She held his gaze for a long time. “You’re a liar, Lachlan MacRuairi. You can lie to me, but don’t lie to yourself.”
Without another word, she picked up her clothes, pulled them on, and left him alone to the dark hammering of his own heart.
Bella waited for him to change his mind. From the time Sir Alex woke her in the early hours of the morning to ride the short distance to the coast, to the anxious minutes she waited in darkness while the men swam in the frigid waters of the sea to steal a galley out from under the noses of the sleeping English soldiers who commanded it, to the long hours being battered by the wind and waves as the three men struggled to man a ship usually sailed by ten times that number, she told herself Lachlan would admit the truth.
He cared for her. It wasn’t just lust between them. She knew the difference, and what they’d shared was nothing like what she’d known before.
He pretended to be a mocking brigand who didn’t care about anything, but she knew it was just a mask. He cared far more than he let on—about her and the men he fought with. He wouldn’t turn his back on them.
Even when they finally arrived at Dunstaffnage Castle late that evening to a hero’s welcome from Robert and a small contingent of his men, she convinced herself it wasn’t too late. Lachlan wouldn’t let her down. He wouldn’t deny the promise of what lay between them. He wouldn’t just walk away from her. Not after all they’d been through together. Not after what they’d shared. It wasn’t lust, but two people making love. The connection was real.
This couldn’t be the end.
He was scared, she told herself, confused. Just give him time.
But it turned out time was the one thing she didn’t have.
They’d been ushered into a small solar off the Great Hall and given food and drink while Lachlan reported on all that had happened. In addition to herself, Lachlan, Boyd, Seton, and the king, four other men sat around the trestle table. The oldest, Sir Neil Campbell, one of Bruce’s closest advisors, was well known to her from the months they’d spent in hiding in the hills of Atholl after Methven. The most forbidding, Tor MacLeod, a West Highland chief from the Isle of Skye, and the tall, devilishly handsome Norseman, Erik MacSorley, she recalled from that time as well. They’d stuck out as unusual, and now she could guess why. They must be part of this secret band of warriors.
The fourth man, Arthur Campbell, Sir Neil’s much younger brother, was a stranger to her. Although he seemed to fit the imaginary criteria she’d constructed in her mind for Bruce’s secret army: tall, muscular, and formidable-looking—not to mention unusually attractive—she couldn’t be sure whether he was part of the group as well. From what she could gather, Sir Arthur had been fighting for the enemy and had been made keeper of Dunstaffnage Castle on his recent marriage to Anna MacDougall, the Lord of Lorn’s daughter.
Lachlan did not leave anything out. Despite her protest, he assumed full blame for the disaster that had nearly befallen them in Roxburgh and their ensuing capture in Peebles. Though the king let him continue uninterrupted, Bella, who was seated next to him, could tell Robert wasn’t pleased to hear what had transpired. All of the men exchanged uneasy glances when Lachlan spoke of the soldier’s intention to question her about him.
“By the rood! What were you thinking?” The king was furious. “I knew it was a bad idea to let you go.”
Bella tried to explain again. “I’m afraid I am to blame for what happened, Sire. I refused to return to Scotland until I’d seen my daughter. Lachlan ordered me to stay away from the castle, but I disobeyed him. None of this is his fault.”
“He was in charge,” Robert said angrily. “It was his mission.”
She could see the big Norseman eyeing Lachlan speculatively. “I must say I’m surprised. It isn’t like you to be so amenable, cousin.”
Bella was surprised to hear they were kinsmen. Although they were of similar build, the two men couldn’t have been more different. Blond, blue-eyed, and good-humored, with a charm that was unmistakable, Erik MacSorley was the light to Lachlan’s dark.
Lachlan shot him a glare of warning, but the other man simply grinned.
Bella’s cheeks warmed, guessing the cause for his amusement.
The king put his hand on hers, perhaps sensing her embarrassment. “We will speak of this later,” he said, looking right at Lachlan. He turned back to her. “The important thing is that you are safe. For two years I have prayed for this day. Knowing what you and the others were enduring…” He paused, clearing the emotion from his throat. “Having you returned gives me hope that I will be welcoming the rest of my family home soon.” His eyes darkened. “Edward will rot in hell for what he has done to you—and to Mary. I owe you a debt that can never be repaid. I would give you a celebration worthy of your sacrifice if I could.”
Bella shook her head. “The fewer people who know of my release, the better. At least until my daughter is safely returned to me.”
The king looked away uncomfortably. “You will stay here until we decide what is to be done,” he said to her with a glance to Sir Arthur.
“I would be honored, my lady,” Arthur said with a bow of his head. “My wife will welcome the company.”
Bella nodded gratefully, hearing the sincerity in his voice.
The king stood, still holding her hand. It was as if he thought she might disappear if he let her go. She felt the heat of Lachlan’s glare and glanced in his direction. The look of predatory intent was so fierce, for a moment she thought he would pounce across the table and rip her from the king’s grasp.
But he quickly masked the emotion and looked away. Only the hard tic below his jaw betrayed his flash of anger. He was jealous.
“It’s late,” the king said. “You must be exhausted. We can speak more of this in the morning.”
The rest of the men stood and followed them out of the solar. Bella warmed herself by the fire while Sir Arthur fetched a servant to see her to her room. One by one, the men came over to bid her good night and give her some combination of a welcome home and an expression of gratitude for what she’d done. All, that is, except for Lachlan.
This should have been a joyous occasion. For what was probably the first time since she’d left Balvenie Castle nearly three years ago, she was safe.
But she didn’t feel safe, she felt lost. Even though they’d been in constant danger, hunted across the Marches and nearly imprisoned, she’d felt safe since the first time Lachlan had dragged her in the bushes and tucked her under his arm. He’d been her tether, the constant by her side, and without him it felt as if she were flailing in a storm-tossed sea. She’d come to…
