The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(6)

Christ. He could still feel the bolt of lust reverberating through his body. He hadn’t felt anything like that since …

His mouth flattened. Not since the first time he’d seen Juliana. If there was anything guaranteed to chill his blood, it was the thought of his deceitful bitch of a wife. But Juliana was no longer his concern and hadn’t been for eight blessed years. She was where she belonged: in hell, tormenting the devil.

On the surface, Bella MacDuff didn’t look anything like his dead wife. Juliana had been tall and slender, with delicate features, and hair as pitch black as her heart. The countess was fair, with hair the color of flax and bold features, of medium height, and curvy. Very curvy, if the weight of those br**sts on his arm had been any indication.

Both women were attractive—beautiful even—but that was not what made them alike. It was that indefinable quality, that je ne sais quoi as the French called it, that stirred the blood. It was the slant in the eyes, the curve of a mouth, the raw sensuality that grabbed a man by the bollocks and didn’t let go.

They were the kind of women men wanted to f**k.

Had he left it at that with Juliana, he would have saved himself a lot of trouble. But lust had blinded him to the truth about his wife until it was too late. His c**k had made him a fool once. It wouldn’t happen again.

“Have care with the countess,” Bruce had said with an enigmatic smile. “She can be … distracting.”

At least now he understood Bruce’s warning. But the king had no cause for concern. Lust was the last thing Lachlan would ever let get in the way of a mission.

He had enough problems as it was. Their fairly straightforward job had taken a complicated turn about an hour ago when MacKay intercepted two of Buchan’s guardsmen on the way to the castle to prepare for the earl’s arrival.

Buchan’s return by itself wouldn’t have been much of a problem. They still would have been able to proceed with their prearranged plan to intercept the countess and her daughter on their way back from Sunday services—the one time the countess was certain to be permitted to leave the castle.

But Lachlan better than anyone knew that missions rarely went according to plan. MacKay had also learned from his interrogation of the riders that the earl had gotten wind of the coronation and the countess’s part in it.

That changed everything. Once the earl returned, the castle would be locked up tight as a nun’s thighs, and he doubted there would be any outings for the countess for months to come, even to church.

MacKay figured they had about an hour.

Lachlan had needed a quarter of that to breach the castle gate and nearly twice as long to find the countess. Leaving him with five minutes—give or take—before Gordon set off their escape.

He sure as hell didn’t have time to ease his haughty little companion’s misgivings about his suitability as an escort.

His harsh words, however, seemed to work a miraculous change in her manner. Fear was a powerful motivator. She raced to the ambry, pulled out a dark cloak, which she hastily tossed around her shoulders, and retrieved a small, intricately carved wooden chest from a shelf.

Lachlan’s guess that it was her jewelry was confirmed when she opened the lid to reveal a sultan’s treasure trove of gold and jewels. God’s blood!

He expected her to stuff the contents in the finely embroidered purse she had tied around her waist, but instead she retrieved one item, closed the lid, and returned the box to the shelf.

Once her task was done, she turned back to him. “I’m ready.”

Lachlan glanced to the box. “Is that all you’re taking?”

Her eyes narrowed as if she expected him to take the box himself. Hell, he was more than half-tempted. Jewels like that would pay a lot of debts.

“The rest belongs to my husband. This is the only piece that matters.”

Spoken as only someone who’d been rich her entire life could say. It was easy to be sanctimonious when you were dressed in finery that would feed an entire village for weeks. He scanned from the thick gold circlet that secured her long, lustrous hair to the rich, gold-embroidered fabric of her surcotte, the fur-lined cloak, the heavy pearl and sapphire necklace, the slim, milky-white fingers laden with rings, and the tips of her dainty silk slippers.

He could see by the way her cheeks flushed that she knew what he was thinking.

She lifted her chin. “If you are done, we can go fetch my daughter.”

Ah hell, he’d forgotten about the brat. Why anyone would insist on dragging a young girl halfway across Scotland into war, he didn’t know.

But it wasn’t his job to ask questions.

For three years he would do whatever task Bruce put before him—pleasant or unpleasant, it didn’t matter. Though he suspected it was the latter that had helped to earn him his place among the elite warriors of Bruce’s secret guard. There were other qualities—he was ruthless in battle, skilled with a blade, and unusually adept at getting in and out of places—but a man with few qualms was prized highly in war.

He did whatever it took to get the job done.

War was a cesspit. Everyone got dirty. Everyone. The only difference between him and other people was that he didn’t pretend otherwise or cloak his excuses in noble causes or patriotism.

Lachlan didn’t give a damn about politics. Hired swords didn’t have room for convictions. It was easier that way.