The Viper

by Monica McCarty

  “Let me see.”

  She hesitated, but his curt, businesslike tone must have convinced her. She lifted her foot out of the water and held it up for him to examine.

  His teeth were clenched so tightly he was surprised he didn’t hear cracking. He steeled himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the smooth, velvety softness of her skin under his palms. It took everything he had not to slide his hand up the long length of her leg. And then do the same thing with his mouth. Just knowing how close he was to that sweet little juncture between her thighs made every inch of his body hot and hard.

  She quivered at his touch. The knowledge that she was not unaffected was almost more than he could take. Don’t look at her. If he saw anything resembling desire, he’d do something foolish.

  Sweat gathered at his brow. Every muscle in his body flexed with restraint. The flames of desire licked and snapped around him, threatening to incinerate the last threads of control.

  Focus. She’s hurt, damn it. He needed to be careful. Bella MacDuff was dangerous. He had a job to do and couldn’t afford any distractions, not if they were going to make it through this alive. They had two countries chasing them.

  He held her foot in his hand, steadying himself. For as strong as she appeared on the outside, her bones were as fine and delicate as a bird’s. He’d never seen such a dainty foot in his life. Not much bigger than his hand, the tiny toes, the high arch, and the thin, albeit slightly swollen ankle seemed to belong to a fairy.

  She’s hurt, he reminded himself. But he was touching her this time, not just looking. His blood pounded. Slowly, he slid his hand up around her ankle, pressing gently on the swollen skin, pleased when it didn’t appear to cause her too much pain. He rotated her foot a little just to make sure, but she was right: It wasn’t broken. Not that it would be any less painful to walk on for the next few days.

  She wouldn’t be able to ride on her own. Someone would have to ride with her. His mouth thinned, not knowing why the idea didn’t sit well with him.

  He lowered her leg carefully back into the water and removed his hands, feeling as if he’d just survived an ordeal. Hell, he’d rather walk across hot coals than go through that again.

  He stood up and ventured a glance in her direction, telling himself it was too dark to see a soft flush on her cheeks. “You’ll need to wrap it when you get back to camp. If you don’t know how, I can show you.”

  “I can do it,” she said quickly.

  Clearly she was no more eager for him to have his hands on her than he was. He bit back the flash of anger. “How are your hands?”

  She held them out, palms up. “Not too bad.”

  They were scratched and scraped raw. The lady had the understatement of a Highlander.

  “MacKay has some salve. Put it on, and try to keep them covered with cloth or gloves.”

  She nodded, and as she did he caught a glimpse of something under her chin. He reached out and cradled her jaw between two of his fingers, tilting her face up. He swore. “Your chin is scraped.”

  Instinctively, she reached for it and winced when her fingers came into contact with the raw skin. The admiration he felt for her was almost as annoying as his lust. Almost.

  Bending down, he dunked the edge of his plaid in the water, getting it good and wet.

  “You don’t need to do that,” she said hurriedly.

  He ignored her protest, and proceeded to dab the sopping cloth on the underside of her chin to clear away the dirt.

  He was close to her, very close. Close enough to make her nervous. Close enough to smell the subtle scent of her skin. Roses today, damn it.

  He could hear her breath turn shallow. He looked into her eyes, seeing the confusion.

  But then he made a mistake. He looked down, his gaze catching on a rivulet of water as it made its way past her throat to the open collar of her chemise. Her now—thanks to his sopping plaid—very wet chemise that clung to two incredible breasts.

  His mouth went dry. Nay, watered. His memories hadn’t done her justice. Perfectly round, big and lush, the nipples were peaked like two tiny berries waiting to be sucked.

  Lust hit him hard. An entirely different kind of lust. It was hot and visceral, claiming every inch of his body. His muscles shook with restraint.

  She gasped, quickly covering herself with the edge of her mantle. “Don’t,” she cried. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  Something in her voice penetrated the haze of desire. He lifted his gaze back to hers.

  “What are you going to do now, rip off my clothes like I’m nothing but a piece of flesh to serve men’s pleasure?” Her voice broke in a dry sob. “Throw me down on the ground and tell me that I asked for it? That I deserved it?” She cupped her breasts and held them up to him defiantly. “That this is all I’m good for. That because I look like a whore, I must be a whore.”

  He swore softly. Not just because her words shamed him—which, surprisingly, they did—but because of what she was revealing. Suddenly, it all fell into place. He understood the wariness and at times almost hurt reaction to his desire.

  God’s blood, what had Buchan done to her? If the bastard were before him right now, he’d kill him.

  His fists tightened at his side. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what he did to you.”

  She gave a harsh laugh. “You want all the salacious details?” Her eyes narrowed, and then grew heavy-lidded as her face transformed into the exaggerated mask of a wanton. Her voice grew soft and husky. “Do you want to know exactly how he taught me to pleasure him?” Her eyes slid down his body, resting on the tightening bulge between his legs that didn’t know how wrong it was to respond. Her tongue slid with feline calculation over her bottom lip. She leaned forward, looking up at him from under her long lashes. “Should I show you, Lachlan? Give you a demonstration of my skill?”

