The Saint (23 page)

Helen cast a surreptitious glance at Magnus from out of the corner of her eye, surprised that he would have mentioned it but not surprised he would have made it seem of youthful unimportance. No longer shifting, he sat as still as one of the druids’ mystical standing stones. “Aye,” she said cautiously. “Though we were not children. Magnus was ten and nine when we met.”

“Hmm,” the king said. “I can’t imagine your brothers were very happy when they found out about your, uh … friendship.”

This time she didn’t dare look at Magnus, fearing the accusation she would see in his gaze. She recalled exactly how her brother had reacted. And how she had as well: by rejecting his offer of marriage.

She shook her head, a pained pinch in her chest. “Nay, Sire. The feud was still too fresh in their minds.”

Magnus said nothing, his silence feeling like a condemnation of its own.

I would do differently today!
she wanted to shout.
Just give me a chance
.

But he wouldn’t look at her.

Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Bruce switched the subject. “Aye, well, feuds and old alliances are all in the past.” He smiled. “Since I’ve been confined to my chambers, I’ve spent some time at the window, watching the training. Your brother Kenneth is a skilled knight.”

She felt Magnus tense at her side. She knew he and Kenneth
had been locked in one competition after another the past few weeks, but the king’s observation pleased her nonetheless. She was proud of her brothers and her clan. She nodded. “Aye, he is. At Barra Hill, Kenneth held off a thousand rebels with two hundred men by positioning his archers at …” All of a sudden her voice dropped off, as she realized what she was saying. She’d been so eager to sing Kenneth’s praises, she’d forgotten the “rebels” were Bruce’s men.

The king saw her expression and laughed, giving her hand a fond pat. “That’s all right. I take no offense. Your loyalty to your brother does you proud. I remember that battle well, though I did not realize it was your brother in command. If all of Buchan’s men had used such tactics we would not have fared as well that day.”

Helen’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“He fostered with Ross?” the king asked.

She wondered at the king’s sudden interest in her brother. “Aye, both my brothers did, as is the tradition in our clan.”

“And that’s how you came to know William Gordon?”

She stilled, glancing anxiously at Magnus. But he gave no sign that the question affected him. “Aye. Kenneth and William were foster brothers. I never knew him—only of him. Kenneth would come with tales to tell of their mischief.” She smiled unwittingly at the memories. “Although I’m sure I heard only a small portion of it. They were like brothers from the start. Our grandfathers had fought in the last crusade together, and the bond carried on through the following generations. Though I don’t think that connection was always appreciated. The Earl of Ross was furious when they started a fire in his stable after concocting some recipe from one of my grandfather’s journals—he considered himself something of an alchemist.”

Both men stilled as if she’d said something important. “Recipe?” the king asked carefully.

She shrugged. “The Saracen’s powder, but nothing ever
came of it. The journal was lost in the fire and Ross made them promise never to tinker with ‘sorcery’ again.” She winked. “But I don’t think they listened.”

The king exchanged a glance with Magnus, and Helen realized the time was getting late. The midday meal had already started, and she still needed to change her dress. Will was going to be angry with her again, this time with cause.

She stood. “I should be going.”

The king stopped her. “What about tomorrow?”

Her mouth twitched.

“You didn’t think I’d forget.”

“Hardly,” she said dryly. He’d been asking her every day for nearly a week. “Tomorrow you may take a turn outside. For an hour—no longer.”

Bruce laughed. “I think I should prefer to have that old priest back. He was much less of a tyrant.”

Helen smiled sweetly. “He’s eager to bleed you again, if you’d like me to—”

“Nay! An hour, no more, I promise. Your enforcer will see to it.” He shot Magnus a glare. “Although I seem to remember you giving your oath to
me
.”

Magnus didn’t blink. “Seeing that Lady Helen’s instructions are followed ensures I have an oath to keep.”

The king shook his head. “You are quite a pair.” Her chest twisted. They were. Why wouldn’t he see it? “I know when I’m outnumbered.” The king gave her a look. “But I won’t give up. I feel better than I have in years and intend to be rid of this bed by the end of the week. We’ve delayed our journey and intruded on your hospitality long enough.”

