The Viper

by Monica McCarty

  “Nothing,” he said too quickly, but then reconsidered when she gave him an admonishing lift of her brow. “Let’s just say he’s enjoying the fact that I’ve softened my tone on marriage.”

  “You have?”

  “Aye … well … damn it, Bella, I want you to marry me. I know I don’t have anything to offer you. That you’d be a fool to get wrapped up with the likes of me, but—”

  “If this is a proposal, you might want to stop telling me all the reasons I shouldn’t marry you.”

  He scowled—a little petulantly for a man named after a deadly snake, but she’d remind him of that later. “I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting into.”

  She laughed. “I know exactly what I’d be getting into. But I think you left out the most important part.” He seemed confused, so she gave him a little help. “The point where you declare your undying love for me.”

  “I thought that was obvious.”

  “It is. But as this is a marriage proposal, I think I should like to hear it again.”

  He tilted her chin and looked deep into her eyes. “I love you, Bella. I will love you not until my dying day, but from the heights of heaven or the depths of hell until my soul ceases to be.”

  He was getting quite good at this. She put her hand on the familiar stubbled cheek. God, she loved him. “I’d be honored to be your wife.”

  He grinned, the sweetest, happiest grin she’d ever seen on his face. He drew her into his arms and kissed her. Telling her with the soft strokes of his tongue and mouth exactly how deeply he loved her.

  When he finally broke the kiss, she was breathing hard and wishing they weren’t riding on a horse in the middle of the night through the forest surrounded by ten very interested, smirking Highlanders.

  Her thoughts must have been plain to see. He chuckled, whispering, “Later.”

  The sensual promise in that one word sent shivers of anticipation shooting through her veins. She nodded and sagged back against him.

  “She’ll be safe, Bella. As safe as anyone can be in this damned war.”

  How well he knew her. He’d guessed the direction of her thoughts. “She seemed quite certain about her uncle and Sir Hugh’s fondness for her.”

  Lachlan was quiet. A little too quiet.

  “What did you do?”

  He shrugged. “I simply made sure Sir Hugh didn’t forget it.”

  Her eyes flew to his. “You snuck into his chamber?”

  “I had a few extra minutes.”

  She shook her head. “And how did you convince—” She stopped herself. “Forget it, I don’t want to know.”

  Lachlan grinned. “Let’s just say, I put the fear of God in him.”

  “Or the fear of the phantom Guard, you mean.”

  He laughed.

  “What the hell is that sound?” MacSorley said from behind them.

  “Sod off, Hawk,” Lachlan said fiercely.

  Bella grinned. “Your cousin really is amusing.”

  Lachlan groaned, along with the other men close enough to hear. “God, don’t let him hear you say that.”

  But it was too late. Hawk took the opportunity to regale her with just how amusing he could be—much to Lachlan’s annoyance. But after a while, he gave up trying to shut him up and even managed to get in a few digs of his own.

  Much later, when Tor MacLeod had called an end to the “chatter,” Bella sank back against him and closed her eyes.

  “I know you were hoping for a different ending,” Lachlan said quietly.

  This war had already exacted so much from her. But Bella refused to let it cost her her daughter. “It’s not the end, it’s only the beginning.”

  With Lachlan by her side, she would fight to the end.

  Epilogue

  December 1314, Benbecula, The Western Isles

  For six years she’d waited for this day, and now that it was finally here, Bella could barely contain herself.

  She waited anxiously by the window in the Great Hall of the magnificent tower house her husband had built for her in paradise—or their little corner of it, anyway. The small isle of Benbecula, straddled between North and South Uist, was remote, private, and as beautiful as the Garden of Eden, with its long stretches of sandy dune beaches, lush green grasses, and wide-open vistas of sparkling blue waters.

  In spite of the king’s anger at their unsanctioned mission all those years ago, Robert had kept his promise and awarded Lachlan the lands and coin he’d earned for his service. Whether it was Bella’s urging, Lachlan’s vow to serve the king until the end of the war, or his young sister Mary’s release from prison a few weeks after their return that was responsible for the king’s change of heart, she didn’t know.

