The Saint (16 page)

It hadn’t taken him long to realize what was happening. Munro obviously had decided that Gordon’s death had opened the bloody floodgates to include him as a potential suitor for Helen.

The irony was not lost on him. The man who Magnus had made a hurdle to conquer before he could ask Helen to marry him now thought to marry her himself.

Magnus clenched his jaw. Oh, it was ironic all right.

But why the hell was he letting this bother him? He should be glad of it. Whatever else he thought of Munro, he couldn’t fault his warrior’s skills. Munro would protect her. He would keep her safe, and Magnus would have no reason to feel guilty. A husband would absolve him of his promise to Gordon. There was probably no cause for concern as it was. Gordon’s identity as a member of the Highland Guard hadn’t been compromised.

But Munro, damn it. He couldn’t stand the thought of them—

“Is everything to your liking, my lord?”

Hell no!
Magnus stopped the thought from becoming words and turned to the woman seated to his left. Realizing he was scowling, he forced a smile to his face. “Aye, thank you, Lady Muriel. Everything is delicious.”

It was the truth. However awkward their arrival yesterday, Helen had acquitted herself well as hostess today. The feast was magnificent, offering nothing to find fault with the young lady of the keep.

He wasn’t surprised. Helen’s enthusiasm and
joie de vivre
were contagious. She made every day feel like a feast day. A prized quality for a chatelaine. Ironically, the role had never seemed to interest her much. But she’d matured.

In some ways.

But when he thought of yesterday, the way her face had lit up with happiness when she’d seen him, how she’d
blurted out the first thought in her head, it was exactly how she’d been as a girl.

She’d even looked like the Helen he remembered. Her fiery auburn hair pinned haphazardly atop her head, her skirts muddy and wrinkled. Hell, he’d even noticed a few freckles smattered across her nose. And that smile …

It had lit up her whole face.

His chest grew tight. Damn it. Did she have to wear her emotions so plainly? Why couldn’t she be a little circumspect just once?

But that wasn’t her. It never had been. Helen’s openness was one of the first things he loved—

He stopped the thought. He
had
loved about her.

“Don’t mind him,” MacGregor said from Lady Muriel’s other side. “Surliness is part of his charm.” He grinned. “I blame it on the arm.”

The lady immediately grew concerned. “Helen spoke of your injury. The bones in the arm, especially near the shoulder, can cause pain for a long time—”

“I’m fine,” Magnus said with a glare to MacGregor. “The bones have healed well. Lady Helen did a fine job. You’ve taught your pupil well.”

She shook her head, a wry smile curving her mouth. “Helen gives me too much credit. She is a natural healer—her instincts are pure. Her optimism is a great gift for a healer; it helps her get through the difficult times. She has an unusual aptitude for what I call blood and gore—the trade of a barber surgeon on the battlefield. My father would have been beside himself. I was a much slower learner.”

Magnus held her gaze. “Aye, I’ve seen what you speak of. She has a gift.”

He could tell she wanted to question him further, but politeness prevented her from doing so. “I will give Helen something to rub on your arm after you—”

Good God!
“Nay!”

The thought of Helen’s hands on him …

He’d been in too much pain to notice when she’d treated his wounds, but the memories were enough to drive him mad. In the middle of the night, when his thoughts had nowhere to hide.

When his body grew tight, hot, and hard. Painfully hard.

Lady Muriel’s eyes widened at the intensity of his reaction.

The blood had leeched from his face, but returned quickly when he realized how loudly he’d spoken. A number of eyes were turned in his direction, especially those on the dais.

MacGregor was staring at him with a strange expression on his face—as if he’d just made a connection Magnus didn’t want him to make.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, attempting to smooth the gaffe. “That isn’t necessary.”

She nodded, eyeing him cautiously.

He’d scared her, he realized. Feeling like an arse, he would have attempted to put her at ease, but MacGregor had already drawn the lass’s attention back to him—where in Magnus’s experience it was likely to stay. Once MacGregor let his interest be known in a lass, it wasn’t often that it wasn’t returned.

