The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  He was able to hold the pad as she used the scissors in her bag to cut a section of linen from her shift to make a larger pad, and a second thinner piece to secure it with. She knew it wouldn’t last long, but she needed something until she could get some salve—

  Suddenly, she heard men moving toward them. The king heard them, too.

  “Hood,” she heard a man say.

  The king stiffened, detecting the same thing she had: English.

  Then, a moment later, another muffled voice said, “Find the lass.”

  The king was already getting to his feet and reaching for his sword. By sheer force of will, he seemed to be fighting against the urge to sway.

  “Go,” he said. “I’ll keep them back.”

  Helen’s heart stopped, realizing he intended to try to fight them off himself. But he was far too weak. Thinking quickly, she said, “Please, Sire. You can’t mean to leave me. What if one of them comes after me?”

  Chivalrous to a fault, he saw her point. “Aye, I need to get you somewhere safe.”

  She almost headed back toward the trees where the others were hidden before realizing the danger she would be putting them in.

  The king seemed to have a different idea anyway. He took her hand and started pulling her away from the battle into the mist and darkness.

  When they heard a shout behind them, they started to run.

  Twenty-two

  Helen ran until the ground began to climb, and the king started to slow. Her own lungs were close to bursting. With the amount of blood he’d lost, the king had to be struggling.

  “Did they see us?” she asked.

  He listened for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  They stood side-by-side in the darkness, sucking in deep breaths of air. Although she could see little around her, the hulking shadows of the mountains loomed all around them. Beautiful by day, at night they took on a sinister cast.

  “Do you know where we are?”

  The king shook his head. “A few miles to the north of the loch. But I don’t know these mountains like—” He stopped.

  “Like Magnus,” she finished.

  He nodded. Neither of them wanted to voice what they both were thinking: where was he? If they’d been attacked, did that mean the attackers had made it past Magnus?

  She shuddered, her mind instinctively shrinking from the possibility.

  The king gave her a compassionate smile. “Don’t give up, Lady Helen. MacKay is one of my best men. It would take more than a few brigands to bring him down.”

  She nodded, but they both knew those weren’t normal brigands. “Who were they, do you think?”

  Bruce shook his head and when he swayed a little, Helen urged him to sit down on a large rock. “I don’t know. But at least one of them was English, and they knew it was the royal party they attacked.”

  “They also knew about me,” she said quietly.

  Bruce nodded. “Aye, it seems so.”

  Helen frowned, noticing the blood seeping through the bandage around the king’s head. She moved forward to examine it. She needed something better with which to bind it … but what?

  “It’s still bleeding?”

  She nodded. “Aye. I don’t suppose we can light a fire?” It would be the surest way of sealing it closed.

  “Not until we’re sure they’re gone.”

  “I wish I’d thought to grab my sewing basket. The embroidery thread would do in a bind.”

  “Perhaps if you tie the cloth tighter?”

  She was just about to unknot the piece of linen when she heard a sound in the distance.

  A voice? A footstep?

  The king had heard it, too. Without another word, they ran, having no choice but to flee higher into the impenetrable mountains. Magnus’s warning came back to her. She knew how dangerous it was to attempt to navigate the treacherous terrain, especially in the darkness.

  But it soon became clear that they would not make it very far up the steep mountains. Nor were they going to be able to outrun their attackers. The king was losing strength. He started to stumble, obviously fighting the dizziness from the prodigious amounts of blood he was losing from his head.

  The blood! she realized. That must be how they were being followed.

  “Wait,” she said, forcing the king to come to a stop. “I have an idea.”

  Not bothering with the scissors this time, she tore another large section of linen from her chemise. The wool of her skirts was now touching her thighs. She quickly made a pad and carefully exchanged it for the sodden one.

  They were fortunate that the heather and boggy grasses of the ground near the loch had given way gradually to a rockier terrain as they climbed the hill. But what she wouldn’t give for a forest or a …

  She peered down into the darkness, hearing the unmistakable flow of water over rocks. A burn!

  Explaining what she intended to do, the king waited while she very carefully climbed higher on the hill, squeezing drops of blood from the cloth as she went. She went as far she dared—hopefully near enough to the summit—and then turned back, taking care not to leave any footprints, though she doubted it was possible to see them in the darkness.

  After she collected the king, they headed in the opposite direction toward the water, using rocks whenever they could to step upon. It was slow going, but eventually they hit the river. From there they moved faster, following the rocky bank until she found what she was looking for: a large gap between the rocks. It wasn’t big enough to fully hide in, but at least they would have some shelter, while she tended the weakened king and they waited for daylight and—she prayed—help.

  Magnus lost the trail just before dawn.

  After sorting through the varying accounts of what had happened from Helen’s attendants and the others who’d hidden in the forest, he hadn’t wasted any time and had set out after them.

  According to the women, only one of the attackers had followed Helen and the king. Knowing he would be faster on his own, and with few men to spare (MacGregor had most of their best men hunting down the other attackers), Magnus left Sir Neil to attend to the survivors, sent one of the remaining knights west, another east, and took to the north in the direction the tracks seemed to lead.