  But the families of Lachlan’s clansmen who’d died fighting for him had their security, and Lachlan had the quiet, peaceful home he’d worked so hard for. Especially now that he’d returned for good. The elite warrior had fought his last battle in June. The war was over. A war that had demanded so much of them all. But they’d done their part and survived.

  Yet as full as her heart had been these past years, there had always been an empty corner. Today it would be filled.

  She gazed out the window, scanning the crystal-clear horizon, her hands twisting anxiously in her skirts.

  She glanced over her shoulder, her heart catching as it always did every time she looked at him. Lachlan was even more handsome now than the first time she’d seen him. The fierce brigand had been transformed. He was just as physically imposing, but the cruel lines around his mouth had softened. Smiles, once infrequent, now came easily. Their happiness had been hard won, but it had been won.

  “Are you sure it will be today?” she asked.

  One of those easy smiles curved his mouth. “Aye, just as I was sure the last five times you asked me. Don’t worry, Bel. She’ll be here. Hawk said by around midday.”

  He stood from his chair beside the fire and came up behind her, wrapping his big arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck. She squirmed, giggling like a girl and not a woman of six-and-thirty. “That tickles.” She turned around and playfully tugged the square of stubble below his lip. “You and your cousin come up with the strangest ideas.”

  This one—a contest of sorts—was for the most unique beard. Bella had to admit, she looked forward to seeing what they came up with. Lachlan’s most recent was a small square patch just below his lip. Somehow, rather than look silly, it only seemed to make him even more wickedly handsome.

  He arched a brow. “I thought you liked it.”

  She blushed at the memory of exactly when she’d told him how much she liked it and gave him a playful shove. “You’re incorrigible.”

  He spun her back into his arms and kissed her. “And you’re beautiful.”

  She melted into him, sliding her hands around his neck, and savored the long, slow strokes of his tongue.

  “Ah hell, they’re doing it again.”

  Bella shot Lachlan a glare that only grew sharper when she saw how hard he was fighting not to laugh. “I thought you were going to try to watch your language.”

  He gave her a boyish shrug. “I am—trying.”

  Bella turned, putting her hands on her hips to admonish the five-year-old interloper, who not only looked but sounded exactly like his father. “Erik, what did we talk about?”

  The dark-haired, green-eyed charmer graced her with a dazzling smile. “My, you look beautiful today, Mother.”

  Oh, God help her!

  Bella shot Lachlan another glare when she heard him laugh.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said. “You’re the one that wanted to name him after Hawk.”

  He might look and sound like his father, but Erik MacRuairi was as charming, roguish, and irresistible as his namesake. It was impossible to stay angry with him. He had her wrapped around the hilt of one of his tiny wooden swords. He insisted on two. Just like his father’s, each was engraved with the words “usque ad finem.” To the
very end. Again, just like his father’s.

  Lachlan crossed the room and knelt beside his firstborn. Despite his amusement, he managed an impressively stern frown. “Remember our talk, son?”

  Erik nodded, a disreputable wave of dark hair falling across his forehead.

  “I’m disappointed in you,” Lachlan admonished gravely. “It’s not polite to curse around ladies.”

  The miniature Lachlan frowned, seeming to consider this for a moment. But then he smiled. “All right, I’ll just curse around the men. But you might want to tell Tina—she was cursing something fierce a few minutes ago when Ranald stopped her from taking your birlinn out with Robbie.”

  “What!” Bella cried.

  This time it was Lachlan who cursed.

  Erik looked at them as if they were addled. “That’s what I came to tell you,” he explained patiently. “Tina wanted to take Father’s birlinn out to meet Uncle Erik, but Ranald wouldn’t let her.”

  “For God’s sake!” Bella exclaimed, covering her mouth in horror.

  Erik tugged on his father’s sleeve. “Isn’t that a blasphemy, Father?”

  “Don’t worry,” Lachlan said to her, saving some kind of explanation to Erik for later. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Bella nodded, collapsing in the nearest chair. The four-year-old blond-haired, green-eyed pirate-in-the-making thought she could sail a ship—with her two-year-old brother Robert, no less, as her second-in-command. She could probably do it, too. The little termagant would be the death of her. Their daughter had been named after both her famous Aunt Christina of the Isles as well as Tor MacLeod’s wife, who’d become one of Bella’s closest friends in the past six years, but the Viking blood of her ancestors coursed strongly through her veins.

