The Saint (31 page)

Magnus knew he was somewhat responsible, having pointed more than one person in her direction. But watching her that day, he’d been struck, as he had been when she aided MacGregor and the king, with how alive she seemed.

Nay, “alive” wasn’t exactly right. Perhaps “thriving” was the better word. It was the same way Hawk looked
when he was holding the ropes of his sail: at home and in control. As if this was exactly where she was supposed to be. Clearly it made her happy, and just as clearly he liked seeing her happy.

Magnus didn’t need to turn his head and look through the postern gate down the ravine to the river to catch a glimpse of auburn blazing in the sunlight to answer the lad’s question. He’d seated himself on this bale of hay by the practice yard for a reason. For the better part of the three weeks since word of Gordon’s body being discovered had arrived at Dunrobin (and the day after he’d nearly taken her in the alehouse), he was painfully aware of exactly where “the lady” was.

The role of vigilant protector had taken its toll, eroding the barrier he’d erected between them like waves on a wall of sand. Every time her eyes lit up when she saw him, every time her hand fell on his arm as if it belonged there, every time she asked him for help added to his torment. He knew his feelings were wrong, but he couldn’t stop them.

He should be glad that they would be beginning the final stage of their journey through the mountains tomorrow. In a handful of days they would be at MacAulay’s castle of Dun Lagaidh on the northern banks of Loch Broom. From there they would board a
birlinn
for the quick sail to the final stop of Dunstaffnage for the Highland Games. His guard duty to the king on his royal progress would be over.

But what about Helen? When would his duty to her end?

Damn you, Gordon. Do you know what you’ve done to me?

He shook off the memory. “She’s down by the river, teaching some of the lasses how to fish.”

The lad looked as if Magnus had just told him the world was round. “Lasses can’t fish! They talk too much.”

Magnus bit back a laugh. Helen had always been a horrible fisherman, but he didn’t think she’d ever noticed. And it hadn’t stopped her from offering to cure a few of the
younger girls’ boredom on a hot, sunny summer day. From what he’d seen earlier, Macraith’s daughter was faring much better. Not coincidentally, she was as shy as a mouse and hardly said a word.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

The lad stopped frowning, remembering why he was there. “Malcolm’s hand slipped while he was sharpening the laird’s blade and he’s bleedin’ real bad.”

Malcolm had to be one of Macraith’s other foster sons. “You’d better hurry then, lad. The lady will see to it.”

A few minutes later, he saw Helen come rushing through the gate alongside the boy. She had her battle face on and was so focused on the task ahead, she passed right by without noticing him before disappearing into the armory.

Over the hour or so it took to treat the boy, a succession of people ran in and out of the small building, fetching cloth, water, various jars of her different ointments and medicines, and the special bag he’d had the tanner make for her to hold the various tools she’d collected (more than half of which had been “borrowed” from him).

The look on her face when he’d presented it to her …

Damn it, don’t think about it
. But his chest squeezed nonetheless.

He’d just finished the final touches on his latest project when he heard the door open. A few moments later, a shadow crossed in front of him.

“Have you been sitting here the whole time?”

He steeled himself and looked up. It didn’t help. He was hit with a wave of longing so hard it stole his breath.

Would it be so wrong?
He knew the answer, but by all that was holy, he was tempted.

“Aye. How’s young Malcolm?”

Her brows drew together, concerned. “I’m not sure. ’Twas a deep cut, which nearly took off his right thumb and didn’t seem to want to stop bleeding.”

“He’s a tough lad. I didn’t hear him cry out when you set the hot iron upon it.”

She squeezed down on the bale to sit beside him. The feel of her pressed up against him sent every nerve-ending on edge. His heart hammered. He tried not to breathe, but her soft, feminine scent permeated his skin, infusing him with the intoxicating aroma that he thought was lavender.

She bit her lip, and he had to turn away. But the sharp tug in his groin lingered. He ached for her. Touching her had been a mistake. He’d tasted her passion, felt her body move against his, heard her moan, and now it was all he could think of.

“I didn’t burn the wound closed.”

“Why not?” It was the preferred method of sealing a wound.

