The Viper Read online

  “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