The Saint (41 page)

Helen’s lungs were bursting and her legs burning when Magnus finally stopped to let them rest, while he filled the skins with water from the lochan in the center of the wide corrie.

She tried to catch her breath, taking in great gulps of air, but her lungs were too busy heaving. Good God, they’d been climbing for only a short while, and she felt as if she’d just run for miles! She looked at Magnus in disbelief. He wasn’t breathing hard at all. What was wrong with him?

But as exhausted as she was, the king looked far worse—despite the fact that Magnus had borne much of his weight, half-carrying him against his side over the rough, rocky terrain.

It was no more than an hour since they’d crossed the river and journeyed into the forbidding mountains. It had taken Magnus only minutes to pick out a virtually invisible path of rocks through the rushing waters.

Beinn Dearg, Gaelic for red mountain (if the color of the rock was the basis of the name, she thought pink was more accurate), was the highest of a series of four peaks around an impressive array of corries, gorges, and lochans. Or so she would take Magnus’s word for it. Right now, the beauty of the scenery was bathed in fear and danger—not
to mention an ever-darkening layer of clouds and winds. The higher they climbed, the darker and colder it seemed to become. Magnus said it wasn’t unusual to see patches of snow up here in midsummer. She didn’t doubt him. She was grateful for the extra plaid, but the wind cut through the layers of wool as if it were the sheerest silk.

After he finished filling the skins, he handed one to the king and the other to her. “Drink.”

She shook her head, ignoring the loose strands of hair that blew across her face like shredded red ribbons. She’d given up attempting to contain them. The wind was blowing too hard. The moment she tucked them back, they just came loose again. “I’m not thirsty.”

“That’s why you need to drink. One of the biggest dangers in these mountains is not drinking enough.”

Realizing she was well beyond her area of expertise, she took his advice. Fortunately, Magnus also had some beef and oatcakes with him. She hadn’t eaten anything since last night, and she attacked those with more enthusiasm than the bland food deserved. The king took a few bites and pushed it away. Her brow furrowed with concern. The lack of appetite was not a good sign.

She could see Magnus scanning the countryside behind them and felt her pulse give an anxious start. “Have we lost them?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “If not, we’ve slowed them down. It will take some time to cross the river, and their horses won’t be much use in the mountains. They’ll have to leave them behind.”

“Don’t worry, Lady Helen,” the king interjected wearily from his seat on a boulder where Magnus had set him. “We’ve the best guide around. No one knows these mountains like MacKay. They’ll not catch him.”

Helen did not doubt Magnus’s abilities; it was hers and the king’s she was worried about. They were slowing him down. She’d loved scampering across the countryside in
her youth, but these mountains were a different beast altogether.

She frowned, seeing fresh blood trickling down the king’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me it started bleeding again?”

Bruce reached up, feeling around his forehead. “Did it? I didn’t realize.”

Helen looked at Magnus. “We need to do something.”

She didn’t need to say the rest. The king was already weak from the loss of blood. The fact that he’d managed this far—even with Magnus’s help—without passing out was quite a feat.

“We can’t light a fire until I’m sure they’re not following us.” He stopped. “Damn, I should have thought of it before.”

“What?”

He reached into his sporran and pulled out a cloth. Unwrapping it, he revealed twigs with leaves wrapped around the ends. “Pine sap,” he said, unwrapping some of the leaves from around the twigs to reveal the yellowish, viscous material. “This is still fresh, but when it hardens I use it to help a fire catch in the damp. It makes a good glue if you mix it with ash and can also be used to seal wounds.”

“It’s perfect,” she said, taking the clean ends of one of the twigs. “I’ve had this on my hands enough times to know how sticky it can be.”

He quirked a brow, and she dimpled mischievously, knowing he was remembering all those trees in which she’d hid.

Their eyes held and emotion swelled in her chest. She felt it again. The same certainty she’d felt when she’d looked into his eyes this morning after he’d dispensed with the second attacker.
He loves me
.

She’d done it. Somehow she’d broken through his resistance.

