeping.

Usually the sounds calmed him, but nothing could ease the restlessness teeming within him tonight. He’d volunteered for the watch, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not with the battle lust still coursing through him.

His mind went to one of the three tents behind him. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only kind of lust coursing through him.

He got up angrily from the log he was sitting on and started to patrol the perimeter. He needed to move.

But distracting himself with duties, with a cold loch—hell, even with other women—wasn’t working, damn it.

Take her cousin, for example. Margaret MacDuff was sweet, innocent, and uncomplicated. The type of woman who would never make demands and never give him any trouble.

Taking her to bed was the farthest thing from his mind when he looked at her. Her fair features were serene and angelic, not tilted with temptation. His blood didn’t heat, his muscles didn’t tense, his temper didn’t flare, and his senses didn’t flood with the scent of whatever damned floral soap she washed with that morning. Who in Hades knew he could discern lavender from roses?

Margaret could talk to MacKay and Gordon all day long and he wouldn’t give a shite. She did nothing to him. He could think rationally, breathe evenly, and stand right up next to her without hardening like a squire with his first maid.

With a woman like Margaret, he would never get angry, and sure as hell never get jealous.

Compared to her proud, spirited cousin, who never seemed to miss the opportunity to challenge him, Margaret was sweet, agreeable, and deferential.

And bland.

And passionless.

And timid as a kitten.

He’d be scared to touch her, let alone do all the wicked things he wanted to do to the countess.

Margaret would never have the courage to follow her convictions (even if they were naive), to do what she believed to be her duty under threat of treason. She would never have the strength to rally a terrified group of women and children under conditions that would make even hardened soldiers despair.

Lachlan muttered an oath as he pushed through the trees.

As much as he wanted to blame his restlessness on unspent lust, he knew it was more than that. And that was what truly bothered him.

Christ, he couldn’t wait to get back to the Isles. He was an islander; he could be on land for only so long before he started to go crazed. And crazed was the only explanation for why he was even thinking about her. Thinking about any woman outside of the bedchamber was a mistake.

With that in mind, he pushed aside thoughts of anything but the task before him. He circled the camp, checking to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary, before returning to his post in the trees a few dozen yards from where they’d set up camp for the night.

He picked a stem of thyme to chew on, and was settling back against a tree when he heard a sound.

He snapped into battle mode, tossing the stem away. His senses sharpened, every muscle tensed with readiness. His gaze shot toward the loch, in the direction he’d heard the rustle. He peered into the darkness, but not even his unusually keen vision at night could penetrate the thick forest.

He moved forward slowly. Silently. Keeping to the trees, sneaking up on the enemy with the stealth of a predator and with extreme caution. The loch was banked by a steep hillside, rousing memories of the earlier ambush.

As he drew closer, he heard the sound of whispers and frowned. The voices were soft, but talking at all during an attack was foolish. The sounds were also coming from loch level and not the hillside, where an ambush would be more likely.