The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  He laughed at her outrage. “I’m only worried about you, lass.”

  Some of her anger dissipated. The brotherly Donald had returned. “You don’t need to worry, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “But you don’t have to.”

  Their eyes held. She knew what he was offering—and she was flattered—but how could she explain she didn’t think of him like that?

  Almost as if he could read her mind, his face darkened. “He’s not worthy of you.” She didn’t pretend to misunderstand of whom he spoke. The look of rage that flashed on his face chilled her blood. But it was gone so fast she wondered whether she’d imagined it. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

  Before she could ask him what he meant, he stormed off to the castle. Helen waited until he’d disappeared from view, and then heaved a deep sigh of relief. The incident had shaken her more than she’d realized.

  And she feared it had probably upset her plans. If Donald saw Magnus heading this way, he would guess—

  Her heart stopped. Oh God, would he do something? Abandoning her plan, she spun around, intending to return to the castle to try to avert disaster: “I’ll prove it to you.” What would Donald do?

  She’d barely taken a few steps, however, when someone moved out from a tree to block her path.

  “Magnus!” she cried out, startled but also relieved.

  Her relief at seeing him, however, dissipated when she saw his expression.

  She took an unconscious step back. He had a drying cloth looped around his neck and his hair hung in loose, sweaty chunks around his face. Though he’d removed his armor, wearing only leather breeches and a linen tunic, she’d never seen him look more fierce. His muscles—of which there was an impressive amount—were bunched up, flexed and taut. His eyes glared with fury, his mouth curled in a cruel line, and his jaw was hard and unyielding.

  His boyishly handsome face didn’t look boyish at all, but very dark and very menacing.

  “I-I …” To her amazement, she stuttered.

  “Surprised to see me?”

  She could hardly claim that, as she had come out here for exactly that purpose.

  But he didn’t give her time to answer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your little …” He nearly spat the word. “Liaison.”

  Good lord, what was wrong with him? “It wasn’t a liaison. I was walking toward the beach—”

  “Spare me your explanations. I know what I saw.”

  Her eyes widened. “What you saw?”

  Suddenly, she realized that from his vantage, with her pressed up against a tree and Donald’s broad shoulders blocking her from view, what he’d seen would have looked …

  She blushed. It would have looked like Donald was kissing her.

  Her blush seemed to confirm it for him. His mouth turned stark white.

  My God, he’s jealous! The realization hit her like a battering ram.

  She decided to test her theory. She thrust her chin up and boldly looked him in the eye. “He wants to marry me.”

  His eyes narrowed with predatory intent. “Is that so?”

  If hope wasn’t rushing through her, she might have felt a wee bit of trepidation. But instinctively, she sensed how far she could push him. It was rather exhilarating to see him angry.

  She nodded, and heaved a false maidenly sigh of contentment.

  His fists clenched. “And this is what you want?”

  She took a step closer to him, the warmth of his body spreading over her just as she’d remembered it. He smelled of sweat, and leather, and sun. But there was something deeply arousing—almost primal—about it. Her body flushed with heat. The shock of sensations made her gasp as frissons of pleasure rippled through her.

  “What I want? What do you care about what I want? You’ve made your feelings toward me clear. Why should you care who I kiss?”

  He flinched, and she felt a wicked sense of feminine power surge through her. She leaned closer, until the hard tips of her breasts brushed against his chest.

  He made a pained sound low in his throat. She felt the tension radiate around him like a drum as he fought for control. She sensed the danger but felt drunk, with a new kind of power. “At least when he kisses me, it makes me feel like a woman, not a nun.” The muscle below his jaw jumped. “Aye, there is nothing chaste about his kiss,” she added for good measure.

  He moved so fast, she barely had time to process that she’d done the impossible: snapped the powerful bonds of his control. She was in his arms, breasts crushed against the muscular wall of his chest and hips plastered to his. And God, it felt incredible! Every nerve-ending in her body flared at the contact.

