The Saint (22 page)

“Tell me,” he insisted in a low voice.

She bit her lip. “It’s probably nothing. But there were things about the king’s illness … things that reminded me of monkshood.”

She mouthed the last word, but the flare of alarm in her brother’s eyes told her that he’d understood. “I thought you said the king suffered from the sailors’ malady.”

“I did. He did. Probably. But I can’t be certain.”

He swore again and stormed around the room restlessly. She feared that he would be angry with her, but it pleased her to realize that he trusted her skills as a healer enough to accept her suspicions without comment.

It was also clear he was shocked—which relieved her more than she wanted to admit. Her brothers wouldn’t be involved in something so dishonorable. It hadn’t been easy for them to swallow their pride and submit to Bruce, but they’d warmed to the king … hadn’t they?

“You mustn’t say anything to anyone until we are sure.” He grabbed her arm and forced her to meet his gaze. “Do you hear me, Helen? No one. And sure as hell not MacKay. No matter what you think of him or his feelings for you, be clear of one thing: his duty is to the king. If he thinks the king is in danger, he will act first and ask questions later. They don’t trust us as it is. Even the suspicion of something like that would jeopardize our clan. That’s all it is, isn’t it—a suspicion?”

She nodded. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. The king seems to be improving with the change in diet.”

He nodded. “Then we shall hope he continues to improve. But promise me to tell no one.”

“I promise.”

“Good. I will tell Will. It will be up to him as to whether to inform the
meinie
”—her brother’s closest warriors, who formed his retinue. “But I doubt he’ll risk it. The fewer people who know of this, the better.”

Kenneth left to find Will, and Helen made her way down to the kitchen vaults to see to the king’s meal. She thought she probably shouldn’t have said anything, but then again, under the circumstances perhaps it was better to err on the side of caution.

Robert the Bruce was the king, whether her brothers liked it or not. He’d won the people’s hearts by his defeat of the English at Glen Trool and Loudoun Hill, and he was on his way to winning most of Scotland’s barons as well. If he’d come to harm under their care, there would have been repercussions.

It was her other problem, however, that weighed upon her now. Kenneth was right. The dress had been a silly idea. Magnus was not the type of man to be tempted by something so obvious. She vowed to change before the midday meal. And then …

She sighed. Then she’d have to think of something else.

*   *   *

Magnus lingered at the beach. From his rocky seat by the sea, he watched the waves crash against the dark cliffs below the castle, hurling great plumes of water into the air. A few gannets dipped and soared over the water, hunting their next meal.

He savored the rare moment of peace. But the sharp glare of the sun high in the sky reminded him of the hour. He should get back for the midday meal.

Where he would see Helen.

“I love you.”

He pushed the words away and jumped off the rock. It didn’t matter, damn it! Hadn’t she said as much before? Look how well that had turned out for him—three and a half years of misery. She’d left him standing like an arse while she rode away with her damned brothers only to dig her knife even deeper by marrying his closest friend.

But the words had affected him more than he wanted to admit. After nearly three weeks at Dunrobin, including two by her side while she nursed the king, seeing the way she looked at him he could almost believe she meant it—that she regretted what had happened and wanted to make it right.

But it could never be right. Excising Helen from his heart had cost him too much.

Yet no matter how much his body wanted to forget, he flared up like a stallion with a mare in heat whenever she was near. Hiding his reaction in the king’s small chamber had become impossible.

Fortunately, Bruce’s improving health allowed him to spend more of his time away from his bedside—and from Helen. Unfortunately, that meant he was spending more time with her brothers in the training yard.

He grimaced. Kenneth Sutherland was proving to be annoyingly tenacious. He refused to let go of the matter of Gordon’s death. His questions were growing increasingly dangerous, and increasingly closer to the truth. The only way to shut him up, it seemed, was to distract him in the yard.

His boyhood competitor had proved to be distracting to him as well. He frowned, admitting that Sutherland’s skills had improved more than he’d expected. Mindful of the king’s admonition to the Guard not to draw too much attention to their skills, Magnus had kept to sparring and light competition. But ignoring the challenges was getting harder and harder to resist. He longed to shut Sutherland up once and for all.

There was a bright side. At least he wasn’t being forced to endure Munro’s blatant wooing of Helen. The Sutherland henchman had been gone for well over a week searching for the healer. If he stayed away another week or so, he and the king’s party would be gone.

The king was recovering swiftly under Helen’s care. Bruce said he felt better than he had in years, and only Helen’s threats kept him in bed. Hell, Magnus had no liking for vegetables, but perhaps there was something to this peasant diet she’d implemented. The king’s color was healthier than it had been in a long time.

He made his way back to the castle. Unfortunately, the path took him right by the place where he’d come upon Helen and Munro. Seeing the tree where Munro had kissed her sent a primal surge of anger running through him. He should chop the damned thing down.

But the reminder of his weakness only served to further infuriate him. He never should have kissed her. He’d been jealous, he admitted. Blind with jealousy. He hadn’t been thinking rationally.

He wasn’t fool enough to think she would not remarry. It was just Munro, he told himself. He couldn’t stand to see the man who’d humiliated him too many times when he was young—and never missed the opportunity to remind him of it—win her.

It wasn’t a competition. But it sure as hell felt as if he were losing.

The man known for his cool, level-headed temper was in
a foul mood by time he entered the castle. A mood that only got worse when he entered the tower and saw Helen standing by the stairwell.

She wasn’t alone. Munro—the whoreson—was back. But something was wrong—or right, depending on your perspective—the Sutherland henchman had a fierce look on his face and seemed to be fighting for control.