The healer wasn’t as flamboyantly beautiful and young as the women MacGregor usually flirted with, but she was pretty in a reserved fashion. And she seemed to be enjoying the attention. He heard her laugh at something no doubt outrageous that MacGregor whispered in her ear.

But Magnus made the mistake of turning his head and caught Munro doing the same thing to Helen. Their blasted shoulders were touching.

Magnus’s fist clenched his goblet. He fought the reflexive surge of anger and forced his gaze away, only to meet that of another.

Kenneth Sutherland was watching him, and if his narrowed gaze was any indication, he hadn’t missed Magnus’s
reaction. But instead of the taunting smile that Magnus expected, Sutherland appeared surprised, apparently noticing for the first time what had taken Magnus only a few minutes to conclude: Munro wanted Helen.

And Sutherland didn’t look happy about it.

Magnus recalled that he hadn’t been the only one to suffer the sting of Munro’s arrogant taunts and humiliations. Sutherland had as well. Probably more so, since Magnus had only had the misfortune of seeing Munro at the Highland Games.

They might not agree about anything else, but apparently he and Sutherland were of one mind when it came to Donald Munro.

It was damned unsettling. He didn’t like to think he and Sutherland had anything in common.

Although, of course, there had been Gordon. Sutherland was the friend of his boyhood and Magnus of his manhood. Magnus tried not to think about it.

He returned his attention to the conversation next to him. The healer and his friend were talking about MacGregor’s miraculous arrow. That particular battle wound had already earned the famed archer an endless supply of feminine appreciation. Lady Muriel, however, was more sophisticated than his usual audience. Rather than ooh and ah, and flutter her eyelashes at him as if every word from his mouth were gilded, she told him that he was very lucky in the Englishman’s aim.

“What is the most dangerous surgery that you’ve performed?” MacGregor asked her.

Lady Muriel paused for a minute, considering. When Helen did that, she had a tendency to bite her lip.

He was doing it again, damn it.

“It was about a year ago, after the battle at Barra Hill.”

“You were there?” Magnus asked, surprised. Though it wasn’t uncommon for a tent or castle near the battle site to be set aside to tend the wounded, he wouldn’t have thought
a man of Lord Nicholas de Corwenne’s repute would allow his daughter to be so close to danger.

Barra Hill had been one of the most deadly battles in Bruce’s war. He’d chased John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, from the battlefield and laid waste to the countryside with thoroughness that was still talked about today. It would be some time before the “hership of Buchan” was forgotten.

“Aye, my father usually brought me along when he was attending the earl. He believed the best learning was done by experience. He was right.” Her eyes grew distant and a wistful smile played upon her lips. He could tell she was remembering her father fondly. He must have died not long ago, Magnus realized.

“What happened?” MacGregor asked.

“A man took a war hammer to the head, breaking a bone in his skull and causing blood to build up underneath. I had to bore a small hole into his skull to relieve the pressure.”

“He survived?” MacGregor asked.

She nodded. “He returned to his wife and five children with a dent in his head and a story to tell.”

Crushed skulls were a common injury in battle, Magnus knew. As was trepanning, the method to treat them. It just wasn’t often that it was a success.

“A fine feast, Lady Helen,” the king said loudly, drawing their attention to the center of the table. “Your brother is fortunate to have a sister who is not only a skilled healer but also an admirable chatelaine.”

Helen dimpled with pleasure at the praise, her flawless ivory skin tinged a becoming pink. “Thank you, Sire.”

Bruce returned her smile. “Though perhaps your brother won’t be calling upon those skills much longer.”

Magnus knew of what Bruce spoke, but Munro did not. Assuming the king spoke of Helen’s marriage, the Sutherland henchman stiffened with offense. Munro hid it well, but Magnus was watching him carefully and saw the flare
of barely concealed animosity leveled at the king. Magnus knew exactly how much the proud warrior must hate to have to bow to his enemy—he would hate it, too.

“The lady has suffered a recent loss,” Munro said pointedly, a protective hand on her arm that Magnus wanted to rip off.

“I’m well aware of the lady’s loss,” the king said sharply. “But Lady Helen wasn’t of whom I spoke.” His gaze slid to the earl.