  His mouth covered hers with a groan of pure primal satisfaction that drove her pleasure all the way to her toes. She could feel it pulsing through her, spreading over her limbs like a wave of pure molten heat.

  His lips were soft but strong, his breath warm and spicy, as he crushed his mouth to hers.

  His hand splayed against her back, possessively drawing her closer, bending her into the hard curve of his body.

  For a moment she felt him yield. Felt his body envelop hers. His kiss grew more insistent. His lips dragging, kneading, opening her mouth.

  Oh God.

  She startled. Her heart fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. His tongue was inside her mouth, plunging, thrusting, circling. Tasting her deeper and deeper, as if he couldn’t get enough.

  The sensation was incredible. She moaned and circled her arms around his neck, wanting to get closer. His chest was so hot. So hard. She wanted to melt against him. She could feel her body soften, and the heat between her legs start to pulse and dampen.

  The explosion of passion was so intense, so sudden, that she barely had time to savor it before it was gone. He broke away with a harsh, guttural curse, thrusting her from him as if she were plagued.

  But it was the look of loathing on his face that cut her to the quick.

  He still blames me, she realized. For not marrying him, and for marrying his friend. And bound up with that blame was guilt. He thought his feelings for her were a betrayal of his friend’s memory. “Will you ever forgive me for what happened? I made a mistake, Magnus. I’m sorry. If I could go back and do it differently I would. I shouldn’t have refused you. I shouldn’t have agreed to the betrothal with William. But you left and never came back. Never sent word. I thought you’d forgotten all about me.” Her hands twisted furiously in her skirts. “And then at the wedding …” She gazed up at him, begging for understanding. “You said you didn’t care.”

  “I don’t.”

  He had that hard, stubborn look on his face that infuriated her. “How can you say that after what just happened?”

  “Wanting is not the same thing as caring, Helen. Surely you know the difference?”

  It horrified her to realize she didn’t. How would she? The only man she’d ever kissed was he—and William, but the chaste peck in the church didn’t seem to count.

  No, she wouldn’t let him confuse her. She might be innocent, but she could tell when a man cared for her. And she’d seen his face at the wedding. The tic betrayed him. She thrust her chin up. “I don’t believe you.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never liked Munro. But marry him, if that’s what you wish.”

  Her heart dropped. “You don’t mean that.” Her voice sounded raw and dry. It wasn’t just competitiveness that had made him jealous … was it?

  “He can protect you.”

  What did that have to do with anything? Why did she need protection?

  “But I don’t love him. I love you.”

  Magnus stilled, trying to not let himself react to her words, but feeling them reverberate inside him like a drum.

  She didn’t mean it. And even if she did, it wasn’t enough. He’d traveled down this road before. He wouldn’t do it again.

  She’d made her decision four years ago. She didn’t love him enough then; nothing had changed. Whatever chance the
y might have had died the day she married Gordon.

  He was furious at himself for losing control and kissing her. But he’d been out of his mind with jealousy, and when she’d taunted him with her body and her words, he’d lost control—which around her was becoming an appallingly frequent occurrence. The temptation to take what she offered …

  He needed to get the hell out of here.

  I love you.

  Damn it. He couldn’t stop hearing the words.

  She didn’t mean it. Her brother was right. She loved everything around her. She didn’t love him. If she had, she would never have refused him, and she sure as hell wouldn’t have married another man.

  “Did you figure this out before or after you married my best friend?”

  She flinched, perhaps as he intended. He knew it was wrong, this lashing out. But something about her—something about this situation—made him want to hurt her as badly as he’d been hurt. As he still hurt.

  “That was a mistake. I never should have married William. He knew it as well as I—”

  He didn’t want to hear this. “It doesn’t matter.”

  But the reminder of his friend hardened his resolve and reminded him of why he’d come here. Now that he’d assured himself she wasn’t in danger, he could put this all behind him. He could put her behind him.

