They stood there staring at each other in silence for a long heartbeat. Her chest rose and fell with the unevenness of her breath. He didn’t appear to notice, but to her shame, her nipples tightened and her breasts filled with a strange heaviness. He flinched as if with pain, but recovered quickly.
When he spoke, his voice was once again even and dispassionate. Indifferent. Not laced with…fear? Nay, it couldn’t have been fear. Fear would mean he cared. But Lachlan MacRuairi was incapable of caring about anyone.
“Next time, do what I say and there won’t be any problems.”
Angry tears pricked her eyes. How dare he try to blame this on her! She hadn’t wandered off and gotten herself captured. Those men had obviously been lying in wait for them. They would have taken her whether she’d been in his sight or not. “Maybe if you do your job a little better there won’t be a next time.”
She regretted her words before they’d left her mouth. It was just as unfair to him as his anger had been to her. He’d been protecting her, not scouting ahead for danger. MacKay had been scouting, but they’d anticipated being followed, not having men waiting ahead of them this close to Scone.
He cocked a brow. Rather than anger him, her remark seemed to have impressed him. “Keep up that spirit, Countess. You’re going to need it.”
Her mouth clenched. She hated when he talked to her like that. As if he knew something she didn’t. The cold, calculating mercenary to her naive idealist. It was easy to be cynical when you didn’t believe in anything.
Her fists balled at her side, resisting the urge to slap that mocking look off his face. “Go to hell, MacRuairi.”
He laughed. “You’re too late, Countess. I’ve already been there.” His eyes dipped infinitesimally, his expression as hard as ice. “For Christ’s sake, put some clothes on.”
If he meant to shame her with her nakedness, it didn’t work. She’d lost her modesty long ago. Her husband had forced her to stand before him naked for hours, commenting about every inch of her body, touching her, telling her in crude detail what he wanted to do to her, trying to humiliate and force some emotion from her. She was invulnerable. These naked breasts, hips, and limbs weren’t her. MacRuairi didn’t see her at all.
Refusing to shrink from the scorn in his voice, Bella held her head high and walked—not ran—back to the edge of the loch. She could feel his gaze on her as she dressed, but when she glanced at him, his face was a stony mask.
When she’d finished, she followed him back to the horses in silence. Everything, it seemed, had been said.
But when she saw the half-dozen men he’d killed—single-handedly—she stopped with a horrified gasp.
He mistook her shock for condemnation. “War, Countess, in all of its vivid color. Get used to it—you’ll be seeing a lot more.”
She slammed her mouth shut, having been about to thank him for what he’d done to save her. Why bother? He would probably only yell at her again or taunt her with that barbed tongue of his.
Even if at times it seemed differently, Lachlan MacRuairi was a mean, vicious scourge, and she’d do well to remember it.
But she finally understood why Robert had hired him. She might question his loyalty, but a man who could kill so effectively was a valuable addition to any army.
MacKay caught up with them about an hour later, but she and MacRuairi didn’t speak again.
When they finally arrived at the Scone Abbey, it was to the disappointing news that the coronation had taken place two days before, on the Hill of Credulity. But their disappointment was short-lived. A second ceremony was being held—a secret ceremony set amongst the ancient stones of the Druids. If they hurried, they might make it.
With MacRuairi leading, the three raced across the countryside, traveling the short distance east from Scone Abbey through Scone Wood to the circle of stones. The setting chosen by Bruce for the ceremony did not surprise her. Edward had stolen Scotland’s famous Stone of Destiny, the traditional seat upon which its kings were enthroned, ten years before. The Druids’ stones were a link to Scotland’s past, and a symbol—just as she was—of the strength and continuity of the realm.
The haunting drone of the pipers drifted through the wind, stirring the soul, as they crested the hill and the stone circle came into view. Bella sucked in her breath, awed by the sight before her. Golden rays of sunlight streamed like fingers between the mysterious stones, as if the hand of God himself were reaching down from heaven to bless this sacred event.
Robert stood before the largest stone, magnificently attired in his royal vestments. Only a handful of witnesses were gathered around him. She recognized William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, at his left, but not the formidable-looking warrior to his right. As they came to a stop, she noticed Christina Fraser among the gathering of warriors lined up before him.
Ignoring MacRuairi’s attempt to help her down—and the resulting look of fury on his face—Bella hopped off her horse and hurried toward Robert. “Your Grace,” she said, with a curtsy. “I came as soon as I could. I hope I am not too late?”
She couldn’t resist the pointed look at MacRuairi, nor the resulting satisfaction when his mouth tightened.
Robert gave her the broad, brotherly smile that had earned her eternal loyalty all those years ago. “Nay, Bella, not too late. Never too late. Not when you have risked so much to be here.”
Bella smiled back at him. She might never want to see Lachlan MacRuairi again, but at least he’d done his job. He’d gotten her here in time.
A short while later Bella stood opposite Scotland’s last hope, the man she believed in with all her heart, and listened to the bishop recite his descent from the great King Kenneth MacAlpin, the first King of Scots, establishing Robert’s lineage and right to the throne. When the bishop had finished, Bella stepped forward—the MacDuff brooch displayed prominently on her cloak—to take her place in history, claiming the hereditary right held by her family: the right to crown a king.
The bishop handed her the crown. The weight of responsibility felt heavy in her hands; she knew the import of what she was about to do.
But when the moment came, Bella did not pause or hesitate. Hands steady, she lifted the circlet of gold high in the air, letting the sun catch it in a halo of blazing light before setting it upon Robert’s head. With the full force of her ancestors behind her and the absolute certainty in the righteousness of the cause for which she’d defied a husband and a king, Bella repeated the words that had been said two days earlier, “Beannachd De Righ Alban.” God Bless the King of Scotland. The words might be the same as those said at the first ceremony, but there was one important difference: this time they’d been said by a MacDuff.
Bella felt a wave of relief crash over her. It wasdone. There was no going back.