“He asked me if the scar would interfere with his ability to hold a sword, and I said it might. Sewing the wound leaves a thinner scar.”

“But is more likely to lead to infection.”

She nodded. “Aye. He chose to chance the greater risk.”

Magnus understood. Malcolm was training to be a warrior. Not being able to hold his sword properly would be like a death knell to a young lad.

He gave her a sidelong look. “So I take it you have enough to keep you busy?”

Their eyes met. A flicker of understanding passed between them. She smiled almost shyly at the reminder of their conversation. “Aye, thank you.”

At first the conversation on the ramparts at Dingwall had unsettled him. It was strange to realize he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought. She’d always been so naturally at ease with him, he’d never realized it wasn’t that way with everyone. Nor had he realized how anxious she’d been about assuming her role as lady of the keep. But the more he thought about it, the more he understood. She had a
skill, and she wanted to put it to use. She liked the challenge and excitement just as much as he did.

Helen glanced down at the wooden implement in his hand. “Is that an arrow spoon?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Her eyes lit up, looking at it as if he held a jeweled scepter in his hand. “It’s for me?”

He chuckled and handed it to her. “Aye, you mentioned it once, and after one of Fraser’s men was nearly hit with an arrow hunting last week, I realized you might have need of it.”

Helen held it to the light, examining it from all sides. “It’s wonderful. I never realized how talented you were with your hands.” He felt another tug in his groin. This one more a heavy swell. His body didn’t care that her words were spoken innocently. “You are a man of surprising talents, Magnus MacKay. Gregor told me that you’ve also forged some interesting weapons.”

MacGregor should keep his bloody mouth shut, and why was she talking to MacGregor? He bit back the prickle of what he suspected was jealousy and shrugged. “It’s a hobby. I’m no armorer.” It was more that he liked to experiment and modify tools to better serve their purpose—even killing.

“I’ve a few things I was thinking about …”

For the next twenty minutes, Helen didn’t seem to take a breath as she spoke excitedly about ways to modify some of the tools he’d given her to improve their efficiency. He found himself caught up in her enthusiasm and didn’t realize how late it was until the shadows started to fall across her face, and he heard the thunder of hooves coming through the gates.

“I’ll see what I can do about your tools, but it won’t be until we reach Loch Broom.” Reluctantly, he stood and held out his hand to help her up. “The men are back.”

Helen wrinkled her nose. “I assume that means you have to go.”

“The king will want a report.”

She gave him a sly look. “My brother and Donald seem to be spending a lot of time scouting and hunting since we departed Dingwall.”

His jaw tightened. Though he welcomed the absence of the other men, it hadn’t been at his command. Sutherland seemed almost as eager as he was to keep Munro away from his sister. He could almost feel grateful to him. Almost. Had she reconsidered? “Is that a complaint?”

She looked at him as if he were addled—which was exactly how she made him feel. “Of course not. I’m able to breathe without their constant hovering. I just wonder the reason why.”

He pretended not to see the speculative gleam in her eye. “We’re heading into the mountains tomorrow—the most difficult part of our journey.”

“But also the most exciting!”

He hated to dampen her spirits, but he couldn’t help cautioning, “Don’t let the beauty fool you, these mountains can be treacherous—deadly, even. You need to be careful not to wander away from camp or veer too far off the road. It will be slow traveling with the carts and horses. The road is a rough one as it is, and there was a lot of snow last year and many of the burns flooded. Your brother volunteered to scout with MacGregor.”

She didn’t hide her disappointment. “So you didn’t send them?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Their eyes held.

“I won’t give up.”
He could hear the gauntlet she’d thrown down ringing in his ears. Was it true, or would she falter again? He didn’t know which answer scared him more.

“Ah well,” she said, not letting the disappointment that
he’d had nothing to do with removing her suitor get her down for too long. “Perhaps he’s reconsidered.”

But one look over her shoulder at the men who’d just come into view in the courtyard told him otherwise. Seeing Magnus and Helen together, Munro’s face grew as dark as a thundercloud.