  “Stop it.” He grabbed her, angry at his reaction as much as he was at her for acting like this. “That’s not what I meant.”

  The mask slid from her face, replaced by the hurt anger that had been there before. “What, then? Do you want to know how he forced me to do my wifely duty from the time I was fifteen? Fifteen, Lachlan. Not much older than Mary and Marjory.” He grimaced with disgust. She took note of his reaction and dug her sword in deeper. “But it wasn’t enough that I submitted to him, that I became more whore than wife; I was supposed to enjoy it, and when I didn’t he tried to force that, too. Can you imagine what it’s like to be so utterly powerless? To have your every action controlled?” Aye, he could. “To be forced to do something and then be punished with accusation and suspicion for not enjoying it? Because surely if I was not getting pleasure from him, I must be finding it somewhere else. With a mouth and body like this, what else is there?”

  Lachlan was shamed to realize he’d jumped to similar conclusions. Was he wrong about what he’d seen with Bruce?

  “Not all men are like that,” he said quietly.

  She made a harsh scoffing sound that was almost a cry. “I see the way you look at me. Do you deny that you want me?”

  He gave her a hard look. “Nay, I won’t deny it. You’re a beautiful woman. But I’d never force a woman to do anything she didn’t want to do.”

  As bad as it had been with Juliana in the end, the idea of bullying her or using his physical strength to control her had never occurred to him. Only a weak man would try to dominate someone he had a duty to protect.

  “You expect me to believe that? With all the fighting you’ve done? It’s common for men to take their ‘spoils’ of war.”

  “Among some men perhaps, but not me. Despite what you might think, I do have some principles. There are some lines not even I will cross.” He held her gaze so she would see the truth. “An unwilling woman is one of them.”

  Her, he meant, her. He wouldn’t touch her because he thought her unwilling.

  Of course she was unwilling. His touch had momentarily confused her, that’s all.

  Bella
had never felt anything like it. The gentle caress of his hands and fingers on her leg had flooded her with a myriad of unfamiliar sensations. Wicked sensations. Delicious sensations.

  Her skin had prickled with sensitivity. She’d been achingly aware of each point of contact, of the warmth of his fingers, of the hard scrape of his calluses across her skin, as he explored her ankle. She’d held her breath when his hand skimmed over her calf and for a moment, she’d thought—God, even hoped—that it would inch higher.

  Heat radiated to every corner of her body, concentrating in a warm twitchiness between her legs. Desire. It was desire. She’d thought herself incapable of responding to a man’s touch. She was wrong.

  Lachlan had been touching her so tenderly that for a moment she’d thought he might be different. That maybe this strange connection between them meant something. That maybe, just maybe, he might actually care for her.

  Which made the look in his eyes when he’d glanced down at her wet chemise all the more cruel. He saw her breasts and not the woman. No man had ever looked beyond. Just once, she wished a man could look at her.

  All he offered was the very thing she’d just escaped. She would never go through that again.

  Now she just felt foolish. One soft touch and she dissolved into a pathetic, lovesick schoolgirl. Was she so desperate for someone to care for her that she’d find emotion in a touch?

  She’d overreacted because he’d made her feel something different, and in doing so revealed far more than she wanted to. She’d never told anyone what she’d just told him. Not even her mother, though Bella suspected she had guessed.

  “If you are ready,” he said, “I can carry you back.”

  Her eyes widened with alarm. Good god, no! “That isn’t necessary,” she said hastily.

  The slightly bored, slightly mocking expression that she found so confoundingly impenetrable had returned to his face, but the muscle ticking below his jaw made her think the vehemence of her reaction had bothered him. “I think I can control myself for a few minutes, Countess.”

  “It’s not that.” She flushed, realizing her reticence had offended him. Was she to believe that a hired sword, a man who made no qualms about selling himself to the highest bidder, would balk at forcing a woman? Surprisingly, she did. “I believe you.”

  It was the willingness part that worried her.

  His eyes held hers for a moment, and he nodded. Before she could find a reason to object further, he scooped her off the rock, cradling her in his arms like a child.

  She gasped in surprise, instinctively looping her arms around his neck to keep from falling. But he was in no danger of dropping her. She might have been a bairn for all the effort it took him to carry her.

  It might have had something to do with the size of the muscles in his arms and the steely shield of his chest. She’d noticed his strength before, of course. He was so powerfully built and tall it was hard not to. But being confronted with the flexed proof wrapped around her was a different kind of noticing.

  She hadn’t expected him to be so warm. His heat engulfed her, making her feel a little funny. All warm and melty.

  She turned her head, resting one cheek against his shoulder, not wanting him to see the effect he had on her. She breathed in his warm, masculine scent, thinking it strange again that a brigand could smell so good. He must bathe more than any man she’d ever met. Apparently, he had a strange liking for cold rivers.

  Unwittingly, she relaxed. He carried her in silence for a moment, navigating easily through the darkened forest. She peeked up at him from under her lashes. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and his jaw was shadowed with dark stubble. It made him look even more dangerous. Except for his lashes. She’d never noticed how long they were. It was strange to find a hint of softness on the otherwise hard facade. She could see that tic again, and there were tiny lines around his mouth. Maybe it was more difficult to carry her than she’d realized?

