Horror washed over her at the calm manner with which he spoke of the cruelties inflicted on him. It was almost as if he were talking about someone else. She knew she was getting the barest sketch of what had happened and that he was leaving out things she didn’t even want to imagine.
It certainly explained his reaction in the tunnel and to going into the pit prison at Peebles. She, better than anyone, understood that particular source of fear.
Their eyes met, and it was as if he knew what she was thinking. “Ah, yes, you discovered my little secret, didn’t you? I’ve no fondness for dark holes.”
He said it as if it should lessen her impression of him. But how could she not but admire him after all he’d been through? He’d been betrayed by those closest to him, had been imprisoned, and withstood suffering she couldn’t imagine. He’d scraped and fought back after everything had been taken from him.
He’d survived.
Just as she had. “And I have no fondness for small rooms and bars.” Their eyes held for a moment in shared understanding. She glanced down at the lock by his foot and understood something else. “The manacles. The lock in the tunnel. Is that why you are so good at getting past them?”
He lifted a brow in a mocking salute, obviously surprised that she’d made the connection. Reaching down behind his ankle, he slipped something from the leather sole of his boot and held it up for her inspection. It looked like a nail, but without the sharp tip. “I keep a spare in my boot, in case I am without my sporran. Unfortunately, working locks is a skill I learned only later. I escaped Dunstaffnage in a much less civilized way.”
She tilted her head in question.
“There were so many rats they’d made wide holes under the walls. I dug my way out by following their path.”
She shivered. Rats. She abhorred the vile creatures. One was bad enough, but hundreds? Good God, what must that have been like?
He stopped for a moment, but she knew he wasn’t done. When she put her hand on his arm again, this time he did not shake her off. “What happened to your wife?”
“I should have just left, but I waited for her on a beach I knew she liked to walk on by the castle.” Bleakness had crept into his matter-of-fact tone. “I confronted her. God knows what I was expecting. An excuse? An explanation? A denial? I was so angry, I needed something. She was shocked to see me, of course. I suspect she thought her brother had already had me killed. She feigned ignorance of my accusations, and God help me, I wanted to believe her. But as soon as my back was turned, she came at me with a dirk.” Her gaze went to the jagged scar on his cheek. He smiled. “Aye, my reminder never to turn my back on a beautiful woman.”
He said it in jest, but she suspected there was far more truth in it than he wanted to acknowledge. His wife’s betrayal had molded him as much as his mother’s rejection. Trust. Love. He knew neither. Anger and bitterness would have been easier to contend with. Cold acceptance was so much worse. How could he believe in something he didn’t know existed?
“We struggled for the knife. I tripped and fell on her. When I stood up, the knife was lodged in her stomach. So you see, the rumors are true, at least in that respect.”
“But it wasn’t your fault! Good God, Lachlan, she was trying to kill you.”
“She was a woman,” he said tightly.
Bella stared at him in disbelief. “And so there can be no excuse?” She shook her head. “You claim to have no rules, no code but your own, but you are more conventional than you want to admit, Lachlan.”
He gave her a sharp look, clearly not liking her observation. “When I returned home to my family at Castle Tioram, it was to find that I had been found guilty of treason, and my holdings, with what wealth I did have, declared forfeit.”
“But surely your family—”
The muscle below his jaw jumped. “My family believed as everyone else.”
“But didn’t you explain?”
“Why? I realized my presence made it difficult for them, so I decided to go to Ireland and make what fortune I could as a gallowglass.”
“So you expected blind loyalty from your family but won’t give it yourself?”
White lines appeared around his mouth. “Leave it, Bella. Don’t think you understand me; you don’t.”
But she couldn’t leave it. For the first time so many things were clear to her. Why his reaction to her bothered him so much, and why he’d resisted it so strongly. He thought his feelings for his wife were to blame for the death of his men. That his desire for her—his lust—had made him fail his duty to his men.
It was clear he thought she posed the same threat. She understood why he didn’t trust her. He’d known only unkindness and betrayal from the women who should have loved him. But she wanted him to trust her. “I’m not your wife, Lachlan. I would never betray you.”
He laughed, making her feel naive again. “Everyone is capable of betrayal, Bella, everyone. It’s only a matter of finding your weakness.”
“So it’s better to live your life in fear? To cut yourself off from everyone so that no one can ever hurt you?”
He gave her a hard look. “It’s not me I’m thinking about.”
His men, she realized. He’s still punishing himself for the deaths of his men.
Her eyes widened. A mad thought stole into her brain. No. It wasn’t possible. But the thought, once formed, could not be dislodged. It was something he’d said right before he’d shattered inside her. Something she’d barely noticed at the time but had recalled when he’d been talking about his wife.
She took a step closer, forcing him to look up at her. “Lachlan, when you said ‘too long,’ what did you mean?”
He turned away. His gaze fixed in the firelight. His voice was low and rough. “I haven’t been with a woman for a while.”
Her heart picked up speed. “How long is a while?”
He turned back to her, his handsome face painfully still. “Since my wife died.”
“But that was …”
“Ten years ago,” he finished flatly.
Bella couldn’t believe it. How could a man who exuded virility have existed like a monk?
