“Who?” she said, recalling Lachlan’s instructions.
But she’d taken an instant too long to answer. The big man grinned, not fooled. “Obviously no regular whore if he was willing to surrender to save you.” He shook his head, tugging on the tangled strands of his long, frizzy beard. “I couldn’t believe my luck when I realized it was he at the fair this morning. ‘What in the hell is Lachlan MacRuairi doing in Roxburgh?’ I asked myself, with all of England hunting him—and half of Scotland, for that matter.”
Bella bit her lip. Dear God, what had Lachlan done to draw such a bounty? And why hadn’t he told her he was being hunted? No wonder he’d been so reluctant to go to Roxburgh.
“Leave her alone, Comyn,” a voice rasped from below her. “She doesn’t know anything.”
Bella felt the blood drain from her face. Good God, Comyn! The brute must be one of her brother-in-law’s men. Though she’d rarely crossed paths with Buchan’s youngest brother, Sir William, it was a miracle none of the men had recognized her.
Yet.
The big, bearded man walked over to Lachlan and kicked him in the ribs like a dog. He winced but didn’t make a sound. “So, you remember me, do you? I’ll never forget you.” He pulled off his helm. Bella smothered a gasp. Half his ear was missing. “As to whether the lass knows anything, we’ll find out as soon as Sir William gets here. He won’t be far behind. It took me a few minutes to convince him of whom I’d seen, but once I did … well, let’s just say he’s very anxious to see you. And wait until King Edward finds out he finally has one of the members of Bruce’s secret army in his hands.”
What was he talking about?
Suddenly, she stilled. Her gaze fell on Lachlan in wide-eyed shock. Margaret had told her some of the wild stories circling through the countryside about a pack of phantom warriors who fought for Bruce. Warriors who seemed to come out of nowhere, who dressed in black and blended into the night, with their faces hidden by ghastly blackened nasal helms. A highly skilled, elite group of warriors who were said to use war names to hide their identities.
Bella had dismissed the stories as fantastic. A product of some villagers’ overactive imaginations.
Viper.
Suddenly the name came back to her. She’d barely noticed it at the time, but she distinctly recalled Sir Alex referring to him as Viper.
My God, was it true? Was he part of Robert’s elite army?
He was. My God, he was. And he’d never said a word.
Bella stared at him. She’d taken him in her body, fallen apart in his arms, and felt closer to him than any man she’d ever known, but did she really know him at all?
He shot her a warning glance, and she lowered her gaze before anyone noticed her shock. But her heart was pounding in her throat.
Lachlan lifted his head from the ground and pinned Comyn with his piercing gaze. “Let us go now, and I won’t kill you.”
Given his position—trussed up in chains like a yuletide goose and lying on the floor with blood streaming down his face—the cold, matter-of-fact proclamation should have sounded ridiculous. But the malevolent gleam in his eye seemed to momentarily startle them.
It startled even her. This was the man reviled and feared across the seas. The pirate. The brigand. The heartless, predatory mercenary. If Viper was indeed his war name, it wasn’t hard to guess why: He could be as mean and heartless as a snake.
Comyn recovered first. He laughed and kicked him again in the ribs—harder this time—but still Lachlan barely flinched. “You aren’t in any position to be making threats. Not even you can kill four armed warriors with your hands chained behind your back.”
Lachlan sat up quickly, and the other man instinctively moved back. Lachlan laughed, his mouth curved in a dangerous sneer. “You don’t know what I can do.”
Embarrassed to have betrayed his fear to the other men, Comyn laughed and kicked Lachlan again, this time under the chin. His head snapped back with a sickly thud against the stone wall. “Where you’re going, the only thing you’re going to kill is rats.”
If Bella hadn’t been watching Lachlan so closely, she would have missed the slight paling of his skin and the flash of fear in his steely gaze. They were gone so quickly, she almost wondered whether she’d imagined them. But then she recalled the same look two years ago, when they’d entered the tunnel at Kildrummy Castle, and knew she hadn’t.
