The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(98)

She only hoped it didn’t come to that.

Lachlan MacRuairi was a mean drunk. As most of the time he figured he was mean enough already, he didn’t usually drown himself in a big jug of whisky.

Tonight, however, he made an exception. Seeing Bella had unleashed all sorts of unwanted emotions, damn it, and he needed to get good and drunk not to think about it. She didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to talk to him. Of course she didn’t. Her cold reaction was understandable. It was what he’d expected, wasn’t it? And it was sure as hell no less than he deserved.

When the drink didn’t work, he turned to brawling. Drinking and fighting tended to go together.

It was Gordon who finally dragged him away from the table before he could inflict too much damage. “Damn it, Viper, what the hell are you trying to do? Do you want all three of them to kill you? You even managed to rile Hawk’s temper.”

“Must have lost his sense of humor along with his bollocks when he took a wife,” Lachlan mumbled. “All of ’em did.”

Gordon pushed him outside into the cold night air. Winter was in full force, and the icy mist hit him with a sobering slap. Or maybe he just wasn’t as drunk as he wanted to be. He didn’t stumble, lurch, or weave as Gordon led him across the darkened barmkin toward the barracks. And damn it, his head was much too clear.

He could see her in his mind, seated at the dais, not once glancing in his direction during the evening meal. Over. Done. The finality hit him in the gut, churning unmercifully. It was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?

Mistake.

“Hell, if you talked about my wife like that, I don’t think I’d show nearly that much restraint.”

Lachlan lifted a lazy brow in Gordon’s direction. “Haven’t reconsidered yet? Not much time left to escape the noose.”

An odd look crossed the other man’s face before he shook it off with a smile. “Since my bride will be arriving any day, it’s a little too late for that.”

Lachlan thought about saying something, but showing unusual restraint, he bit his tongue. If there was something between MacKay and Gordon’s intended, it wasn’t his problem. If MacKay was too stubborn to say something it was his own damn fault. He would have to live with the consequences.

Just as Lachlan would. His teeth gritted together. He’d done the right thing, damn it—the only thing. But it didn’t feel right.

“Are you all right?” Gordon asked. “You don’t look too well.”

Lachlan shook off the hand he’d held out to steady him. “A headache.”

Gordon laughed. “I’m not surprised, with the amount of whisky you drank tonight.” He sobered. “Did it help?”

Had anyone else asked, he would have feigned ignorance and told him to bugger off. But despite Lachlan’s efforts to the contrary, William Gordon was a hard man not to like. “Nay.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Lachlan shook his head. Things had gotten so twisted between Bella and him, there was no way to untangle the mess—even if he wanted to. She’d made it perfectly clear that there was no future between them.

The only thing that was going to help was for him to get out of here as soon as possible. Before he could inflict more damage on either of them. “Nothing that a dip in the loch won’t cure,” he replied.

Gordon shook his head. “That Viking blood must run hot in Islanders. Either that or you’re all half-mad. I don’t know why anyone would choose to swim in weather like this. Haven’t you ever heard of a nice warm tub before a fire?”

“Tubs are for women,” Lachlan replied. As he walked away to gather his things, he was surprised to realize that he was smiling.

His good humor didn’t last long. Seated atop an overturned skiff that had obviously outlived its uses, he’d just finished pulling on his boots and fastening a plaid around his shoulders when he heard someone approaching behind him.

He stiffened, sensing her even before he turned to see her standing amidst the shadows of the moonlight. She didn’t belong here. This place stirred too many bad memories. The last time he’d been alone with a woman on this beach, she’d ended up dead. Strange that he could think of it now with so little emotion.

Bella looked good, he realized. The weeks at Dunstaffnage had erased all traces of her captivity. A healthy bloom in her cheeks and a slight fullness in her face had replaced the gaunt pallor.

“William told me where I could find you.”

Bloody helpful of him.

“I need to speak with you.”

She shivered in the misty darkness, tightening the heavy fur-lined cloak she wore around her. He missed the breeches. In the lad’s clothing, he’d almost convinced himself the distance between them was not so great. Seeing her in her finery only served to widen the divide. The pirate and the princess. The brigand and the heroine.

“Not now, Bella.” Not here. Not in this place where he’d lost his soul.

“Please,” she insisted. “It’s important and cannot wait.”

He should have just gotten up and walked away. But as he’d proved more than once, he was a fool when it came to Bella MacDuff.

She shivered again, and he clenched his fists to keep himself from dragging her into his arms. She was cold, damn it. He couldn’t stand to see her cold, knowing that it reminded her of the hell she’d been through.