The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  He stilled at her subtle taunt. But it was the tightness of his mouth and the barest hint of a flex beneath his jaw that made her pulse quicken.

  “And it’s your response that you are hesitating over?” He was tense. Too tense for a man who didn’t care.

  “Nay, I know my response. It’s his reaction that I’m not looking forward to.”

  He didn’t bother to hide his relief. It was foolish to read so much into a sigh, but it was what he said next that made hope soar in her chest. “I know a way to distract him.”

  “How?”

  “Dance with me.”

  Her heart swelled. She’d dreamed of having him swing her around a crowded Hall, holding her, touching her, for all the world to see.

  And a short while later, when he led her in a reel across the crowded stone floor of the Great Hall of Dingwall Castle before her scowling brother, an amused king, and a furious Donald, it was a dream come true.

  For the first time in years, the happiness she sought, the elusive “more” she wanted, seemed a little closer.

  The euphoria of the dance sustained Helen through the rest of the day and into the following morning. It was working!

  In the days since they’d left Dunrobin, she’d felt a subtle shift in Magnus’s attitude toward her. Rather than avoiding her as he’d done before, he seemed to be seeking ways of being closer to her. She’d felt him watching her. And now, after the conversation yesterday and the dance, she was sure that he was softening toward her.

  Their conversation had done something else. It made her realize that part of what had held her back from accepting his proposal all those years ago was fear that she would let him down. Fear that she would never be the kind of lady of the keep that his mother was. That she would never fit into the life that was demanded of her.

  So, after breaking her fast, Helen made a concerted effort to spend more time with the other women. But after three hours of sitting around a tapestry in the Countess of Ross’s small solar, sewing and discussing every nuance and angle of the betrothal while trying not to say the wrong thing (she’d barely caught herself from remarking that the only time she enjoyed sewing was when it was necessary to close a wound), the thick stone walls of the small room seemed to be closing in on her again.

  The midday meal was a welcome escape, although she was disappointed not to see Magnus in the Hall.

  Unfortunately, she was seated on the dais beside the Countess of Ross. The austere Englishwoman was said to have been a beauty thirty years ago when she’d captured the heart of the Scottish earl, but any signs of that beauty had faded into the gray, colorless woman who looked at her with sharp-eyed condescension, as if she could see every one of Helen’s faults. Even without her penchant for saying the wrong thing, Helen doubted she could ever say the right thing around the formidable countess. She hated to so much as open her mouth.

  She felt the countess’s gaze on her. “Will you be joining my daughters’ falconing this afternoon, Lady Helen?”

  She blanched. In yet another oddity, Helen did not enjoy the popular pursuit of noblemen and women alike. She liked watching the predatory birds dip and soar from afar, but up close …

  She shivered. The birds terrified her.

  She tried to cover her reaction, but feared the other woman could see through it. “I’m afraid not.”

  Before she could add an excuse, the countess said, “Good. Then I shall look forward to more of your help with the tapestry after the meal. You’re obviously out of practice, but your stitches are competent when you concentrate.” Helen supposed that was high praise coming from her. “You can tell me how it is that a daughter of Sutherland came to be a loyal attendant of King Hoo—” She stopped herself, realizing the man she’d been about to call King Hood was seated five feet away. “King Robert,” she smiled thinly, unable to fully conceal her aversion.

  Some thought the Earl of Ross’s ongoing resistance to Robert Bruce had stemmed from his English wife’s sympathies. There was undoubtedly some truth to the rumor.

  Helen swallowed hard. The sharp-eyed birds or hours alone with the sharp-eyed countess—she didn’t know which was more terrifying.

  She opened her mouth, trying to think of an excuse to get out of this predicament, but slammed it shut again when she realized she was stammering.

  Suddenly, she felt someone behind her. She turned, surprised to see Magnus. Their eyes caught, and from the flicker of sympathy she realized he must have heard enough to understand the nature of her predicament.

  “Lady Helen, I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, but your assistance is required in the barracks.”

  The Countess of Ross’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter? Why is Lady Helen—”

  “I’m afraid the matter is of some delicacy, my lady,” he said, implying that it was a matter for the king. “Lady Helen?”

  He held out his hand, which she readily slipped hers into. Big and warm, his strong, callused palm swallowed her tiny fingers in a protective hold as he helped her from the table and led her out of the boisterous Hall.

  She looked behind her, half-expecting her brother or Donald to come racing after them demanding an explanation, but realized that Gregor MacGregor had both men locked in conversation with their gazes drawn away from the door.

  “Your doing?” she said with a glance in their direction.

  He grinned and shrugged, a devilish look in his eye. “Might be.”

  She laughed with a sense of joy and freedom that she hadn’t experienced in a long time, feeling so much like the naughty girl who’d snuck away at the Highland Games to meet her secret love.

