The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(51)

His knees nearly buckled before he caught himself. Christ, he’d taken sword blows across the chest that had packed less of a wallop.

She stood with her back to him at the far end of the small chamber, silhouetted against the window in the fading daylight. She’d loomed so large in his memory, it was a shock to see how small she was in reality. Her back was slim, her shoulders as narrow as a child’s. She was much more delicate than he remembered.

She tilted her head toward the door but didn’t turn around, nor did she speak. The cool hauteur of that gesture released something inside him that he didn’t know he’d been holding. Fear, he realized. A deep-seated fear that they might have broken the spirit and fierce pride that had at times infuriated him, but that had made her different from any other woman he’d ever known.

“A priest, my lady,” the guard said. He waited for her nod, and then closed the door.

They were alone.

After so many months, he was so close he could almost reach out and touch her. Though he could practically span the small room with his arms, she seemed so far away. The forlorn look in her eye cut him to the bone.

She glanced in his direction. “The constable has sent a priest? He must fear for my soul to warrant such consideration the eve before I am to enter a nunnery.”

A nunnery? So that’s what they intended. But from her tone he suspected there was more.

Knowing the guard could well be listening and unsure of how she would react to seeing him, Lachlan crossed the room in two quick strides, slid his hand over her mouth, and pulled her against him so she couldn’t move. He suspected she’d like it this time as much as the first time they’d met.

Shock nearly made him release her the instant he touched her. God’s blood! His memory hadn’t been faulty at all. What the hell had they done to her? There was nothing to her. She was so slim and slight as to be almost frail. The soft, lush curves that had so torturously haunted him had all but disappeared. Only the weight of her br**sts on his arms felt familiar.

By all that was holy, someone would pay for this.

But touching her had been a mistake. His body hummed with other memories that apparently hadn’t died.

He wasn’t alone in his shock. Bella froze at his unexpected movement. But then he heard her gasp. Her gaze shot toward his face, hidden in the shadows of his hood.

Two big blue eyes dominated her pale face, made more pronounced by the dark shadows underneath and the deep hollows below her high cheekbones. A hand fisted against his chest. Gaunt and fragile, she seemed a ghostly shadow of the woman he remembered. She was still beautiful, but the once bold and sensual beauty was now ethereal and achingly delicate.

Even before he lifted the hood from his head, every inch of her body—what was left of her—turned as cold and stiff as a slab of ice.

Her eyes bored into his, shooting him with daggers of pure hatred.

Time, apparently, hadn’t dulled her feelings for him.

He deserved it—had expected it, even—but damn it, one foolish part of him had hoped she might not have believed the worst of him.

“The guard,” he whispered. “Have care. I think he’s listening.” Her eyes flared mutinously. He cursed silently, knowing the moment he took his hand off her mouth, she was going to let out a bellow that would bring the entire English garrison down on him.

She might appear fragile, but she still had fight. He was more relieved than he wanted to admit. They hadn’t broken her. He’d hoped for as much but didn’t know what to expect after what she’d been through. He, better than anyone, knew the toll suffering could take.

“Damn it, Bella, I’m here to help you. Give me a chance to explain before you do anything rash.” He peered into her glaring eyes. “Please.”

Her gaze narrowed as if the plea were some kind of trick. He didn’t blame her. His plea surprised him. Please? The word had fallen so casually from his mouth, yet he could count on one hand the times he’d ever used it. He’d been tortured for nearly a week before Lorn’s men had managed to wrest that word from him.

For a moment he’d didn’t think she would relent, but just when he was trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do, she nodded.

He let her go.

She stood where he’d released her, staring at him with an intensity that made him step back and give her a little space. He didn’t want to give her any excuse to change her mind.

She lifted her chin, and for a moment she looked like the Bella of his memories, not the delicate creature who stood before him now. “A priest?” she scoffed. “I’m surprised you did not burst into flames. Was my punishment not enough? Did you come to finish me off?”

Knowing he deserved her scorn didn’t prevent the prick of his temper. She might look like a fragile piece of porcelain, but some things hadn’t changed. She was still as stubborn and proud as he remembered, and still possessed the unique ability to get under his skin. “The king sent me,” he said.

She made a harsh sound in her throat. “Which king has bought your sword this month?”

He clenched his jaw, reminding himself to be patient. “My loyalty is to the Bruce,” he said solemnly. “As it’s been for the past three years.”

Outrage flashed in her deep-blue eyes. “You expect me to believe that? Were you fighting for Robert when you betrayed us to Ross?”