If every bone in her body didn’t ache with exhaustion, if there weren’t three murderous scourges chasing after them,
if the King of Scotland wasn’t about to keel over from an axe wound to his head, she could have enjoyed being with him like this.

There was no man she would rather have by her side in these circumstances. Not just because of her feelings for him, but because he always seemed to know what to do. Helen knew how precarious their situation was, but with Magnus by her side it didn’t feel that way. He seemed to have been built for these surroundings. Rugged, tough, resourceful, and honed to the peak of physical endurance, he was made to survive whatever nature threw at him. He would get them through this.

Carefully, she unbound the strips of linen from the king’s head. With as many wounds as she’d seen, she’d thought her stomach had become impervious. But it rolled when she saw the deep gash in the daylight for the first time. She caught a glimpse of white at his brow that she knew was bone. No wonder it was still oozing blood.

While Magnus held the two edges of the cut together, she rolled the sap end of the twig down the gaping wound. Before unwrapping the leaves, he warmed the next one in his hands for a few minutes, and it went on even easier. She was about to bind it with another piece of cloth, but he stopped her.

“You won’t be able to get it off. The sap should do the trick on its own.”

He was right. After a few minutes, it became clear that the blood could not permeate the thick sap. It looked a sight, but it was working.

The king, however, looked as if he’d reached the end of his rope.

He couldn’t go much farther. Helen caught Magnus’s gaze and saw that he realized it as well. “There’s a place a little higher up that should be safe to rest for a while.”

Up?
Helen glanced up the steep slope of the mountain on her left and bit back a groan. He didn’t intend to …

Aye, he did.

When the king didn’t argue or object to Magnus’s support, she realized just how horrible he must be feeling.

Helen trudged up the scree-covered slope behind the two men. With every foot of elevation, the wind seemed to grow stronger. She had to clutch the edges of her plaid together to keep it from blowing off. Once or twice, a powerful gust nearly unbalanced her on the rocky ground.

Magnus was right. This was no place for the inexperienced. One wrong step and she could end up …

She felt her stomach sway and quickly turned her gaze back to the path.
Don’t look down
.

With the sun lost behind the clouds, it was hard to say what time it was. But she suspected it must be close to midday by the time they’d reached Magnus’s place a “little” higher up.

“You can rest here for a while,” he said, helping the king to sit on a natural shelf in the cliffside.

It was somewhat inset and, she suspected, hidden from sight in most directions.

Magnus handed her one of the skins and a few more small pieces of the oatcakes and beef. He also handed her a dirk.

She looked up at him in surprise.

“If you should need it. It will be more effective than your eating knife.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, and then drained when she realized what he meant. “Where are you going?”

“To make sure they aren’t following us.”

“But …” She didn’t want him to leave. Surely, he must be tired? He’d practically carried the king halfway up the mountain. “But don’t you need to rest first?”

He reached down and swept a piece of hair from her face with the back of his finger. “I’m fine, Helen. I’ll rest when we reach Loch Broom.”

She thought the king was too exhausted to speak, but he
laughed. “MacKay has the endurance of an ox. MacLeod said he could run for miles in armor without getting winded.”

Helen didn’t doubt it. He was stubborn as an ox, too. But in this case, she didn’t mind it. That stubbornness and determination would see them through this. “MacLeod?” she asked. “The West Highland chief?”

Magnus shot the king a look, but Bruce already had his head turned back to the ground as if he was fighting nausea.

“It’s nothing,” Magnus said.

But she knew it must have something to do with the secret army.

“How long will you be gone?”

He dropped a kiss atop her head. The tenderness of the gesture sent a rush of warmth over her icy skin. “You won’t even have a chance to miss me.”

But he was wrong. She missed him the moment he left. The rocky perch on the mountainside suddenly felt much colder and windier, and the day a little darker.

Helen was glad when the king closed his eyes, wishing she could do the same. But she needed to stay alert—at least until Magnus returned.

She clutched the hilt of the dirk in her hand and kept watch over their bleak surroundings. The minutes stretched with increasing anxiousness. It seemed he’d been gone forever, but it was probably only three-quarters of an hour before a form appeared on the hillside above her.

