The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(61)

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t stop. That the threat of rape that had hung over her head like an axe would finally fall. But she’d stood there cold, letting him push her into the stone wall until she thought she would be crushed, and eventually, he’d let her go.

In the end it was only incrementally more horrible than the many previous instances she’d had to endure over the years. So why did it feel so much more so now with Lachlan to witness her shame?

She brushed the errant dampness from her eyes. She was a fool. What difference did it make?

“My jailor,” she said. “Sir Simon Fitzhugh.”

He stared at her intently, his cold, eerie gaze as hard as granite. “Did he force you?”

The emptiness of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She shook her head, eyes glued to her feet. “Nay, my rank had some benefits.” Her attempt at a wry smile wobbled. But it didn’t matter. Lachlan would see through her bravado; she hated how easily he could read her. “There are some things even the English will not tolerate.”

“But he wanted you?”

Bella didn’t want to talk about this anymore. Didn’t like the probing intensity of his questions, or, when she forced herself to look up at him, his gaze. “He was a brute who at times got a little rough. It’s over, Lachlan. There is nothing you can do to fix it; it’s in the past. I just want to forget about it.”

It was the truth. Simon held no power over her any longer. Soon he would be one more bad memory.

If only Lachlan were as easy to forget. She could still feel the heat of his kiss on her swollen lips. Still feel his hands on her br**sts, the frantic quivering between her legs, and the burn of his beard on his skin.

How did he manage to devastate her so quickly and completely? To make her feel weak and vulnerable?

“I’m sorry, Bella. So damned sorry for what you had to go through.”

“Then take me to my daughter.” She knew she was playing on his guilt, but didn’t care.

He was quiet. Too quiet. His expression gave no hint of his thoughts.

She drew herself up, trying to push aside the memory of that devastating kiss and remember what was truly important. Putting aside her pride, she did what her captors had wanted her to do: she begged. “Please, Lachlan. Please, take me to Joan. I need to see my daughter.”

His stony expression didn’t move. Not one little flicker. Not one hint that her pleas might have some effect on him. That she might have some effect on him. He’d kissed her as though he couldn’t live without her, but it made no difference.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s too dangerous.”

Sorry? Tears started to fall from her eyes. How could he stand there like that—after everything they’d been through—and deny her the one thing that mattered to her? The one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world.

At that moment she hated him. Hated him for his strength and her weakness. Hated him for kissing her and making her think …

What had she thought? That those foolish thoughts she’d harbored two years ago were true? That she actually meant something to him? That there was a reason other than a mission that he’d come for her?

She blinked up at him through the hot haze of tears. Stared at the handsome battle-scarred face, wanting something from him with all her soul, with every fiber of her being, but not knowing what—except that he could never give it. It seemed she always wanted something from a man who could not give it.

Suddenly, it became too much. The kiss. His refusal. The escape from the nightmare of her prison. All the emotions that she’d held in check, that pride had forbidden her from shedding, came pouring out in one torrential rush of tears.

Bella MacDuff had finally broken.

Lachlan swore. But the crude oath only made her cry harder.

She slid to her knees, holding her arms around her waist as if in pain, her shoulders wracking with shuddering sobs, tears pouring down her cheeks, and Lachlan had never felt so at a loss in his life.

He didn’t know what the hell to do. He dragged his fingers through his hair, feeling as if the rats from John of Lorn’s pit prison were crawling all over him again. The leather cotun he wore suddenly felt too tight. He couldn’t breathe.

Jesus, he couldn’t take this. He couldn’t see her suffer like this. Each tear fell like acid on the steel of his resolve.

Not knowing what else to do, he bent down and awkwardly wrapped his arms around her. To his surprise she didn’t push him away, but grabbed onto him like a lifeline. Her tiny fingers dug into his chest like kitten claws.

After a moment of panic when he realized he didn’t know what the hell to do—he’d never tried to offer anyone comfort before—he found himself stroking her back, smoothing her hair, whispering soothing words, and eventually pleading—anything to make her stop. “Don’t cry, Bella. Please, don’t cry.”

He hated seeing her so miserable, but damn, it felt good to hold her in his arms again. It had been too long. He remembered every time he’d touched her, every time he’d held her. The memories seemed burned into his brain. But memories couldn’t replicate the silkiness of her hair or the delicate fragrance of her skin.

He savored the sensation of her tiny body pressed against him, her cheek pressed against his chest, her tiny fingers clutching him as if he were her only hope. For a moment, he could almost convince himself that she needed him. He knew he was taking far too much pleasure from it, but hell, he’d never been known for his sensitivity.