Sir William didn’t seem surprised by the king’s suggestion, but the tight smile on his face indicated it was not a welcome one. For some reason, the earl’s gaze flickered to Magnus’s. Nay, not his, he realized, but to Lady Muriel’s. But she didn’t notice, as her head was down-turned and her gaze fixed on her lap. He’d noticed the tension between the earl and the healer on their arrival, but he wondered if there was something more to it. From the death glare the earl was shooting at MacGregor, Magnus suspected there was.

“There will be plenty of time over the next week to discuss such matters.” Having planted his seed, Bruce changed the subject. “Lady Helen, I believe you said there would be dancing?”

Helen nodded, looking troubled. “Aye, my lord.” She motioned for the pipers and harpist to ready. “But a week? I understood you would be at Dunrobin a fortnight.”

Magnus pretended not to notice that her gaze kept flickering to him.

“Aye, that was our original intention, but we were delayed in leaving Kildrummy and thus must shorten our stay. I’ve many stops to make before the Games at Dunstaffnage. I hope that you will be attending this year, Sir William?”

It was more of a command than an invitation. The earl gave a short nod. “Aye, my men are looking forward to it.”

“Very much,” Munro added. “After four years without a
new champion, the men are eager to take their rightful place.”

Magnus didn’t react to the challenge that he knew had been issued to him. Munro’s defeat had been festering for four years; he would want to come after Magnus with everything he had.

“A rather bold boast, Munro, given the level of competition.” The king’s gaze met Magnus’s; he was obviously amused. “I hope your men are prepared to defend your words?”

“More than prepared,” Munro said with his usual arrogance.

“Will you be competing, my lord?” Helen asked.

Magnus realized she was speaking to him.

He was forced to look at her. Their eyes met. He knew exactly what she was thinking about. The same thing he was thinking about. What had happened the last time he’d competed. How he’d foolishly thought she’d wanted the same thing he did. How he’d handed her his heart, and she’d thrown it back in his face.

“I’m sorry.”
He heard her words again.
“I can’t …”

His mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “Nay, my duties will not permit it this year.”

None of the Highland Guard would be competing. Bruce and MacLeod thought it would invite too many comparisons and questions.

“Oh,” Helen said softly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Munro’s gaze bit into him like acid. He put his hand over Helen’s. The fact that she didn’t look very happy about the possessive gesture didn’t do anything to calm the blood surging to Magnus’s temples.

“Perhaps MacKay is not so anxious to lose his crown?” Munro said. “If he quits now, he will never be forced to give it up.”

The slur demanded retribution. Magnus knew it as well as Munro did. He wanted Magnus to challenge him. And
Magnus would have liked nothing better than to give him his wish. But Bruce prevented him. “I believe your henchman is still sensitive about his last loss, Sir William,” the king said with a laugh. “As I recall, MacKay beat you rather handily, didn’t he?”

Munro’s face turned an unhealthy shade of red. Before he could respond, Helen stood. “Come, the music is starting.”

Helen barely managed to avert disaster by leading Donald in the first reel. For a moment, she thought he might challenge the king himself. Will had been so relieved, he’d actually shot her a look of gratitude.

But no sooner had the dance ended than she threaded her way back through the crowd of celebrating clansmen to find Magnus.

One week! How was she supposed to win him back in one week?

It seemed impossible, especially with the way he’d been looking at her during the meal. It was as if she’d done something wrong. Made yet another mistake. She’d wanted to impress him in her temporary role as lady, and instead she felt as if she’d done something to anger him. She’d thought everything had gone so well. Donald had been a bit of a bother, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

She returned to the dais, finding the table empty. Taking advantage of the raised platform, she looked around the room. Her brothers were standing with the king and a few of his knights near the enormous fireplace watching the dancers while the servants kept their goblets full. The rogue MacGregor had convinced Muriel to join him on the dance floor, but Magnus was nowhere to be seen. She scanned the room again.

Her heart dropped when she finally found him. He was near the entry to the Hall with his back toward her, looking as if he’d been about to leave. But his path had been
blocked. By Donald. She didn’t need to hear what he was saying to know that it wasn’t good. Every muscle in Magnus’s body was coiled and ready to strike.