  One more day. He could make it through one more day.

  At least he thought he could. But then she closed the distance he’d put between them. She was so small and feminine. The overwhelming urge to take her in his arms again rose inside him. Her soft, alluring scent taunted him. He could still taste her on his mouth, the sweet honey of her lips ambrosia to a starving man.

  He’d never lost control like that. Never. He’d wanted to ravish her senseless. Press her up against that tree, wrap her legs around his hips, and do what he’d been wanting to do to her for years. She wasn’t a girl any longer. Nor the virginal maid he’d thought to take for his bride.

  “What must I do? Get down on my hands and knees to beg your forgiveness?”

  Oh hell. For that was where he was surely going. The image of her on her knees before him …

  It wasn’t begging that he was thinking about, but her mouth wrapped around him. His hands sinking through the soft silk of her hair as she took him deep into her naughty mouth and milked him. Heaviness tugged in his groin, his cock thickened.

  Damn it, he was losing all rationality. Her nearness was like a sensual drug. She had no idea what she did to him. How one look, one touch, one whiff could send him into a mindless, lust-induced stupor.

  Suddenly, one more day seemed like forever.

  “There is nothing to forgive.” Their eyes met and seeing her earnestness, a little of the hardness inside him softened. “You don’t even know me anymore, Helen. I’m not the same man I was four years ago.”

  It was the truth. They couldn’t go back to the way things were, even if he wanted to.

  “Neither am I. I’m stronger. I would never let my family persuade me to go against my heart. Won’t you give me—us—a chance?”

  He was more tempted by her words than he wanted to admit. But guilt was a powerful antidote. She’s not yours, damn it.

  The sound of footsteps behind him proved a welcome interruption. He turned, surprised to see MacGregor racing toward him through the trees.

  His instincts flared, immediately sensing that something was wrong. He reached for his sword.

  “What is it?” he asked as MacGregor came to a hard stop before him, the heaviness of his breath testament to how fast he’d run.

  The look on his face made Magnus brace himself for the worst. But still it wasn’t enough.

  “It’s the king,” he said. His gaze shot to Helen. “You’d better come, too, my lady. He’s ill. Terribly ill.”

  Ten

  Helen had never been more scared in her life. The realization that the King of Scotland’s life rested in her hands was terrifying, to say the least. A messenger had been dispatched to try to find Muriel, but the situation was too dire to wait. Robert the Bruce was dying.

  She worked tirelessly through the day and night, doing everything in her power to halt the deathly plague that had overtaken him. Feverish, violently ill, and unable to keep anything down, the king came close to dying so many times she lost count.

  Magnus was by her side the entire time. He told her of the king’s illness the winter before last, where he’d nearly died after a similar malady. He’d suffered a few recurring bouts since then of fatigue, weakness, and aches, but nothing like this violent vomiting and flux.

  Magnus’s description matched a common malady that typically affected sailors and nobles. Farmers and peasants, however, rarely suffered from the sickness. Some suspected certain foods were the cause; poorer folk couldn’t afford as much meat and subsided on less expensive foods like fruits, vegetables, eggs, and pottages.

  She’d asked Magnus to describe the king’s diet and found that like most noblemen, he favored meat, cheese, fish, and bread.

  But so far, her efforts to combat the illness with pottages and mashed-up vegetables and fruits had not worked. It wasn’t surprising, as the king couldn’t seem to keep anything in his stomach. But part of her wondered whether it was something else.

  Late on the second night—or early the third morning—the king became delirious. Helen mopped his brow, squeezed drops of whisky in his mouth, and tried to keep him calm, but she didn’t know what to do. She was losing him, and never had she felt so helpless.

  She gazed at Magnus, who had taken a position opposite her at the king’s bedside. The stress of the situation had caught up to her, and tears of frustration and exhaustion gathered in her throat. “Where is Muriel? Why isn’t she here?”