The stab in her chest intensified. They couldn’t leave. Not until she’d convinced Magnus to give her another chance.

But maybe he would never be convinced. Maybe she’d been deluding herself. Maybe the passion she sensed behind the impassive facade was only wishful thinking.
Maybe she’d been right all those years ago. Maybe he didn’t feel that way about her at all.

Her chest squeezed. Was that it? Did he not care for her anymore?

Nay
. Magnus was the most steadfast man she knew—as well as the most stubborn. It was her family and her marriage to William that were holding him back. How could she show him that loving her was not a betrayal of the man she’d barely known?

Discouraged nonetheless, Helen murmured her farewells and left the room. She’d closed the door behind her and taken a few steps down the stairs when she heard it open again. “Helen, wait.”

Her heart stopped just hearing his voice.

She turned. Magnus’s big form loomed on the stair above her, blocking the light, the air suddenly heavy and warm. He seemed to take up the entire stairwell. She was deeply conscious of the tight space. If she leaned forward a few inches her breasts would graze his …

She blushed.

Almost as if he could read her thoughts, he took a step back and pulled her back into the small corridor. “Thank you,” he said. “For all you’ve done for the king. The medicines, the meals, the ale,” he said, lifting a goblet that she hadn’t noticed.

Her senses had been otherwise occupied. Her nose with the warm masculine spice. Her eyes with the rough stubble along his jaw and the broad, muscular wall of chest that faced her. Her taste with the memory of his kiss. And her ears with the sharpness of her breath.

“You’ve nothing to thank me for,” she said unevenly. “The king is under our roof; it is my duty to care for him.”

“We both know you’ve gone well beyond your duty. I’ve noticed how you’ve personally seen to his meals. You didn’t need to do that.”

He trusted her. Helen felt a pang of conscience that she
told herself was unwarranted. The change in diet was helping. There was no reason to suspect anything else.

“Bruce looks healthier than he has in years,” he added.

A wry smile turned her mouth. “I’m not sure the king shares your gratitude. He isn’t very fond of greenery.”

Magnus grinned, and it went straight to her heart. God, he was so handsome. She felt herself pulled by an invisible rope. They were alone, and she wanted him so desperately. She leaned toward him, her breasts brushing against the leather of his
cotun
.

He was so warm. She remembered how it felt to have his arms around her and willed them to close around her again. “Magnus, I …”

He flinched; his muscles turned as rigid and cold as stone.

Instinctively, she pulled away. The visceral rejection stung.

He doesn’t want me
.

“I’m sorry,” she said, toneless, unable to look at him. “I need to go. They will be waiting for me.”

She spun away, knocking his arm. At least she thought she knocked it. For the next minute she cried out in surprise as ale doused her gown.

“Oh, no!” Her hands flew to the front of her bodice, the left side of which was now soaked with the lemony brew. “My dress!”

“Ah, hell.”

Something in his voice made her eyes fly to his face. He looked away quickly, but she’d seen it. Hunger. Raw hunger.

He’d been looking at her breast. She glanced down. Whatever had been hidden by her gown was hidden no longer. The water molded the fabric to her like a second skin. She might have been naked after all. She sucked in her breath, the primal awareness of his attraction washing over her in a hot wave.

“It’s ruined,” she said.

He’d gotten his reaction under control. “Is it?” He didn’t
seem overly concerned. Actually he seemed pleased. “What a shame.”

Her eyes narrowed. It was almost as if … he’d done it on purpose. “It’s a
new
dress.” He didn’t say anything.

She stuck out her chest and held the skirts wide. “Don’t you like it?”

He gave her a swift once-over, assiduously avoiding her chest. “It’s stained.”

“I shall have to go change.”

“I won’t keep you.”

He
was
pleased. But why would he do such a thing? Only one explanation made sense.

“Here,” he said, taking the plaid from around his shoulders and wrapping it around her, covering her up. “You don’t want to catch a chill.”

For one flight of stairs? Her room was located directly under the king’s. He’d bundled her up as if it were the middle of winter in Norway. Very interesting. Very interesting indeed. It seemed her brother had been wrong after all. Not only had he noticed, he didn’t want her wearing the gown.