“Don’t be silly,” Helen said. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying a tray—”

“I insist,” Munro said, relieving her of the king’s meal. “You should return to your room and get some rest. You look tired.”

Helen sounded as though she was trying to contain her impatience. “I’m not tired. I told you I’m fine. I need to check on the king.”

“Is there a problem?” Magnus said, making his presence known. His teeth gnashed together; apparently they were too busy to notice him.

Helen turned at the sound of his voice and let out a gasp. A gasp that he very nearly echoed.

Jesus!
He’d taken hammer blows across the chest that had packed less of a wallop.

All he could see were two delicious mounds of creamy white flesh rising above a tight square bodice.

He’d never realized how big …

He’d never imagined how perfect …

How could he? The gowns she usually wore were fashionable, as befitting a lady of her station, but never more than well-made afterthoughts. This gown hugged every inch of her body, revealing curves he hadn’t known existed.

But he knew now. He knew their exact shape and size. He knew that if he cupped her breasts to bring them to his mouth, the soft flesh would spill over his big palms. He knew the depth of the sweet crevice between them and that her nipples rose in delicate little points not half an inch from the edge of the fabric.

And he knew all this because the pink silk gown did very little to hide any part of her.

The watering in his mouth went dry. Suddenly, the reason for Munro’s anger became crystal clear.

A vein Magnus didn’t know he had started to throb by his temple.
Not yours
, he reminded himself. But damn it, if she was, he’d take her to their room and rip the blasted thing in two.

Only the suspicion that the dress was calculated to elicit just that kind of reaction kept him in control. “I’ll take it,” he said. “I was on my way to see the king anyway.”

“That isn’t necessary—” Munro started to say.

“I insist,” Magnus said, an edge of steel in his voice. “The king isn’t seeing visitors.”

Munro didn’t miss the slight. His smile was tight. “Of course.” He handed over the tray.

But on one subject he and Munro could agree. Neither man wanted anyone seeing Helen like this, and for reasons of their own they didn’t want her to know it. “Munro is right,” he said. “Perhaps you should go to your chamber and rest.”
And change that blasted dress
.

Averting his eyes from danger, he kept his gaze firmly on her face and saw the small furrow appear between her pixie brows. Thin and delicately arched, the velvety, dark-brown wisps framing her eyes held only a hint of auburn.

“I’m not tired. I assure you I’ve had plenty of sleep.” She looked back and forth between them as if sensing something else at play. “I will rest later this afternoon.
After
I have seen to the king and the midday meal.”

Magnus’s jaw tightened, as did Munro’s. Giving them no opportunity to object further, she lifted the skirts of her indecent gown and flounced up the stairs. Magnus exchanged a look with Munro and stomped up behind her.

It was going to be a very long meal.

“More ale, Your Grace?”

“Aye, thank you, Lady Helen,” the king said eagerly.

Helen bent over the reclining king to pour the ale into the goblet. The king smiled appreciatively, and she turned to the expressionless man beside him. Holding the jug to her chest in blatant offering, she asked, “Magnus?”

“Nay.” She thought his voice snapped, but then he added pleasantly, “Thank you.”

She looked for any sign that he’d noticed the gown or the swell of flesh threatening to slide out every time she leaned forward, but his face remained perfectly impassive. Her brother was right—she could be naked and he probably wouldn’t notice. The dress had been a foolish waste of time. She’d felt a little nervous donning it—it revealed far more of her bosom than she’d ever shown before—but apparently there had been nothing to worry about. She might have been wearing a monk’s robe for all the notice Magnus took of it.

Or of her.

She was tempted to dump the blasted pitcher of ale on his head. He might notice that!

Mouth pursed, she set the jug back down on the tray. Picking up a plate, she inhaled the rich, buttery perfume.
But the deep breath she intended to take was cut short by the tightening of fabric across her chest. Lud, the silly dress was too tight to even take a deep breath!

“Tarts?” she said, holding the plate out.

“Please,” the king said, appearing to be holding back a laugh.

Helen frowned and turned to Magnus. He shook his head, made a grumbly sound low in his throat, and shifted in his seat.

She wrinkled her nose at his curtness and slid one of the tarts from the plate. They smelled divine.

Plopping down on the bench beside Magnus, she sunk her teeth into the flaky strawberry tart, unable to hold back a groan of pleasure. “These are heavenly.” She sighed with a flick of her tongue, catching the rivulet of juice before it dribbled down her chin.

Bruce laughed. “I don’t think I should mind all the new foods you insist I eat if they could all taste like this.” He made a face. “A king forced to eat carrots and beets, it’s a disgrace.”

She returned his laugh, and then turned to Magnus with a concerned frown when she noticed he was shifting again. “Is something wrong?”

His face was perfectly placid. “Nay, why do you ask?”

“You keep shifting in your seat.” The frown between her brows deepened as she realized what might be the cause. “Do you need a cushion? I know you’ve been spending many hours by the king’s bedside.” Her cheeks heated. “It is not uncommon to have swelling—”

“Piles? Good God!” If Helen hadn’t been so taken aback by the vehemence of his reaction, she might have found the look of outrage on his face comical. “I don’t need a blasted cushion! And I sure as hell don’t have swelling
anywhere
.”

The king was making a choking sound that immediately drew her attention. She jumped to her feet and leaned over him, concerned. “Sire, are you all right?”

The coughing subsided, but this time she was sure there was laughter behind the innocent facade. “I’m fine,” he assured her after a moment.

Confused, Helen looked back and forth between the men, but neither seemed inclined to illuminate her. “Sit down,” the king said. “Finish your tart.”

Helen complied, and she could feel the king’s eyes on her while she ate. “MacKay says you knew one another as children?”