She sighed with relief, recognizing Magnus right away. But one look at his face stopped her heart cold. Cool. Calm. Perfectly under control. She knew what that meant.

His words confirmed it. “We have to move. They’re right behind us.”

How the hell had they found them so quickly? Magnus knew these mountains better than just about anyone. But
whoever was tracking them was keeping pace—hell, doing better than keeping pace.

When he’d seen the two black-clad figures hurrying up the slope, he’d been tempted to surprise them. Despite the skill of the men who’d attacked them, he was confident he could defeat them. Two of them. It was the whereabouts of the third man that held him back. He hoped he’d gone, but couldn’t count on it. Had he only himself to worry about, he wouldn’t have a second thought.

Caution didn’t come easily to Magnus, but his duty to the king and Helen came first. As much as he’d like to kill those two men, he wanted to see Helen and the Bruce safely to Loch Broom even more. He was confident that he would be able to lose the pursuers in the mountains.

Helen had done an admirable job of keeping them alive to this point, but she would not be able to carry the king out of these mountains if Magnus was injured. At nearly six feet tall, thick with muscle, and covered in chain mail, Robert Bruce was not an insubstantial load. Magnus was more tired than he let on. But he’d carry the king to hell and back if that’s what it took.

And it appeared as if it just might come to that. After helping Helen to her feet, he attempted to rouse the king. But it was as if Bruce had drunk a barrel of whisky. He was slow to wake, slurring his speech, and barely able to stand. Magnus held him upright by wrapping the king’s arm around his shoulder and sliding his own arm around the king’s waist.

After telling Helen to stay close and watch her step, he led them up the mountain. He had no choice. There was only one path through these cliffs, and—

That was it.

The markers.

He walked faster now, practically dragging the king up the steep ascent beside him. Even with his training, it didn’t take long for his breath to start coming hard.

“Sorry, Saint,” Bruce said with a wobbly smile. “ ’Fraid I’m not much help.”

The slip of his war name concerned him far less than the gray cast to the king’s skin and his glassy eyes. He didn’t need Helen to tell him how bad it was.

“You’re doing fine, Sire.”

“Feels like someone split my head open with an axe,” he mumbled, and then more lucidly, “Hell, someone did.”

Magnus laughed.

Helen must have overheard because she joined in from behind. Being able to laugh in trying circumstances was an asset for a warrior. It shouldn’t surprise him that Helen shared this quality.

Finally, he saw what he was looking for: a pile of white stones. He stopped, and once Bruce had his balance, went to work.

“What are you doing?” Helen said, watching him lift the heavy pieces of marble in his arms.

The white stones were an oddity on Beinn Dearg amongst the red rock, and served as markers on the path. Using piles of rocks to serve as guideposts was common in the Highlands, as were the cairns that marked the peaks.

“The stones are markers. I’m going to try to throw them off the trail.” And if they were lucky, off the mountain. “There’s a fork in the road. I’m going to move the rocks to the other path.”

“Where does that way lead?”

Magnus gave her a look. “It’s the fast way down.”

Her eyes widened a little, understanding his meaning. “But what if someone else—”

“I’ll put them back as soon as I can.”

It took him no more than a few minutes to move the small cairn. If it didn’t send their pursuers over the edge of the cliff, at least it should slow them down. Especially in the thickening clouds. It was easy to get turned around and lose your bearings.

A storm was brewing, but he decided to keep that information to himself.

Helen was holding up surprisingly well, but he was aware of every line of exhaustion on her face—no matter how hard she was trying to hide it. Both she and the king needed to rest. He hated to push her like this, but rest would have to wait until he knew whether his ploy had worked. For now, they had to put as much distance between them and the men pursuing them as possible.

Once they reached the summit, the path would take them down the west side of the mountain into a narrow gorge. From there, they could follow the gorge to the wide glen, and then the forest that would lead them straight to Loch Broom. But Magnus intended to take a more circuitous route over another of the peaks, taking shelter in a cave he knew of on the mountain before taking a more northerly path to Loch Broom.