Unfortunately, their captor had picked up on it as well. His eyes gleamed with malicious intent. “Don’t like dark holes much, do you?” To one of his men, he said, “Toss him in while we wait. Maybe some time down in the hole with the rats will loosen his tongue for Sir William.”
The man started to pull Lachlan toward the door she’d noticed before. Past it, she suspected, was a hole in the floor secured by a wooden door or steel bars through which prisoners would be dropped to the pit prison below. But even chained, Lachlan put up a struggle. “I’m not going in there.”
Another man had to help to pin him down. Together the two of them dragged him to the door. Bella felt his panic as clearly as if it were her own. She knew exactly what he was feeling. “Stop!” she cried out. “You can’t put him in there.”
It would drive him mad. As it would her.
She made an attempt to move toward him, but Comyn grabbed her and yanked her head back by the braided coil at the top of her head. He twisted her face toward the light. “You and I are going to get better acquainted.” His eyes slid lecherously over her face. “At first I thought MacRuairi was buggering a lad. But you’re a damned sight prettier than any lad.” Bella shot him a look of furious disgust. When his dirty finger smoothed over her chin, she had to fight the urge to snap her teeth and bite. “A little pale and skinny, but aye, a real stunner with the mouth of a French whore.”
“Put your hands on her and you won’t die quickly.” Lachlan hurled the threat over his shoulder as the men were trying to push him through the door. The closer he got to the pit prison the more frantically he fought, kicking, twisting, using his elbows, using whatever he could to slow them down.
Finally, the brute pushed her head back with a disgusted grunt. “Bloody hell, you can’t control one chained man?”
He crossed the room in a few strides and grabbed Lachlan by the neck of his leather cotun to haul him up to face him.
The smile on Lachlan’s face chilled her blood. “This is your last chance,” he said idly. “Let us go or die.”
Something in Lachlan’s gaze must have warned him. Comyn thrust him away with a nervous laugh. “You must be mad.”
Barely had the words left his mouth when Lachlan attacked. He spun around, untwisting the chains that were somehow no longer manacled to his wrists. In one smooth motion he tossed a loop of chain over Comyn’s head, crossed his hands, and jerked them apart, snapping the man’s neck before the other two men had a chance to react.
“Get down,” he yelled to her, as he took another section of the chain and looped it over the other two men, preventing them from reaching their weapons.
Bella dove to the ground and saw him slide one of the men’s daggers from his belt and draw it across their throats. The men hadn’t hit the floor when the knife sailed through the air and landed with a thud right between the stunned eyes of the last man.
In a matter of seconds, Lachlan had just killed four men.
His eyes found hers. “Are you all right?”
She nodded dumbly, still stunned by what she’d just seen and the unbelievable turn of events. “How did you undo the manacles?”
He shook his head. “Later. We have to get out of here—someone else could walk in at any minute.” He was already going through the dead men’s clothing and removing weapons. “The good news is we’re close to the gate, and if they are expecting Sir William at any time, with luck the iron yett won’t be closed. Here,” he thrust a dirk in her hand, “do you know how to use it?”
She shook her head. “Nay, but I will figure it out if necessary.”
&n
bsp; He smiled, grabbing her behind her head to pull her in for a hard, fierce kiss. “That’s my lass, always ready to fight.”
Her heart squeezed. My lass. Of course, he didn’t mean anything by it, but it filled her with an overwhelming sense of longing nonetheless.
He moved to the door, pressing his ear to the wooden slats before pushing it open.
“Finished already, Sir—?”
That was as far as the soldier got before Lachlan sank the steel of his blade into the side of his neck.
But he wasn’t alone. “Watch out!” she cried, as another guard appeared from the other side.
Her warning was unnecessary. Lachlan had a dirk in his other hand as well and had already used it. He dragged both men inside the guard room they’d just vacated and closed the door behind him.