  Magnus detected the threat of hysteria lurking behind the despair. He took her hand in his as he used to do when they were young, and gave it an encouraging squeeze. It was so firm and strong. The king’s illness had toppled the wall Magnus had erected between them—at least temporarily.

  “The king can’t wait for Muriel, Helen. He needs you. I know you’re tired. I know you’re exhausted. I am, too. But you can do this.”

  There was something about his voice that calmed her fraying nerves. It was how he’d been the entire time throughout his own ordeal. It was as if the direness of the situation, the pressure, the stress, never reached him. He knew the king was dying, but his confidence in her never wavered.

  God, had she really thought him too temperate? He was solid—a rock. An anchor in a stormy sea.

  She nodded. “You’re right.”

  With a burst of renewed energy and determination, she asked him to describe the king’s previous illness for her again, wondering if she could have missed something.

  He spoke of the king’s pallor and weakness, the sunken eyes, the violent nausea, and the lesions on his skin. All common characteristics of the sailors’ illness.

  Helen could still see the scars on the king’s legs where those lesions had been. But so far, no new ones had appeared.

  “Was there any swelling of his limbs?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “There could have been; I don’t remember.”

  Helen knew that was a common trait of the sailors’ illness.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.” Or nothing she could put her finger on. But the absence of the skin lesions and swelling bothered her.

  Other maladies ran through her mind, but the one that made the most sense was the sailors’ illness. The only other time she’d seen something like this was when one of the villagers had accidentally been poisoned by handling monkshood.

  Poison. Here at Dunrobin? Even the suspicion could have horrible ramifications for her family, whose recent submission made them of suspect loyalty as it was. She quickly pushed the thought away.

  “There must be something else you can do? Something you haven’t tried?”

  She hesitated, and he im
mediately jumped on that hesitation. “What is it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s too dangerous.” The finger-like plant foxglove was poisonous in certain quantities, causing violent vomiting not unlike what the king was experiencing now. Except that sometimes, Muriel said it could effect a cure of the same. The difficulty was in determining the quantity.

  He held her gaze, steady. “I think we are past caution, Helen. If there is something you can do—anything you can do—try it.”

  He was right. Dunrobin village was too small for an apothecary, but Muriel had always kept the castle well provisioned. “Keep giving him the whisky and try squeezing some of the juice from the lemon,” she said. Fortunately, the trading routes from the East had opened again with the truce, and the availability of foreign fruits had become more plentiful. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  She returned in less than a quarter of an hour with the tincture of foxglove, vinegar, and white wine. Her brothers, Gregor MacGregor, and other high-ranking members of the king’s retinue who were standing vigil in the Great Hall and wanted to know whether there was any improvement had delayed her a few additional minutes. Magnus had given strict instruction that the news of the king’s illness must be kept quiet—Bruce’s hold on the throne was still too precarious. There would be some who would try to take advantage. Undoubtedly he counted her family in that group.

  When she saw the king’s stilled body, she feared the worst. “Is he …?”

  Magnus shook his head. “He’s alive.” Barely, she heard the unspoken word. “But exhausted,” he finished.

  The delirium had weakened him even further. Helen knew she had no other choice. Praying that she hadn’t used too much, she poured the medicine in a small pottery cup. Her hand shook as she held it to the king’s mouth. Magnus lifted the king’s head and she poured it between his chapped lips. His face was as gray as a death mask.

  Some of the liquid dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, but most of it went down.

  She and Magnus sat in silence, anxiously waiting for a sign. Helen was beset by self-doubt, wondering if she’d done the right thing. For a while nothing happened. Then the king woke and started to writhe. Her fear increased. He started to lash out, calling her Elizabeth—his queen still imprisoned in England—and demanding to know why she hadn’t bought him marzipan for his last saint’s day. He loved marzipan. Was she still angry with him about the woman? She didn’t mean anything. None of them did.