The Saint (6 page)

The lash of pain that sliced through her was white hot, slicing the flesh from her bone. Nay, slicing was too clean. This pain was jagged, crudely wrought pain with little finesse.

“We might need to change his name, eh, Gordon?”

The king’s words snapped her out of her stupor. He obviously hadn’t noticed her reaction. She turned to her new husband. Perhaps, he hadn’t either—

She stopped. Their eyes met. One look at William’s face and she knew she’d not been so fortunate. He’d seen her reaction. His gaze shot to Magnus. She could see the fury in the white lines around his mouth.

Oh God, he
knew
.

When William answered the king, however, he hid his reaction with a tight smile. “Aye, I think you are right.” His gaze locked on hers. “I wonder what could have caused such a change.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. She tried to cover her anxiety with a question. “Name, Sire?” Her voice barely trembled.

The king smiled. “A wee jest,” he said, patting her hand. “That’s all. It isn’t much like our friend to uh … celebrate so enthusiastically. I’d begun to think we really might have
one of the Templars hidden in our ranks,” he said with a mischievous wink to William.

It was rumored that Bruce had given sanctuary to many of the Templars when the order had been disbanded and excommunicated by the pope—the same pope who’d excommunicated Bruce for the killing of his rival John “The Red” Comyn before the altar of Greyfriars nearly three years ago.

“I always thought there was a woman,” William said slowly. His gaze pinned hers.

Me. Oh, God. Had Magnus avoided other women because of me?

“Well, if there was,” Bruce said, “I guess there isn’t anymore.” He chuckled and, thankfully, changed the subject.

With William temporarily engaged by Lady Anna on his other side, Helen ventured one more look in Magnus’s direction. The woman was still on his lap, but to her relief they were no longer locked in a passionate embrace.

He was looking at her. His gaze shifted away, but for one moment their eyes caught. And in that instant of connection, in that hard stab of pain, she knew the full horror of this day.

A muscle twitched under his eye. Something she’d seen only once before. And in that one small betrayal, she knew:
He still cares for me. He lied
.

But it was too late.

Dear God, what have I done?

Lady Isabella—Bella—set the comb down on the small table beside the bed. “You look very beautiful.”

“Your hair is exquisite,” Anna added. “The way it catches in the candlelight. It looks like liquid fire shimmering down your back.”

Not even the rare compliment about her hair could rouse her. Magnus had loved it, too, she remembered.

“William will think himself the luckiest man alive,” Christina said with a broad smile.

Helen doubted it. She wanted to thank them, but feared if she opened her mouth, she would “baa” like a lamb to the slaughter. Instead she nodded with a smile that she hoped they interpreted as shy and not panicked.

The women had escorted her from the feast to the chamber she would share with William to prepare her for her bridal night. She’d changed from her gown into the fine linen chemise that had been richly embroidered for the occasion, and her hair had been released from the intricate crown of braids and combed until it was smooth and glossy.

She saw Bella exchange a look with Christina, who nodded. A moment later, Bella sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. “Your mother passed when you were a child, did she not?”

Helen’s brows drew across her nose. “Aye, not long after my first saint’s day. She died after giving birth to a stillborn babe.” She hated that she had no memories of her. Her father had said they were much alike. She felt a wave of sadness. Even after two years, the sadness of her father’s death still felt fresh. She missed him so much. Although he’d recovered from the lung ailment he’d been suffering from at the time Magnus had asked her to marry him, even with her help and Muriel’s considerable skill, they hadn’t been able to save him when it recurred six months later. “Why?”

Bella bit her lip. “How much do you know about what is to happen tonight?”

Helen blanched.

“There is nothing to be scared about,” Anna quickly assured her. “Congress with one’s husband can be quite …” She blushed adorably. “Nice.”

Christina gave her a bawdy grin. “It can also be quite wicked.”