  Hand in hand, father and son strode out of the hall. Lachlan with the predatory grace she’d always admired, and Erik with a swagger that in not too many years would break countless hearts.

  How she loved them. After years of hardship, fortune had smiled on her indeed. She’d thought when she hadn’t quickened with child for so many years after Joan that she was barren. But she’d discovered that she was pregnant with Erik not long after they’d returned from Berwick.

  At the time, the little boy had been a ray of light in more ways than one.

  She pushed aside the sad thoughts and walked back to the window. She smiled, seeing Lachlan tossing Robbie up in the air with Erik and Tina chasing circles around him in the sand. So much for the new clothes she’d dressed them in. Unable to resist the lure of her family and a rare sunny day in December, she hurried out of the Hall to join them.

  But as soon as Bella stepped out of the entry, she caught sight of the sail. She froze at the top of the stairs as the birlinn with its hawk-carved bow sailed effortlessly into the sea-loch.

  She was here. Bella closed her eyes, giving a silent prayer of thanks. After all these years, Joan was finally here.

  The swell of emotion hit her hard, landing with a thud against her chest. Tears glistened in her eyes.

  She gripped the wooden rail like a lifeline as she slowly descended the steps. But when Joan stepped onto the jetty and began walking toward her, Bella gave up all pretense of composure. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks as her legs carried her faster and faster.

  Joan looked up. She was so beautiful. The promise of beauty had been fulfilled in the gorgeous young woman who met her gaze. And when a broad smile of joy broke out across that serenely beautiful face, Bella knew that everything was going to be all right.

  Her daughter had come back to her. A daughter who was more like she than she’d ever imagined. Perhaps better than anyone, Bella understood the choice Joan had made. Why she’d done what she had. But nearly ten years of sacrifice was over; the rest of their lives would be for them.

  Dropping the hand of the man at her side, Joan ran the last few feet and launched herself into Bella’s arms.

  They laughed, cried, and experienced every kind of joy in between.

  They had so much to say to each other, but it could wait. They had time.

  Eventually, Bella held her out to look at her. “You are well.”

  Joan smiled. “Very well.”

  Bella didn’t miss the glance she gave to the man who stood beside Hawk on the jetty. She was relieved to see there didn’t seem to be any lingering animosity between the English knight and the Gall-Gaedhil seafarer. She hoped Lachlan, too, would keep his promise to be nice.

  The children peeked out from behind Lachlan’s legs, not quite knowing what to make of the scene.

  “Why is mother crying?” Tina asked her father.

  “Because she’s happy.” Lachlan’s eyes met hers, and he smiled. “Very happy. Come, little ones, it’s time to meet your sister.”

  As Bella watched her children come together, at long last her happiness was complete.

  It had all been worth it.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The character of Lachlan is a compilation of the actual Lachlan (or Roland, as he is sometimes called) MacRuairi and his brother Ruairi—both bastard sons of Alan of Garmoran. Historians seem to agree that the MacRuairis were the wildest and most lawless of the descendants of Somerled, who’d inherited the “piratical tendencies of the Vikings” (R. Andrew MacDonald, The Kingdom of the Isles, Tuckwell Press, 2002, pg. 190).

  Lachlan is referred to as “a ‘sinister figure,’ and a ‘buccaneering predator’ who ‘played solely for his own hand.’ ” (See MacDonald, pg. 190, and G.W.S. Barrow, Robert Bruce, Edinburgh University Press, 2005, pg. 377.) As Barrow describes him: “A shadowy figure, Lachlan flits in and out of the record of the Anglo-Scottish war, always in the background, always a troublemaker. He defied in turn and with impunity King John, Edward I, the Guardians and the earl of Ross. In his own esteem he may well have ranked as a king of the Isles …” (Barrow, pg. 377).

  With references like that, it was hard not to be intrigued. Talk about the makings of a perfect “bad boy” hero!

