The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(4)

He seemed to have enough weapons strapped to his body to equip a small army, including the hilts of two swords she could see worn across his back. He wore little armor: only a black leather cotun and chausses studded with small rivets of steel. His mail was limited to a blackened coif to protect his neck.

But it was his eyes that stopped her. Beneath the ghastly steel nasal helm they were unnaturally vivid, the color so piercing in the darkness, they seemed to glow.

She’d never seen eyes like that in her life. A shiver ran down her spine, spreading over the surface of her skin like a prickly sheet of ice.

Cat eyes, she thought. Feral cat eyes. Chilling in their intensity and undeniably predatory.

“Lachlan MacRuairi,” he said, answering her unfinished question. “I’m sorry for surprising you, Countess, but it couldn’t be avoided. We don’t have much time.”

For the second time that night Bella was stunned speechless. Lachlan MacRuairi? Her eyes widened. This was the man Robert had sent to see her safely to Scone? A mercenary? And not just any mercenary, but a man whose exploits in the Western Isles had made him the most notorious gallowglass in Scotland. The greatest scourge of the seas in a kingdom of pirates.

Surely there must be some mistake. Lachlan MacRuairi would sell his mother to the highest bidder—if a woman could be found who would claim him. He was a bastard, but for his blood, heir to one of the largest dominions in the Western Isles. Though the clan lands had gone to his legitimate half-sister, Christina of the Isles, he was still titular chief. But he’d ignored his duty and responsibility, forsaking his clansmen, to pursue his own ends.

He was a black-hearted villain if ever there was one, rumored to have murdered his wife.

Bella was incredulous. With everything she was risking, she couldn’t believe Robert had sent this … this … why, he was no more than a brigand!

She peered into the shadows, taking in the details she’d missed before. Saints preserve her, just look at him! He even looked like a brigand. She’d wager his jaw hadn’t seen the side of a blade or razor in a week. A thin scar lined the underside of one cheek, and his sharp, slitted gaze was hard enough to cut rock. Below the edge of his helm, his dark hair fell in thick, disheveled waves to his chin.

What she could see of his face seemed cut from cold, hard granite. With some surprise, she realized that the hooded gaze, square jaw, high cheekbones, and wide mouth might have been considered handsome—exceedingly handsome even—were they not set at such a menacing angle. What a shame to have such a face destroyed by a black heart.

Their eyes met, and Bella realized that she was not alone in her study. He was watching her with equal intensity. She could feel his eyes rake her in the shadowy twilight.

The sudden flare made her uneasy, though she didn’t know why. Bella was used to seeing that spark in men’s eyes.

She’d been barely three-and-ten when it started. It was exactly the same time her br**sts had filled, her hips had curved, and her face had lost its youthful roundness. Since then, men had looked at her differently. As if they wanted only one thing from her.

She’d learned to ignore it. But with him, it felt different. It felt threatening in a way she’d never experienced before. Her pulse spiked, and a strange flush skimmed over the surface of her skin.

Instinctively, she took a step back.

He noticed her reaction, and his gaze hardened. “Lachlan MacRuairi,” he repeated, not hiding his impatience. “Bruce sent me.”

“I know who you are,” she said, unable to keep the distaste from her voice.

The tight seam of his mouth seemed to get a little tighter. “I know you were not expecting me tonight, but there’s been a change of plans.”

Bella almost laughed at the absurdity. To say that she was not expecting him was to put it mildly. What could Robert have been thinking to send such a man to her?

She was risking everything to go to Scone and place the crown upon his head. To do the duty her brother, a virtual prisoner in Edward’s English court, could not.

When her mother, Joan de Clare, had first come to her with the proposition about a week ago, Bella had been dumbfounded. To place the crown on Robert Bruce’s head—a man who’d been declared a rebel and an outlaw—would be to defy not only the most powerful king in Christendom, Edward of England, but also her husband.

John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, hailed from one of the most powerful families in Scotland who were the Bruces’ fiercest rivals and foes. That rivalry had turned deadly a few weeks ago when Robert had stabbed her husband’s cousin, the Lord of Badenoch, before the high altar of Greyfriars Monastery in Dumfries.

Even now her husband was in England demanding justice for his cousin’s death from King Edward. Buchan despised Bruce and would rather see Edward as his master than Robert Bruce on the throne. He wouldn’t listen to reason. The good of Scotland paled in the force of his hatred.

By doing this, her husband would never forgive her. He would consider her duty a betrayal. It would be the end of their marriage—such as it was.

But the MacDuffs held the hereditary right to enthrone Scotland’s kings, and without one some would question the validity of the ceremony. As it was, Robert’s claim to the throne would be contested by many of the important noblemen in Scotland, including her husband. To establish the legitimacy of his kingship among the rest, Bruce would need all the symbolism and adherence to tradition that he could find.