She must have voiced her question aloud without realizing it. He laughed harshly, giving her a pointed look. “There are other ways to find release.” She blushed, realizing he was talking about pleasuring himself. “I was busy fighting most of the time. It wasn’t difficult until recently.” The heat in her cheeks intensified—he was talking about her. He shrugged. “It isn’t all that unusual. There are the Templars, for example. Many warriors believe it adds to their strength.”
He tried to fob it off as nothing, but she knew it didn’t have anything to do with religion or his warrior’s strength. “How long are you going to keep punishing yourself, Lachlan?” she asked quietly.
“I’m not punishing myself.” He gave her a suggestive look. “Or don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” she said huskily. Only too well. Her body burned with the memory.
He held her gaze in the firelight. Night had fallen as they spoke, and the old stone building had grown darker. More intimate. More dangerous.
She was painfully aware of how close they stood, and how easy it would be to reach out and put her hands on his naked chest. A naked chest that had taken her breath away. She’d never seen anything so magnificent. Powerfully built from years of living by the sword, every inch of his lightly tanned flesh had been honed to perfection. Broad-shouldered, arms stacked with layers of bulging muscle, not an ounce of extra flesh marred the hard planes of his chest and tightly banded stomach. All she could think about was putting her hands on him and feeling all that strength under her touch.
Realizing she was staring, she lifted her gaze back up to his. His eyes glowed dangerously. “It’s not a good idea, Bella.”
The soft warning in his voice didn’t give her pause. She thought she’d be content with passion, but she was wrong. She wanted more. Much more. He cared for her, and she inte
nded to prove it. “Why?”
“I’ve nothing more to offer you.”
But he did. If only he would see it. She put her hands on him, feeling a blast of heat shoot through her. Lightning. It was as if she were harnessing lightning. Her nerve endings snapped at the contact, the hard, warm flesh singeing her palms. She could feel the muscles straining under her fingertips. Fighting to be set free.
God, how she wanted him!
The muscle at his neck stood out like a taut rope. His fists clenched at his side. “It won’t change anything,” he warned.
But it already had for her.
She’d take the chance. Bella had never shirked from a fight, and she wouldn’t start now. Without another thought, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.
Seventeen
He pulled her down on his lap and kissed her. Kissed her in a way that seemed to reach down to her toes, claiming every inch in between. It was both hot and possessive, less furious and frantic than before but every bit as passionate.
Bella gave herself over to his seduction. God, did he know how to kiss! Each skilled stroke of his tongue, each smooth caress of his lips, seemed calculated to draw her in deeper, eliciting every ounce of pleasure from her that he could and leaving her weak and boneless as a poppet of rags.
Her pleasure. A bubble of warmth rose and burst inside her. He cared about her pleasure. It wasn’t just lust—not in the way she knew it. Tender was the last word she would use to describe Lachlan MacRuairi. Yet when he held her in his arms and kissed her, tenderness is what she felt.
She wrapped her hands around his neck, sinking into him, crushing her breasts against his magnificent chest. A chest that was every inch as hard and unyielding as it looked, but so much hotter. She could feel everything, the thin linen of her shirt a paltry barrier. But what would it be like to feel his skin on hers? To feel her nipples rake that hot, steely flesh?
She let her hands slide over his broad, muscular shoulders and down the rippling bulges of his arms. Her fingers clenched, unconsciously testing his rock-hard strength. His muscles flared, flexing even harder.
She shivered, a deep feminine thrill of appreciation shuddering through her. To be so beset by a few muscles—no matter how impressive—was really quite lowering. But there was something deeply arousing about his physical strength. About a man who was built not only to assail but to defend and protect.
She loved the way it felt to have those big arms wrapped around her, all those hard slabs of muscle cradling her softness.
One big hand was splayed over her bottom possessively. He pressed her closer, nestling her against him and letting her feel just how much he wanted her.
If the size of him was any indication, it was quite a lot.
Quite a lot indeed.
She squirmed. Moaned. A rush of heat pooled between her legs at the visceral reminder of just how good it would feel.
He groaned, and the sound reverberated down to her toes. His hand plunged through her hair to cup her head and bend her back. She opened her mouth wider. Drinking him in. Meeting the slow, insistent strokes of his tongue with her own.
They were drowning in heat, in desire, and in each other. She never wanted it to end.
Lachlan knew this wasn’t a good idea, but he couldn’t seem to stop kissing her. She just tasted so good.
Lust, he reminded himself. It’s only lust. This tightness in his chest, this wave of warmth that came over him each time he looked into her eyes, the overwhelming need to give her pleasure, didn’t mean a damned thing.
He’d always seen to a woman’s pleasure. He’d realized as a lad that if he made a woman happy, she made him happy. Very happy. But never had it seemed so vital, and never had a woman’s pleasure increased his own.
It didn’t mean anything, he told himself again. To prove it, he kissed her harder. Let his tongue delve into the delicious recesses of her mouth. Let his hands roam over every inch of her incredible body.
She was so sweet. Slim and delicate around her waist and back but generously curved in her chest and hips.