  Lachlan was said to be married to John of Lorn’s daughter, whose given name is not known. In keeping with my attempt to use appropriate clan names, I borrowed the name Juliana from her aunt who was married to Alexander MacDonald (Angus Og’s brother).

  The battle at Kentra Bay in 1297 was reputedly fought between Lachlan MacRuairi and the English. The setup by John of Lorn, however, is my invention. Lachlan did spend some time in a MacDonald prison, and the MacDougalls gave him refuge after he escaped. But sometime shortly afterward he switched allegiance from the MacDougalls to the MacDonalds, which got my imagination going. It sounded like the perfect makings of a betrayal.

  In contrast to the piratical MacRuairis, Isabella MacDuff, Countess of Buchan, has gone down in history as one of the great Scottish heroines. Married to John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan (who was decades older than she), at an early age, she escaped from her husband (some say on his stolen horses) and raced to Scone to crown Bruce, arriving a day late. A second ceremony was indeed held, demonstrating how important tradition was to establish the legitimacy of Bruce’s claim.

  Technically, the chief of the Clan MacDuff had the right to enthrone Scotland’s kings by leading them to the stone of destiny (which had been removed by Edward I). Significantly, crowning was not part of the ceremony prior to this time. The absence of a coronation in the ceremony along with the king not being anointed were arguments used by Edward to show that the Scots were sub-kings to England. For simplicity, I used crowning and enthronement interchangeably.

  Why Isabella risked so much for Bruce is unclear. There were rumors, as I alluded to, of her being Bruce’s lover. I suppose it’s possible, but it seems more like English propaganda to me, especially since the queen and Isabella were traveling together when they were taken. But Bruce did have a number of bastards.

  When Bruce’s fortunes fell after his loss at the battle of Methven, so, too, did Isabella’s. Most historians agree that the women were with Bruce until the battle of Dal Righ, where he o
rdered them to the safety of Kildrummy while he and his men fled west. Why the women left Kildrummy is unclear, but they were captured in Tain, betrayed by the Earl of Ross, who violated sanctuary to take them.

  Kildrummy Castle fell not long after the women escaped. As I described, the garrison was betrayed by the blacksmith who set fire to grain that was being stored temporarily in the Great Hall. Nigel Bruce was captured, as was Robert Boyd, who apparently managed to escape. Nigel, however, was executed (the third of Bruce’s brothers to be killed in a year). The English did indeed pay the blacksmith his gold by pouring it down his throat.

  For her part in Bruce’s coronation, Isabella MacDuff was imprisoned in a cage and hung from a tower at Berwick Castle. Those who read French can see a link on my website to Edward’s actual order for imprisoning the women.

  How long Isabella was forced to endure her cruel captivity is not known, but it might have been as long as four years. She was eventually transferred to the convent at the monastery of Mount Carmel, but what happened to her afterward is unclear. Most likely she died in the convent, as she was not returned with the other women after the war. I did find one account of an escape, however, which I thought the most satisfying, if not the most likely, of endings for such a great heroine.

  Although there was no evidence that Buchan attempted to divorce Isabella, it doesn’t seem illogical. He made no attempt to influence Edward to lessen her punishment. Indeed, some sources suggest he wanted her executed. The dissolution of marriage in medieval times is an extremely complicated subject, with experts disagreeing on just how prevalent it might have been. You can read more about it if you are interested in the “Special Features” section of my website.

  Isabella and Buchan probably didn’t have any children, although I did come across one instance of a daughter named Isabel. Conveniently for my story, Buchan died in 1308 while Isabella was still in captivity. Although the connection with Lachlan is fiction, I thought she deserved a happy ending.

  The fate of the other women is much clearer. Bruce’s sister Christina (the widow of the Earl of Mar and Christopher Seton) was taken to Sixhills nunnery. Queen Elizabeth got off fairly easy—probably because of the influence of her father, the Earl of Ulster—and was placed under house arrest in Burstwick. Bruce’s young daughter Marjory, by his first wife Isabella of Mar, was originally slated for a cage in the Tower of London. When Edward relented, she was taken to Walton priory. Mary, Bruce’s young sister, suffered a similar fate to that of Isabella, ordered to a cage in Roxburgh Castle.