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  She smothered a shiver of fear and turned back to consoling her cousin, pushing aside thoughts of Lachlan MacRuairi. She’d heard little of the brigand since the coronation—not that she’d been listening for word of him. With the way the war had been going, the opportunistic pirate had probably changed sides already.

  She clenched her jaw. The only thing she should be thinking about was getting to safety so that she could find a way to get her daughter back. Four months seemed an eternity. But at least Joan hadn’t been forced to marry. Bella’s “treason” had taken care of that threat.

  She stroked her cousin’s hair, as the terrified girl wept on her shoulder.

  “What will become of us?” Margaret sobbed. “How will we make it to Kildrummy with only a handful of men to protect us?”

  Bella didn’t say anything. What could she say, when she didn’t know? The king sending the women away with only a small band of knights to protect them sounded terrifying to her as well.

  Her cousin lifted her head, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “I’ve never even heard of the man who will be leading us. Lachlan Mac … Mac—”

  Bella stiffened. “MacRuairi?”

  Her cousin nodded furiously. “That’s it—do you know him?”

  Her mouth fell in a grim line. “He was one of the men who brought me from Balvenie.”

  In the months of frustration and forced separation from her daughter—her husband had dared her to try to come and fetch her—Bella had told her cousin most of what had happened. The heartbreak hadn’t lessened; it had only grown worse as each day of their separation passed. She dared not ask herself when she would see her daughter again; the answer was too painful to contemplate.

  But at least Joan knew Bella had not intentionally left her behind. A few weeks after the coronation, Robert told her that a message had been taken to her daughter. He wouldn’t tell her the details but assured her Joan had been told everything. Bella had been touched by the king’s thoughtfulness.

  Margaret gasped. “The one who lied to you about Joan?”

  She nodded, and her cousin looked appropriately horrorstruck.

  Bella couldn’t believe it either. Not only was the king sending them away, he was entrusting his family to a man who made no qualms about being loyal only to his purse. MacRuairi’s untrustworthiness wasn’t her only objection. After their last meeting, she didn’t want to have to rely on him again for her safety—or for anything, for that matter. And perhaps most significantly, she didn’t like her own reaction to him.

  Lachlan MacRuairi made her uneasy.

  “Don’t worry, cousin, I’ll speak to Robert and get to the bottom of this. There must be some mistake.”

  Leaving Margaret with the task of gathering their meager belongings, Bella went in search of the king.

  He wasn’t at the King’s Hall—how the army had taken to referring to the royal hut. After Queen Elizabeth confirmed Margaret’s story, she directed Bella to the banks of the loch where what was left of the king’s army camped.

  Bella hurried to the loch. But the sight that met her only increased her anxiousness. What was left of the army was in disarray. Perhaps only two hundred men remained, many of them wounded and bleeding, some with limbs barely attached, lying on the ground where they’d collapsed or been dumped after yesterday’s retreat.

  The stench was horrible. She covered her mouth to try not to retch. She should be used to it. But the scent of blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids simmering together in a sickly mess was something she didn’t think she’d ever get used to.

  Men were rushing everywhere. Tearing down tents. Packing their belongings. They didn’t notice her. Or if they did, they were too busy to care. The army was disbanding, fleeing for their lives. Sweet Mary, how could this have happened?

  Finally, she caught sight of Edward Bruce. She didn’t much like Robert’s younger brother. Quick-tempered, volatile, and arrogant, Sir Edward was nearly his brother’s equal on the battlefield, but he lacked Robert’s gallantry and natural chivalry.

  “The king,” she asked. “Where is he? I must speak with him.”

  Edward’s eyes slid over her. Though the hard, ebony-like gaze betrayed nothing, she sensed the crude thoughts. “He’s busy. What do you need? Perhaps I can give it to you?”

  Her eyes narrowed, hearing the suggestion in his words if not his tone. She knew what was being said. The vicious lies started by her husband as a basis for setting her aside had spread even through their own camp. That Edward Bruce would even hint at Buchan’s lies infuriated her. He should know better.

  “I need the king,” she said in a tone that suggested a substitute—especially a younger brother—would not do. She knew how sensitive Edward was to comparisons to his royal brother. “It’s important.”

  He gave her a scathing look; her jab had struck. “He’s over there.” He pointed to a circle of men standing apart from the rest near the shieling that was housing the king’s precious few war horses. “But I’d wait until he’s done.”

  The king looked to be in an important meeting. She recognized some of Robert’s most trusted knights: Sir Neil Campbell, Sir James Douglas, the Earl of Atholl, and a few others, including William Gordon and Magnus MacKay.

  Though the sight of the last two men always pleased her, and she’d enjoyed speaking to them when their paths had crossed over the past few months, something about their place in the king’s army confused her. For ordinary men-at-arms, they seemed to keep unusually important company.

  She often saw them with a few other men, including one who seemed unusually close in the king’s confidence: a West Highland chieftain from the Isle of Skye named Tor MacLeod.

  Something about these men stood out. Not just their impressive size and strength—Highlanders were a tall, muscular lot—but the command and air of authority that surrounded them.

  They ate with the other regular men-at-arms, barracked with them, and fought beside them, but then they would disappear for days, even weeks, on end without explanation. It was odd.

  She followed Edward’s advice. Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait. The meeting broke up a few minutes later, and the men started to disperse. All except for one.

  She felt a strange shock reverberate through her. Her heart pounded hard in her chest. Lachlan MacRuairi hadn’t changed in the months since she’d seen him last. If anything, he only looked more disreputable. His hair was longer, his jaw more stubbled, his black leather cotun dustier and stained with blood, and he appeared to have added a few weapons to the armory already strapped to his back.

  His face, too, looked leaner and harder.

  But if anything, it only added to his dangerous appeal.

  Her mouth pursed with annoyance. Obviously, some things hadn’t changed. The brigand was still a handsome devil who exuded some kind of base masculine virility. And if the erratic race of her heart meant anything, she still noticed it.

  She needed to put a stop to this. Set-aside wife or not, her inexplicable attraction to Lachlan MacRuairi was wrong. She’d had enough trouble in her life; she didn’t need any more from a notorious pirate bastard who looked at her as if all she was good for was what she could do to pleasure him. And she knew exactly how to do that. She’d been instructed well.

  She crossed the clearing, weaving through the chaos, and approached the shieling from the side. Unsure whether to interrupt, she hoped to catch Robert’s attention, but the two men were too busy arguing to notice her hovering nearby. She didn’t mean to listen, but they weren’t exactly keeping their voices low.

  “Find someone else,” Lachlan bit out. “Put Douglas or Atholl in charge. I’ll serve you better in the west with Hawk.”

  Bella frowned, wondering who this Hawk was, until she realized what he was saying. Then, were the situation not so dire, she would have smiled. MacRuairi was doing the objecting for her. He didn’t want to lead them.

  “I decide how you should serve me, not you. Are you refusing my orders?”