Magnus looked back to Helen with a wry grin. “I wouldn’t count on it,
m’aingeal
.”

Helen couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy. She didn’t know whether it was her growing closeness to Magnus (he couldn’t seem to let her out of his sight!), the growing pride she felt in her healing skills (which were getting plenty of practice), or the majesty of their surroundings and the freedom she felt with each mile of their journey into the forests and hills of Wester Ross, but she wanted it to never end.

They’d left the Macraiths’ castle after prayers and breaking their fast, and traveled along the rocky banks of the Blackwater River into the forests and gently rolling hills of Strathgrave. With the horse, carts, and long procession of knights, men-at-arms, and attendants, the pace was every bit as slow as Magnus had predicted this morning.

“Four days, perhaps five,” he’d said, as he’d helped her on her small hobby. The sturdy, short-legged horses had originally come from Ireland and were well suited to the mountainous terrain of the Scottish Highlands.

“Is that all?” She was unable to hide her disappointment.

He and Gregor MacGregor, who’d been standing nearby, looked at her as if she were crazed.

“ ‘Is that all?’ It’s only forty miles, my lady,” Gregor said. “It should take no more than two.”

“I’ve run longer distances in a day,” Magnus added. “I could be there by nightfall.”

Helen laughed at the boast.

Gregor arched a brow. “Nightfall?”

Magnus shrugged. “It’s uphill.”

Helen looked back and forth between them. They were joking, weren’t they?

She didn’t know, but it was clear as the day drew on that as much as she was enjoying and savoring every minute of the beautiful scenery, Magnus was finding the pace agonizing. A pace made slower when they found the bridge at Garve unpassable, forcing them to cross the Blackwater farther upstream.

By the time they camped for the night along the banks of the river, with the pine forest surrounding them, and the mountain of Ben Wyvis looming in the distance, Helen was content to laze near the river, eating her meal with the two attendants her brother had insisted she bring, and watch the magnificent sunset.

She sighed contentedly and stood from the table that had been set up in their tent. Although by no means luxurious, the royal progress was not without basic comforts. Unlike Bruce’s journey across the Highlands three years ago, when he’d been fleeing with little more than the clothes on his back and the sword in his hand, the king’s carts were laden with household plate and furniture. Large canvas tents were fitted with finely woven floor coverings brought back from the crusades, along with tables, chairs, and pallets. They drank from silver goblets, ate from pewter trenchers, and lit the rooms with oil lamps and candles in fine candelabra.

Her attendants rose after her, but she waved them back down. “Sit. I shall only be a moment.” She grabbed the ewer that had been set out on small table with a wide bowl. “I’m just going to fetch some water with which to clean.”

Ellen, a woman who’d been attending her from birth, looked appalled—though really after two and twenty years she should know better.

“Let me do that, my lady.”

“Nonsense,” Helen said, sliding through the tied-back flap of the tent. “It will feel good to stretch my legs.”

And if Magnus just happened to be nearby, it would be merely happenstance. She smiled, knowing it would be anything but. She’d grown quite accustomed to—maybe even dependent on—Magnus watching over her. Her heart raced a little in anticipation.

But surprisingly, to her disappointment, he didn’t appear.

She made her way over to the large granite slabs of rock that formed the bank of the river to the dark water that had given the river its name. After washing her hands and filling the ewer, she retreated a few feet to find a dry patch of rock to sit upon as she watched the sun slip behind the mountains and fade over the horizon. She inhaled deeply. Heavenly! How she loved the fresh scent of pine.

Everything about this journey had been heavenly thus far. Magnus’s attentiveness had to mean something.
M’aingeal
. My angel. Did he realize he’d used the endearment he’d once called her? If he hadn’t forgiven her, she was confident he would soon. And although content with his friendship for now, she couldn’t erase from her mind what had happened between them. Every time she looked at his hands she remembered.

She blushed, a warm glow coming over her. It was all going to turn out perfectly, she knew it.

Suddenly aware of someone behind her, she turned excitedly. But it wasn’t Magnus—it was Donald.

Her disappointment must have shown on her face. His eyes narrowed. “Were you expecting someone?”