  What a mess! At least a score of men dead, the rest scattered; the king was badly—perhaps gravely—injured, and Helen …

  Somewhere out there in the dark, dangerous countryside, Helen was trying to keep them both alive. But how long would she be able to elude their pursuers? And just who in the hell were they? Brigands? Mercenaries? If they were, they were some of the best he’d ever come across.

  The attack had been well planned, well executed, and very nearly disastrous. His heart twisted. He just hoped to hell he could find them in time.

  He wouldn’t consider the alternative. He was supposed to keep them safe, damn it.

  He forced himself to focus on the task at hand, knowing he’d lose his mind if he thought of all the things that could go wrong. Not just if their pursuer caught up with them, but also what might happen in the merciless, unforgiving terrain of these hills and mountains. One misstep …

  Don’t think about it. He couldn’t lose her. Not again.

  He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, but with little moonlight piercing the mist it was difficult to follow the tracks. He wished Hunter were here. Ewen Lamont could follow a ghost in a snowstorm. A torch would have helped, but Magnus couldn’t risk giving away his position.

  About a half-mile from camp, he saw the first drop of blood. If the women’s accounts of what had happened were correct, he suspected it was Bruce’s. An axe in the head? Bloody hell.

  Magnus quickened his pace, the trail becoming much easier to follow. Too easy. Dread twisted in his gut as the sporadic drops became long streaks. Whatever Helen had done to tend the wound, it hadn’t held. Worse, he knew that if he could follow the path, so could someone else.

  The first gasp of dawn appeared over the eastern horizon when
the trail of blood came to an abrupt end near the ridge of Meall Leacachain.

  His heart dropped like a stone. The hill fell off steeply on the far side, and in the dark it would be easy to slide off the rocky ridge …

  He held his breath as he glanced over the ridge. He scanned the ground below still cast in the shadowy darkness of early morning, and slowly exhaled when he didn’t see anything other than rocks littering the corrie below.

  But his relief was short-lived. Where the hell were they?

  He looked around, willing them to materialize from out of the vast wilderness around him. He was surrounded by mountains, the largest of which, Beinn Dearg, loomed forbiddingly to the north ahead of him. Below, a river cut through the narrow gorge, and to his right behind him he could just make out the forest and the loch where he’d left the rest of the royal party.

  Damn it, where could they have gone?

  Suddenly a harrowing sound pierced the morning air. His blood went cold, recognizing the clash of steel. It was coming from the corrie below.

  Knowing he would never make it in time if he followed the path, which wound back down the hill, he took one look over the steep, rocky ridge and realized it was the only way.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped over the edge and drew on every one of his climbing skills. He was going to need them. One slip and they’d all be dead.

  Helen knew they couldn’t stay here. As the black of the midnight sky began to lighten on the slow creep toward dawn, it became apparent that the gap in the rocks would not hide them for long. Situated as they were in the gorge between the mountains, in the daylight they would be visible from above.

  She needed to find a better shelter, a place where she could do something to tend to the king’s wound. It seemed to have stopped bleeding for now, but he’d lost too much blood, and each time he woke it was for shorter periods. His skin was pale and cool to the touch, which could be attributed to the cold night air, but she feared differently. Head injuries were always dangerous, but it was the unseen damage that was often the most deadly.

  About an hour before dawn, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Cramped as they were between the rocks, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried when her movement did not wake the king.

  Carefully, she climbed out from between the rocks and peered over the edge of the riverbank. The foggy mist had not completely cleared but had thinned enough for her to make out her general surroundings.

  Mountains. Lots of them. With plenty of heather, crags, and intimidating rocky cliffsides, but unfortunately bereft of trees or other obvious hiding places. The river stretched as far as she could see in both directions, with no bridge or natural crossing point. But to the southeast, back in the direction from which they’d come, she could see the river widen into what looked like a small lochan. With any luck, they might find a nice thick copse of trees nearby to take cover in.

  It was the only option she had. She wasn’t fool enough to attempt to climb those mountains in the hopes of finding a cave, not with the ailing king and not with Magnus’s warning ringing in her ears.

  Magnus. Dear God, where is he?

  She was cold and scared, more than intimidated by their bleak, unfriendly surroundings, and overwhelmed by the responsibility of keeping them both alive. What she wouldn’t do for his rocklike, solid presence right now.

  But it was up to her. She’d gotten them this far. All she had to do was find them someplace safe, and Magnus would find them. He had to.

  With the cover of night quickly slipping away, Helen woke the king. “Sire.” She shook him gently, and then harder when he stirred groggily. “Sire.”

  He opened his eyes, but it took him a few moments to focus. “Lady Helen.” He brought his hand to his head. “By the rood, my head hurts!”

  She smiled encouragingly. “Aye, I suspect it does. I’m sorry, but we can’t stay here. If someone is looking for us, they will see us as soon as the sun comes up.”