Holding his finger up to his mouth to indicate silence, he led her as they slipped along the side of the building, hiding in the shadows. The gate was not ten feet in front of them, at the end of the narrow passageway, one side of which was the tower housing the guard room. A similar tower opposite formed the other side.
At the end of the passageway was the iron yett and at least a half-dozen men-at-arms guarding the gate. But Lachlan was right—the yett wasn’t closed. Still, she didn’t see how they were going to slip past six armed guards.
Lachlan stopped about five feet from the gate. When one of the men started laughing loudly, he whispered, “As soon as I move, run. I need you out of the way.”
She nodded, understanding. It was as before: Her capture had forced him to surrender. Lachlan could take care of himself. There was no question of that. It was she who hobbled him by requiring him to protect her. Bruce’s secret army … Good God.
She didn’t have time to think. In the next instant he moved and she followed right behind him, not stopping when he engaged the first soldier or the next. She ran past him, fending off a guard with a swipe of her dagger, and raced down the sloped dirt entry, not looking back. She barely flinched at the bone-chilling clatter of swords that reverberated behind her, shattering the quiet night air.
Suddenly, she heard the whiz of arrows fly over her head, heading not toward her but toward the castle. Two men appeared out of the darkness in front of her, slipping out from behind one of the castle’s outer buildings.
Boyd and Seton—with the horses.
She was still a few feet away when she heard footsteps behind her.
Lachlan scooped her up and carried her the last few steps, lifting her onto one of the horses.
“Thanks for the help,” he said dryly, hoisting himself up in his saddle.
Robbie grinned. “Took you long enough. I was beginning to worry.”
Lachlan muttered something that sounded like “Sod off, Raider.” But she couldn’t be sure. They were already riding, racing for their lives, away from the castle that was stirring to life.
Sixteen
Lachlan looped the drying cloth around his neck and made his way back toward the stable, carrying his freshly laundered linen tunic and braies over his arm. He’d let them dry a little by the fire before packing them in his bag.
God, it felt good to be clean! After nearly two days of hard riding, with only brief stops to water the horses, he hadn’t been able to wait to find the nearest loch and wash the filth away. So much blood had caked on his head from the wound at his temple it had started to itch like the devil under his helm.
But they’d managed to evade their pursuers, and with any luck, by this time tomorrow his mission would be complete.
It was almost over. He’d done what he set out to do and rescued Bella. There was nothing left unfinished. He would claim his reward and end his service to Bruce with a clear conscience.
He should be thrilled. He should be anxious to get back as soon as possible. But he’d insisted they stop and not push forward to the coast.
It was for Bella, he told himself. He wasn’t trying to delay.
He was still a short distance from the stables when the wooden door flung open and Seton came storming out, a murderous look on his face.
“Where are you going?” Lachlan shouted from across the grassy field.
The young knight didn’t stop. “To keep watch on the bloody hill.” He headed off in the opposite direction without another word.
Boyd was sitting by the fire, sharpening his sword, when Lachlan entered. Reputed to be the strongest man in Scotland, Boyd was used not just for his hand-to-hand combat skills, but also to intimidate.
The big warrior’s innocent expression didn’t fool him. Tension thick enough to cut with that blade he was holding hung in the air.
“What the hell is the matter with Dragon?”
As if he needed to ask. Boyd and Seton had been an ill pairing from the first day the men chosen for the Highland Guard had gathered on the Isle of Skye for MacLeod’s “training.” Torture, was more like it. It had been the most grueling, brutal training regimen Lachlan had ever been through, including a weeklong trial through the pits of hell aptly dubbed Perdition.
After nearly three years, the English knight and fierce Scottish patriot had learned to work together, but tension had been building between them since they’d headed west out of Peebles, rather than continue north, in an effort to lose their pursuers.
Their journey through Lanarkshire and Ayrshire brought them deep into the heart of Wallace country. It was the place where the first seeds of rebellion had been born, where Boyd had fought alongside Wallace, and also, unfortunately, the place where Boyd had lost his father to English butchery. Boyd hated the English, and although Seton’s family held lands in Scotland, they hailed from the North of England.