Bella shot her a look that said she wasn’t helping. “What
we mean is that it’s natural to be nervous. If you have any questions—”

“Nay,” Helen cut her off, unable to take any more of this. She didn’t want to think about what was to come. She wasn’t nervous because she didn’t know what was going to happen, she was nervous because she did. If there was a moment she’d dreaded more than the wedding, it was the bedding. And now she had even more cause for dread. William had barely spoken to her after discovering her secret. She knew he was angry but didn’t know how he would react. Would he confront her or pretend it hadn’t happened? “I know what happens between a man and a woman.”

Another unmaidenly curiosity that Muriel had finally been the one to alleviate a number of years ago.

Bella nodded. “Sometimes there is pain the first time.”

“It’s like a sharp pinch,” Christina added.

“But it goes away quickly,” Anna assured her.

Helen knew they were trying to be helpful, but the discussion was only increasing her anxiety. Bella seemed to understand. She stood up. “We will leave you, then.”

“Thank you,” Helen managed. “Thank you all. You have been very …” her voice choked a little, “… kind.”

In other circumstances—in the right circumstances—she would have laughed and smiled along with them, while peppering them with questions they probably wouldn’t want to answer. But these weren’t the right circumstances.

A few minutes later she was alone. Though it was the last place that she wanted to be, she scooted back and slid under the bed linens. It was common for the groom’s friends to accompany him to the bedchamber, and Helen didn’t want to be sitting in her embarrassingly thin chemise if they did.

Her fingers were like ice as she gripped the sheets to her chin and stared at the door as if at any moment the bogeyman were going to come bursting through.

Baaa
.

Helen knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t quiet the frantic flutter of her heartbeat or the panic surging through her veins. How was she going to do this? How was she going to quietly submit to her wifely duty when in her heart she belonged to another man?

Magnus cared for her. She still couldn’t believe it. But the small twitch had betrayed him. She’d seen it only once before. It was the first time they’d met. The memory was as fresh as if it were yesterday.

The Games were being held at Dunottar Castle that year, near Aberdeen. At four and ten, it was the first time Helen had been permitted to attend. It was also the first experience she’d had with large groups of girls her own age, which had dampened the excitement of the adventure somewhat.

All they seemed to be interested in was discussing who was the most handsome competitor, who had the richest coffers, and who was likely to be looking for a wife. With all the giggling and mooning over Gregor MacGregor—who Helen had to concede was heart-stoppingly handsome—she looked for the first opportunity to slip away.

Deciding to search for shells along the beach to add to her collection, she crossed the narrow bridge of land that joined the castle to the mainland and started down the path on her right. The castle was one of the most dramatically situated that she’d ever seen. Perched on a small piece of land, surrounded by magnificent sheer cliffs that rose out of the sea over 150 feet, it was virtually impenetrable. Descending the cliffs even along the walking path was treacherous, as she discovered. More than once her foot slipped out from under her on the slippery rocks. She glanced down after one of these near mishaps and caught sight of something below.

A young lad knelt on the beach with a big pile of fur
cradled in his lap. A dog, she realized, and she could tell by their position that something was wrong.

Her pulse jumped. The dog must have slid off the cliff. Helen loved animals and her heart squeezed with trepidation. She hoped the poor thing wasn’t hurt too badly and hurried her step to see if there was something she could do.

The lad—who was actually older than she’d initially thought, probably close to her brother Kenneth’s age of nine and ten—was facing in her direction but had yet to notice her. She was just thinking that she hadn’t seen him before—he was handsome enough to remember—when she saw a silvery flash above his head. Nay, not silver. The steel from a blade. Oh God, he was going to …

“Nooooo!” she shouted, racing toward him.

He glanced up, the dirk high in his hand, and the look of raw anguish on his face cut her to the quick. But by time she’d closed the remaining distance between them, the emotion was gone, hidden by a mask of control, but for the slight twitch below his eye. It was as if the sheer force of emotion he was trying to contain had found one small crack through which to escape.

Her heart melted. The small vulnerability at an age when it seemed so important for men not to have any—let alone show any—touched her. Why being a man meant you couldn’t have any emotion, she didn’t know. But toughness seemed to be some prerequisite to Highland warriorhood. And from his size, breadth of shoulder, and clothing, she could tell he was a warrior.