  He started to nod but stopped with a pained wince. It took some effort to help extricate him from the rocks. His movements were sluggish and unsteady. But Robert the Bruce was a fighter, and once again he proved his mettle. By sheer force of will and determination, he stood and readied his sword in his hand.

  She was glad of the dark plaids they both wore around their shoulders, not simply for warmth on the cold, damp morning—the higher they walked the more it felt like December rather than late July—but also to hide the king’s mail.

  But they’d gone no more than a few hundred feet when the king stopped her.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  He motioned toward the mountains, instinctively herding her behind his back. “I saw something move. There. On the hillside behind the rocks.”

  The next moment Helen saw it, too, when two men stood from a crouched position behind a pile of stones.

  Her breath caught. She looked frantically around for someplace to run, but it was too late. They’d been seen.

  The two warriors with their ghastly helm-covered visages started toward them. They looked like two fearsome war machines ready to cut down anything in their path.

  But Robert Bruce hadn’t become king by sitting on a throne; he’d won the position with his sword. He had no intention of giving up without a fight, and neither did she.

  As the king lifted his sword to meet the onslaught of the two warriors who attacked, Helen slid her eating knife from her waist, keeping it hidden in the folds of her skirt.

  The two men were so focused on the king that they didn’t pay any attention to her. The sounds were terrifying. Their blades were moving so fast. She didn’t know how the king was fending them off.

  “Who are you?” Bruce asked in between blows, his breath heaving from the exertion.

  The men exchanged glances from behind the slits of their helms and laughed. “The reapers,” one said, in a thick Irish accent.

  They weren’t all English, she realized. As did the king.

  “What do you want?” Bruce asked between another furious series of blows.

  “Death,” the same man said. “What else?”

  The king was weakening. Both men knew it, as did Helen. She knew she couldn’t wait much longer. But with the mail, there were few places her small knife could penetrate.

  Finally, the man who remained silent gave her his back. She didn’t hesitate. Rushing forward with one target in mind, she plunged her blade deep into the leather of his chausses.

  He yelped in surprised pain as the blade cut through the back of his thigh. The king took advantage of his surprise and plunged the heavy blade of his sword right through his belly.

  The other man roared in fury. He came at the king with a vengeance, making Helen realize that the two men had been toying with them, dragging out the battle. No longer. This man intended to kill.

  The attacker forced Bruce back to the river. Helen shouted a warning, but it was too late. The king stumbled on a rock and fell backward. Helen lurched forward with a cry as he landed with a thud. He wasn’t moving.

  The warrior lifted his sword with both hands high above his head.

  “No!” she shouted. “Don’t!”

  She raced forward, barreling into him with all her strength. But it wasn’t enough. It was as if she’d run headlong into a stone wall; he barely moved.

  He turned his head in her direction. “You’ll get your turn—”

  He stopped, his attention caught by something behind her.

  She turned instinctively, recognizing him even before the sound of his battle cry roared in her ears. “Airson an Leòmhann!” For the lion.

  Magnus! She nearly wept with relief. And she might have, if the king weren’t in need of her.

  She scrambled to his side, trying to revive him while keeping one eye on the battle taking place not a few feet away.

  If it weren’t Magnus fighting, and if her heart weren’t lodged in her throat, she might be impressed. As skilled and invincible as
the attackers had seemed to her, it was clear Magnus was even more so. But she was too worried about him to notice how fast he moved. How powerfully his sword crashed into the other. How his broad chest and powerful arms seemed built to wield the steel.

  She would admire him later. Right now she just wanted it to end.

  He granted her wish. One powerful blow brought the man to his knees. She turned her head, not needing to see the one that would bring his death.

  She closed her eyes, fighting the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. But when she opened them again, Magnus was standing before her.

  Their eyes met.

  Her heart lurched.

  There was no holding back this emotion.

  When he opened his arms, she ran into them.

  Magnus held her as if he would never let her go. When he thought of what he’d seen, how close he’d come to losing her again, he doubted he’d be able to ever again.

  He cupped her chin, turned her face to his, and with one long look that spoke of the truth in his heart, he kissed her. The soft sweetness of her mouth made his heart clench. God, he loved her. He could no longer fight it.

  He swept his tongue against hers, crushing her against him, and for one blistering moment gave in to the fierce emotion ripping through him and tearing him to shreds.

  She kissed him back, every bit as passionately. Every bit as desperately.

  But a moan brought him back to reality. A moan not from Helen, but from the king.

  Reluctantly, he released her. Their eyes held for one long heartbeat. In that one look, they said everything that mattered. Tears of happiness welled in her eyes. And God, no matter how wrong, he felt it, too.

  Another moan, however, dropped her to her knees at the king’s side. “Careful,” she said softly as Bruce started to rise. “You hit your head when you fell.”

  The king groaned. “Again? What happened …?”

  He turned, for the first time noticing Magnus. “Saint, took you long enough to find us.”

  “Saint?” Helen looked at him in surprise. “You?”