Boyd shrugged. “What’s usually the matter with him? I offended his precious knightly sensibilities.”
Seton had never fully embraced the revolutionary pirate style of warfare that Bruce had adopted: abandoning the knightly code to defeat the much larger and better-equipped English army. Tactics that had been used by the Highlanders and West Highland descendants of Somerled for generations. This new style of warfare was the very reason the Highland Guard was formed, and what made it unique: a small team of the best warriors in each discipline of warfare—irrespective of clan affiliation—who could get in and out quickly, utilizing surprise attacks calculated to impose maximum damage and fear.
Lachlan shot him a dark glare. “Meaning you provoked him.”
Boyd’s jaw locked. “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him for what he said last night.”
The two warriors had nearly come to blows when they’d stopped for a quick rest to water the horses by Douglas Castle. Bella had innocently asked what had happened to the burned-out castle, the seat of Sir James Douglas, one of Bruce’s closest household knights.
Seton had replied that it was the place where Bruce’s men had forgotten their honor—a slight aimed directly at Boyd, who’d fought alongside Sir James Douglas the year before when they’d retaken the castle by capturing the English garrison stationed there, tossing them in the cellar before lighting it on fire. An incident that had spread fear through the hearts of the English soldiers stationed in garrisons all across the Southwest and Marches, irreverently known as “Douglas’s Larder.”
Honor had no place in war, but Seton held firm to some of the code of the past.
“Well, I need you both to help me sail the ship to get us out of here, so you’ll have to wait to kill him until we get back. But if I were you, I’d make sure he doesn’t have a dirk on him, or you might be the one trying to talk your way out of hell.”
Boyd laughed. “Your mood has improved. Must be the dip in the loch?” He sniffed in the air. “Myrtle today, is it?”
Lachlan scowled and tossed the drying cloth that was around his neck at him, telling Boyd exactly what he could do with it. He used what soap was available, damn it.
Boyd laughed and continued sharpening his blade before the fire pit in the center of the old longhouse that now served as the stables and shelter
for the farm animals when it got too cold. The family that was sheltering them for the night—the parents of a man who’d died fighting alongside Boyd and Wallace—resided in the newer stone cottage that stood at the base of Loudoun Hill just across the yard.
Though they weren’t completely out of danger, and wouldn’t be until they were north of the Tay, this part of southwest Scotland was much friendlier to Bruce than the Marches. Moreover, from the top of Loudoun Hill, the site of Bruce’s near-miraculous defeat of the English last year on his return to Scotland, they would be able to see anyone approaching for miles.
It was safe enough to rest for a few hours, but they would leave for the coast well before dawn.
Bella hadn’t been happy about it, but he’d insisted she sleep in the cottage. She needed a bed, damn it, even if only for a few hours. He could have forced her to ride with him again, but he didn’t trust himself to hold her against him for hours. He might not want to let her go.
He wasn’t avoiding her. Nay, he was just going to make damn sure they weren’t surprised again. He’d been caught with his pants down—literally. He wasn’t fool enough to say he regretted it—it had felt too incredible for that—but it had been a mistake. For more reasons than one.
If he’d hoped having her once would free him from this irrational infatuation, he’d miscalculated badly. It hadn’t dulled his desire for her one whit. If anything, the too brief, too hurried, too frantic incident had only whetted his appetite for more. But he knew it was too dangerous. The danger wasn’t from his enemies but from himself. If he touched her again it would only reinforce the irrational feeling that she was his.
Whatever this strange connection was between them, it didn’t mean anything. He sure as hell wasn’t fool enough to think it could be permanent.
Lachlan hung his damp clothes over a wooden post and sat opposite Boyd on a stool that he assumed was used for milking. He placed his weapons beside him and removed a steel padlock from his bag. MacKay had made it for him, and he’d yet to figure out the way to unlock it.