She came to a sudden stop before him and was relieved to see his hand come down.

“You shouldn’t be down here, lass. The path is dangerous.”

He spoke kindly, which, especially given the circumstances, impressed her. If she needed any proof of his words, all she had to do was look at the poor animal in
his lap whose soft, whinging cries tore at every string in her heart.

She knelt down beside him, her eyes falling to the dog. It was a deerhound, and from the looks of him, one who’d been loved for many years. He had a large cut on his side, but it was his right rear leg that had provoked the dirk. It was bent at a hideous angle, the bone poking through the black and gray fur. A large pool of blood had gathered in the sand around it. But blood had never bothered her.

She wanted to reach out and pet its head, but she knew better than to touch an animal in pain. Unlike the lad before her, it would lash out.

“He fell?” she asked, gazing up at the young warrior.

He nodded. “Go now, lass. There’s no help for him. He’s in pain, and you …” His voice caught. “You shouldn’t see this.”

“You care for him?”

He nodded again, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. After a long pause, he said, “I’ve had him since I was seven. My father gave him to me when I was sent away to foster.”

The dog made another pained sound, and he flinched. She could see the fingers around his dirk tighten. She reached out, putting her hand on his wrist as if to stop him. But the solid muscle under her palm told her she would have little chance of that. “Please, I think I can help.”

He shook his head. “Tail is beyond help.” Tail? What an odd name for a dog! “It’s too badly broken, lass. There’s nothing to be done but put him out of his misery.”

But what about yours?
Helen wanted to ask. “Will you allow me to at least try?”

He held her gaze and something passed between them. He must have sensed her earnestness because after a moment, he nodded.

She raced back to the castle to gather what she needed, after making him promise to do nothing to the dog while
she was gone, and told him to gather all the wood he could find that had drifted onto the beach.

She was gone no longer than half an hour and was relieved to see him waiting with the dog where she’d left him. After explaining what she wished him to do, he placed one of the sticks in the dog’s mouth to prevent him from biting and held him down while she went to work.

She’d watched Muriel and her father do this only a handful of times on human bones, but somehow she seemed to know what to do. She applied what she’d seen, followed her instincts, and managed to reposition the bones, fashion a leg brace from the sticks, and hold them in position by wrapping strips of her chemise around them.

The hardest part was listening to the animal’s sounds of pain and keeping him still. But Magnus—that was the young warrior’s name, as she had learned in their quick exchange of names before she’d left—was strong.

He watched her in growing disbelief as she worked. After she’d finished telling him how to tend the injuries, and what herbs to mix in a tincture that would keep the dog sleepy while it had time to heal, he looked at her in wonder. “How …? You did it.”

He was looking at her with an expression on his face that made every part of her insides feel warm. “He did well. Tail, you called him?”

Magnus nodded. “My friends started to call him that because he followed me everywhere. He was my tail, they said. I called him Scout originally, but Tail stuck.”

She smiled and was surprised to see him smile back at her. “Thank you,” he said gruffly.

He held her gaze, and she felt something shift in her chest. With his golden-brown hair, soft brown eyes, and tanned skin, he was a startlingly handsome young man. For the first time, she understood how the other girls could act so silly about a lad.

Perhaps he read her thoughts. “How old are you, lass?”

She sat up straight, looking him in the eye. For some reason it was very important to her that he not think of her as a child. “I’m four and ten,” she said proudly.

He smiled. “All that, eh? But since you’re too young to be a healer, I think you must be an angel.”

She blushed. Hadn’t he seen her hair? Of course he had. She hated veils and “forgot” them as often as she could.

“Tell me, how is it, wee Helen, that you have such skill?”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know—I’ve always been interested in it, I suppose.”

He would probably think her as odd as her father and brothers did. She ventured a glance up at him from under her lashes. But he wasn’t looking at her as if she were odd at all. He was looking at her as if …