  She frowned, noticing something else. There were a few fresh cuts and bruises on his face, but nothing as deep as the cut across his cheek. Unconsciously, she reached up to trace it with her finger. She thought she felt him tense, but it was gone before she could be sure. “That must have hurt.”

  He shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

  “How did it happen?”

  She didn’t think he was going to answer her, but he finally said, “I turned my back on someone with a dagger.”

  There was something more to the story, but it was clear he wasn’t going to tell her. “Did you get it while you were imprisoned?”

  There was no mistaking the tensing of his muscles this time. He tried to erase his reaction with a sardonic lift of his brow, but he was holding her too close: she’d felt it. “I wasn’t aware you knew so much of my history, Countess.”

  She tried not to flush under the accusation in his gaze. “It’s hardly a secret.”

  “Is that right? And what do you know about it?”

  His words were cool, but she sensed the emotions simmering under the surface. Suddenly she knew exactly how Mary had felt when she’d confronted her about spreading rumors: guilty and defensive. “That you betrayed your brother-in-law, John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn, in battle, and that he caught you and had you imprisoned.”

  “That’s what they say?” He laughed, but the sound was harsh and without humor.

  “Do you deny it?” She realized how badly she wanted him to.

  Without her realizing it, they’d reached the tent. He set her down carefully. “If you want to know something, ask me. But you shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Countess.”

  The subtle taunt in his voice pricked. Did nothing matter to him? “You mean things like did you kill your wife?”

  He stilled. Something raw flashed in his eyes, and she immediately wished her question back.

  “Nay,” he said evenly. “That’s true.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. He’d shocked her, as was obviously his intent, but she sensed there was something he wasn’t saying.

  Before she could question him further, he gave her a slight mocking bow. “Good night, Countess. Get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”

  And with that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows.

  Six

  Lachlan had never been so glad to see battlements in his life.

  The distinctive shield-shaped curtain wall of Kildrummy Castle rose out of the mountainous landscape like the warrior’s paradise of Valhalla.

  With its ashlar stone walls and six massive towers, Kildrummy had been built by the Earls of Mar not only as a defensive stronghold, but also as a magnificent testament to the wealth of the earldom.

  It wasn’t because the castle was considered one of the finest in Scotland that Lachlan was happy to see it. Nay, he was glad to see it because the last two days of riding had been torture.

  Of his own damned making. What the hell had he been thinking?

  God’s blood, even through the thick leather of his cotun he could feel her softness burning against him. Every shape and curve of her back seemed imprinted on his. And that bottom. He groaned. Two days of having that soft, round bottom nestled against his groin was more than any man could be expected to bear.

  He couldn’t even breathe without being aware of her—the air around her seemed infused with the faint scent of roses.

  She shifted against him, giving a contented little sigh in her sleep as she snuggled her back deeper into his chest, her silky-soft, downy head tucked under his chin.

  She forgot to be wary of him when she slept. He liked it. Too damned much. His arms drew tighter around her. To keep her steady in the saddle, of course.

  He should have let her ride with one of the other men. But when they’d stood by the horses the morning after her accident, deciding whom she should ride with, he’d found himself ordering her to ride with him.

  It wasn’t because she’d wanted to ride with MacKay, damn it. And it sure as hell wasn’t becau
se he couldn’t stand the thought of another man touching her. He just didn’t want to be dodging the girlish flirtations of Mary Bruce all day. Besides, her ankle was tender and one of the other men might forget she was injured.

  But if he’d known how hard it would be to have his arm wrapped around her waist for hours, while her incredible breasts—the size and shape of which had been burned on his memory—bounced against it, he might have reconsidered.

  He glanced down. His chest swelled with an unfamiliar emotion, and he quickly looked back to the road in front of him. God damn it, did she have to look so sweet? With her cheek resting against his chest, wispy little tendrils of white-blond hair curling at her temples, her long, dark lashes curling against her creamy skin, and her bold features soft in repose, the proud countess looked almost vulnerable.

  This swell—whatever it was—in his chest bothered him. It made him feel—damn it—protective.

  A feeling that thankfully went away as soon as she woke up and turned those flashing eyes on him.

  But he didn’t like this at all. His control was faltering. He couldn’t think straight around her, which was dangerous for all of them. He needed to do something. Clearly, fighting this maddening desire for her wasn’t working.

  It had been too long. He needed to find a way to take the edge off.

  Almost as if she knew what he was thinking, she stirred. He knew she was awake when he felt her back stiffen and pull away from him. He clenched his jaw. Not that it bothered him.

  Suddenly, she sat up even straighter. “We made it?”

  She glanced up at him, and he could see that the relief in her eyes matched the excitement in her voice.

  “Aye,” he answered, trying not to notice how close her mouth was to his.

  Her eyes filled with something else. Gratitude, he realized, when she said, “Thank you.”

  He felt that uncomfortable swelling again in his chest and turned sharply away. “Don’t thank me yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The English will not give up so easily. Even now they could be marching toward us.”