He slowed, weighing one of her breasts in his hand and savoring the heady sensation of holding all that soft, lush flesh. Squeezing gently, he caressed the taut nipple with his thumb as his tongue drew slow, lazy circles in her mouth.
Fast and furious, he reminded himself. But damn it, he didn’t want it to end. He could go on kissing her forever. Her mouth was so soft and sweet, her responses so eager. And those soft little sounds of hers seemed to wrap right around his heart and make him want to hold her in his arms forever.
Lust, damn it.
But she was dragging him in. Taking him to a place he didn’t want to go. Tempting him to gentleness with each tender, heartfelt stroke of her tongue, trying to wrest something from him that he didn’t want to give.
And succeeding, damn it. His chest tightened. Squeezed. Filled with something warm and soft.
Whatever was happening to him, he didn’t like it. He couldn’t let it happen again. Hell, who was he kidding? Nothing had ever felt like this before. It wasn’t just desire. It was something deeper. Something more intense. Something that wasn’t for him.
She wasn’t for him, damn it. She came with too many conditions—too many expectations.
He needed to get this back on the right track. He tore his mouth away.
She blinked, trying to see through the passion-filled haze that clouded her big, blue eyes. Her long, pale hair shimmered in the firelight, tumbling around her face in wildly sensual disarray.
He clenched his jaw, steeling himself against the nearly irresistible pull of her swollen, gently parted red lips and husky little sharp intakes of breath.
“Take off your clothes.”
She blinked again, fluttering her ridiculously long lashes. “What?”
His eyes held hers. “I want you naked when I fuck you.”
A small frown gathered between her brows. He steeled himself against the stab in his chest. If she wanted this, they were going to do it on his terms. In a way that could leave no doubt of what it meant.
She hesitated. For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but then understanding cleared away the confusion. She held his gaze, eyes narrowed, silently challenging him with a shrewd look that saw far too much. “That’s how it’s going to be, is it?”
His jaw locked. “Aye.”
She pursed her lips together and slowly began to take off her clothes. He could tell by the stiffness of her movements that she was furious. He didn’t blame her. But she’d wanted this, damn it.
Plaid, doublet, shirt, breeches, hose, shoes. One by one they landed in a pile by his feet. His heart pounded faster with every piece.
Finally, she stood before him proud, defiant, and completely, utterly, bewitchingly naked. She arched a taunting brow. “I hope this meets with your approval?”
His mouth went dry. He held himself so still it felt as if he’d turned to stone. God, did it. She was so beautiful. Thinner and more delicate, but every bit as gorgeous as he remembered. Big, round breasts, tiny waist, softly curved hips, and long, lean limbs, with the most flawless ivory skin he’d ever beheld, marred only by the faint bruises that still lingered on her chest and neck.
The flash of anger at the sight of those bruises was swift and hard—he hadn’t forgotten what the jailor had done to her—but it also filled him with a fierce wave of protectiveness. He wanted to pull her into his arms. Cradle her gently against his chest and hold her. Cherish and keep her safe forever.
He’d wanted to show her this was all about lust, but instead the odd mix of strength and vulnerability roused emotions in him that he’d never felt before.
His mouth tightened. He sounded like his cousin, MacSorley. Or MacLeod. Or Campbell. She was confusing him. Turning him into a lovesick fool. Filling him with crazy thoughts of things that were impossible.
Weren’t they?
His eyes went back to hers.
“Your turn,” she said. “If you ge
t to look, so do I.”
He could hear the challenge in her voice: How far was he going to push this?
“You do it,” he said. He’d wanted to meet her challenge, but the huskiness in his voice belied the attempt. The thought of her hands on him …
Christ, he was in over his head.
She moved in front of him, holding her head up like a damned queen. A damned naked queen. He sucked in his breath. Her breasts were inches from his face. Her skin looked so soft and creamy, her nipples delicate pink berries just waiting to be plucked. He had to grip the wooden stool not to reach out and touch them.
He hissed when her hand touched his stomach. The muscles jumped. Everything jumped. She took her time with the ties. Exacting her revenge as she tortured him with light, achingly close brushes of her hand and fingers.
Her eyes widened when at last he was free. He felt himself growing even harder under her not-so-innocent stare.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. For a moment he thought she was going to put her mouth on him.
He gritted his teeth against the reflexive surge. Sweat gathered at his brow. The restraint was killing him. He wouldn’t show her what she did to him. Wouldn’t give her that kind of power over him. But he was fighting a war with himself that he couldn’t win, and they both knew it.
She proved it with what she did next, showing him exactly who was in charge. Taking his challenge and answering it with one of her own. She rested her hands on his shoulders. Shock sizzled through him. His heart hammered in his chest. “Shall I ride you, my lord?”
His heart slammed to a stop, every muscle tensed with anticipation. Then, without waiting for him to answer, she straddled him and slowly lowered herself on him.
Christ. He sucked in his breath, holding her gaze as inch by agonizing inch he penetrated deep into her warm and welcoming body. He could see the pleasure infuse her features, see how much she liked it, and hear the soft gasps of her breath as he filled her.
He put his hands on her hips, gently guiding her deeper.
Oh God, yes.
The Viper Page 27