  She slowed her step as soon as they exited the Hall into the bright and sunny courtyard. Drawing a deep breath, she said, “Thank you for rescuing me. I fear I was not relishing the thought of a long afternoon with Lady Euphemia.”

  He made a face. “I don’t blame you. The woman terrifies me. But come, we need to hurry.”

  He steered her across the courtyard toward the barracks.

  Surprised, Helen immediately became alarmed. “You were serious? I thought it was a ruse. What’s the matter?”

  “You are needed,” he said simply.

  The words filled her with an unexpected warmth.

  Rather than opening the door to the barracks, a large wooden structure that had been built against a section of the wall, Magnus drew her around to the side of the building in the narrow space that separated it from the stables.

  She was about to ask him why they were there, when she saw a child kneeling at the back edge of the wall.

  The little girl, who appeared to be about seven or eight, turned as they approached. Even from a distance, Helen could see that she’d been crying. Fearing the child had been hurt, she rushed forward and knelt down beside her.

  She did a quick scan, but could see no obvious signs of injury. “Where are you hurt, little one?”

  She little girl shook her head mutely, staring at Helen as if she were an apparition. She was a funny-looking little thing with a mop of bedraggled brown hair that hung in her eyes and a dirt-streaked face on which the tears had cleared paths of freckled skin.

  Magnus had knelt beside her, his big body blocking the narrow passageway. “Lady Helen,” he said. “I would like you to meet Mistress Elizabeth, the cook’s youngest daughter.”

  The girl sniffled wetly. “My da calls me Beth.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Beth. What seems to be the—”

  A soft meow coming from under the back corner of the building forestalled her question. There was a small gap between the ground and the wooden foundation where the cat had obviously taken refuge.

  “It’s a kitten,” Magnus explained. “It wandered away from the rest of the litter in the kitchens and got underfoot. One of the servants stepped on its leg.”

  The little girl started to cry again. Her small face scrunched up. “My d-da said n-nothing done and l-let it die,” she sobbed uncontrollably. Helen tried to soothe
her, looking to Magnus.

  “I ran into Mistress Beth on my way to the Hall and told her I knew someone who might be able to help.”

  Their eyes locked. The echoes of the day that had bound them together long ago passed between them.

  She held her breath as he reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Her heart tugged at the contact. She savored the gentle touch that lasted only an instant before he seemed to remember himself.

  His hand fell. “What do you need?”

  “Help me get him—”

  “It’s a her,” the little girl wailed.

  “Help me get her out,” Helen amended, “and we shall see.”

  For the next two hours, Helen worked diligently on the tiny ball of fur with the mangled leg. Magnus was by her side the entire time. He helped when needed and whittled some tiny splints for the kitten’s leg, while Beth fetched the things that Helen needed for a cast and a draught that would put the poor little thing to sleep. Helen made sure to not tell her all the items at once, knowing that fetching things kept the little girl too busy to cry.

  It was delicate work, and Helen feared accidentally giving the tiny creature too much medicine, but when she finished, the kitten’s leg was held with tiny wooden splints, bound with thin swatches of egg-and-flour-coated linen, and she was sleeping peacefully in a wooden crate that Beth carried carefully back to the kitchens.

  Helen couldn’t help smiling as she watched them go. Magnus helped her to her feet. Her legs wobbled in protest after kneeling for so long, and he slid his hand around her waist to steady her.

  He smiled. “You’ve earned someone else’s undying gratitude today.”

  “I’m glad you thought to come find me. Thank you.”

  She looked into his eyes. For a moment neither one of them said anything.

  “We should get back.”

  She nodded, disappointed but not wanting to push him. They walked back in silence to the tower. Her skirts were dirty and dusty from kneeling beside the barracks; she would need to change for the evening meal.

  “I will leave you here,” he said.

  He started to walk away, but she stopped him. “Magnus.” He turned. “I won’t give up.”

  She spoke softly, but he’d heard her. With a tip of his head, he left her.

  Seventeen

  Dunraith Castle, Wester Ross

  “Have you seen the lady, my lord?”

  Magnus glanced up from the shaft of yew he was working on to see a lad of about four and ten standing before him. One of Macraith’s foster sons, he guessed from the boy’s clothing. He wore the heavily padded cotun and steel helm of a warrior-in-training. Macraith, one of MacKenzie’s chieftains, was one of the Highlanders who’d given shelter to Bruce on his escape across the Highlands.

  Magnus didn’t need to ask to which lady the boy referred. Since the day Helen performed her latest miracle on the kitten, word of her skills had spread, and “the lady” had been in almost constant demand for the rest of their stay at Dingwall and continuing on their next stop, a few miles west at Macraith’s castle, on what had been an ancient Norse fort.

  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 thi
nner 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.