Magnus looked so pleased with himself, she couldn’t resist taking him down a notch. “It’s fortunate I ordered a number of new gowns along with this one.”

He stilled, and Helen felt a deep wave of satisfaction surge through her. Good God, she hadn’t thought him capable! He actually looked scared.

“You did?” he choked out.

She smiled with wide-eyed innocence. “Aye, though I’ve been a bit nervous to wear them.”

“Why’s that?” This time it was more of a squeak.

She grinned devilishly. “They aren’t nearly as modest as this one.”

She was rewarded with white lines around his mouth and the faint hint of a tic below his jaw.

When Helen left him standing there, he was clenching his fists, and she …

She had a decided skip in her step. The doubts of a few moments ago were gone. He did want her, and if his reaction was any indication, badly. Things were going to work out all right in the end—she just knew it.

A little more prodding and she’d have him.

Magnus watched her prance away and knew he’d just been deftly outmaneuvered. Worse, it was his own damned fault.

He’d been half-crazed with lust watching her serve the king his meal. It had taken every scrap of discipline he had not to let her see it. He’d done a good job of it, too—except for the shifting. Piles, Jesus! He shook his head with disgust. He’d been swollen all right. His cock had been as hard as an iron spike.

And Bruce—the blasted cur—had enjoyed every minute of his discomfort. A little too much. Magnus had seen the way the king’s eyes had lingered appreciatively on the swell of flesh rising above her bodice.

Magnus knew that he had better do something if he didn’t want to be fighting the urge to slam his fist into jaws all day. He thought he’d been so clever, coming up with the idea of the ale.

But he’d miscalculated. Badly. He hadn’t anticipated the effect of wet fabric.

Jesus, his mouth went dry just thinking about it. The heaviness. The roundness. The faint, wrinkly edge around the perfect bud of a nipple. He ached to slide his finger over the soft ridges. To lower his head, put his lips around the taut tip, and suck every last bit of ale from her skin.

His cock swelled, throbbing at the memory.

Hell, he’d go to bed with every inch of that incredible breast emblazoned on his mind. And he knew that as he’d
done many nights before, he’d take himself in hand and try to take the edge off.

But the edginess only got worse over the next few days. His hand didn’t help. Working himself senseless on the practice field didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Helen had found his weakness and took every opportunity she could find to test him. Brushing up against him. Dropping things at his feet so she could bend over and pick them up. Reaching for anything she could on high shelves.

He’d never known her to take an interest in needlework, but it seemed as if every gown she wore had been taken down two inches in the neck and taken in two inches everywhere else. He was surprised she could breathe, they were so bloody tight.

But it wasn’t just the clothing—or lack thereof—that was driving him into a frenzy. Far more dangerous was the open, honest desire he saw in her eyes.

Bloody hell, couldn’t she at least try to hide it? Show some proper decorum for once? But artifice wasn’t Helen’s way. It never had been. She wanted him, and he could see it in her eyes every time she looked at him. Resisting that had stretched him to the limit.

Thank God, the end was in sight. The king had recovered, Magnus had kept his word to Gordon, and Helen wasn’t in any danger. He could leave with a clear conscience.

But his conscience wasn’t clear. Something nagged at him. A vague uneasiness that he attributed to being so long under his enemy’s roof.

He was hardly objective when it came to the Sutherlands, but he didn’t trust them. Bruce might think them loyal subjects, but Magnus wasn’t so easily convinced. Swallowing pride wasn’t part of the Highland creed. Vengeance. Retribution. An eye for an eye. Those were the mother’s milk of Highland warriors.

But suspicion and lifelong enmity weren’t enough to
jeopardize the tentative alliance with the Sutherlands that Bruce had fought so hard to win. The betrothal between the king’s sister and the earl was all but agreed upon.

Magnus had survived the past few years by instinct, and pushing it aside didn’t sit well.

So as he did every day, he took his frustrations out on the practice field on a series of opponents, including Munro. Unable to properly quiet his taunts by beating him into the ground, Magnus was in a foul temper by the time the king called the day’s “exercises” complete. Holding back—whether on the lists or every time Helen looked up at him with those take-me-in-your-arms-and-ravish-me eyes—left him feeling like a lion in a very small cage.