Where he would see Helen.
“I love you.”
He pushed the words away and jumped off the rock. It didn’t matter, damn it! Hadn’t she said as much before? Look how well that had turned out for him—three and a half years of misery. She’d left him standing like an arse while she rode away with her damned brothers only to dig her knife even deeper by marrying his closest friend.
But the words had affected him more than he wanted to admit. After nearly three weeks at Dunrobin, including two by her side while she nursed the king, seeing the way she looked at him he could almost believe she meant it—that she regretted what had happened and wanted to make it right.
But it could never be right. Excising Helen from his heart had cost him too much.
Yet no matter how much his body wanted to forget, he flared up like a stallion with a mare in heat whenever she was near. Hiding his reaction in the king’s small chamber had become impossible.
Fortunately, Bruce’s improving health allowed him to spend more of his time away from his bedside—and from Helen. Unfortunately, that meant he was spending more time with her brothers in the training yard.
He grimaced. Kenneth Sutherland was proving to be annoyingly tenacious. He refused to let go of the matter of Gordon’s death. His questions were growing increasingly dangerous, and increasingly closer to the truth. The only way to shut him up, it seemed, was to distract him in the yard.
His boyhood competitor had proved to be distracting to him as well. He frowned, admitting that Sutherland’s skills had improved more than he’d expected. Mindful of the king’s admonition to the Guard not to draw too much attention to their skills, Magnus had kept to sparring and light competition. But ignoring the challenges was getting harder and harder to resist. He longed to shut Sutherland up once and for all.
There was a bright side. At least he wasn’t being forced to endure Munro’s blatant wooing of Helen. The Sutherland henchman had been gone for well over a week searching for the healer. If he stayed away another week or so, he and the king’s party would be gone.
The king was recovering swiftly under Helen’s care. Bruce said he felt better than he had in years, and only Helen’s threats kept him in bed. Hell, Magnus had no liking for vegetables, but perhaps there was something to this peasant diet she’d implemented. The king’s color was healthier than it had been in a long time.
He made his way back to the castle. Unfortunately, the path took him right by the place where he’d come upon Helen and Munro. Seeing the tree where Munro had kissed her sent a primal surge of anger running through him. He should chop the damned thing down.
But the reminder of his weakness only served to further infuriate him. He never should have kissed her. He’d been jealous, he admitted. Blind with jealousy. He hadn’t been thinking rationally.
He wasn’t fool enough to think she would not remarry. It was just Munro, he told himself. He couldn’t stand to see the man who’d humiliated him too many times when he was young—and never missed the opportunity to remind him of it—win her.
It wasn’t a competition. But it sure as hell felt as if he were losing.
The man known for his cool, level-headed temper was in a foul mood by time he entered the castle. A mood that only got worse when he entered the tower and saw Helen standing by the stairwell.
She wasn’t alone. Munro—the whoreson—was back. But something was wrong—or right, depending on your perspective—the Sutherland henchman had a fierce look on his face and seemed to be fighting for control.
“Don’t be silly,” Helen said. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying a tray—”
“I insist,” Munro said, relieving her of the king’s meal. “You should return to your room and get some rest. You look tired.”
Helen sounded as though she was trying to contain her impatience. “I’m not tired. I told you I’m fine. I need to check on the king.”
“Is there a problem?” Magnus said, making his presence known. His teeth gnashed together; apparently they were too busy to notice him.
Helen turned at the sound of his voice and let out a gasp. A gasp that he very nearly echoed.
Jesus! He’d taken hammer blows across the chest that had packed less of a wallop.
All he could see were two delicious mounds of creamy white flesh rising above a tight square bodice.
He’d never realized how big …
He’d never imagined how perfect …
How could he? The gowns she usually wore were fashionable, as befitting a lady of her station, but never more than well-made afterthoughts. This gown hugged every inch of her body, revealing curves he hadn’t known existed.
But he knew now. He knew their exact shape and size. He knew that if he cupped her breasts to bring them to his mouth, the soft flesh would spill over his big palms. He knew the depth of the sweet crevice between them and that her nipples rose in delicate little points not half an inch from the edge of the fabric.
And he knew all this because the pink silk gown did very little to hide any part of her.
The watering in his mouth went dry. Suddenly, the reason for Munro’s anger became crystal clear.
A vein Magnus didn’t know he had started to throb by his temple. Not yours, he reminded himself. But damn it, if she was, he’d take her to their room and rip the blasted thing in two.
Only the suspicion that the dress was calculated to elicit just that kind of reaction kept him in control. “I’ll take it,” he said. “I was on my way to see the king anyway.”
“That isn’t necessary—” Munro started to say.
“I insist,” Magnus said, an edge of steel in his voice. “The king isn’t seeing visitors.”
Munro didn’t miss the slight. His smile was tight. “Of course.” He handed over the tray.
But on one subject he and Munro could agree. Neither man wanted anyone seeing Helen like this, and for reasons of their own they didn’t want her to know it. “Munro is right,” he said. “Perhaps you should go to your chamber and rest.” And change that blasted dress.
Averting his eyes from danger, he kept his gaze firmly on her face and saw the small furrow appear between her pixie brows. Thin and delicately arched, the velvety, dark-brown wisps framing her eyes held only a hint of auburn.
“I’m not tired. I assure you I’ve had plenty of sleep.” She looked back and forth between them as if sensing something else at play. “I will rest later this afternoon. After I have seen to the king and the midday meal.”
Magnus’s jaw tightened, as did Munro’s. Giving them no opportunity to object further, she lifted the skirts of her indecent gown and flounced up the stairs. Magnus exchanged a look with Munro and stomped up behind her.
It was going to be a very long meal.
Twelve
“More ale, Your Grace?”
“Aye, thank you, Lady Helen,” the king said eagerly.
Helen bent over the reclining king to pour the ale into the goblet. The king smiled appreciatively, and she turned to the expressionless man beside him. Holding the jug to her chest in blatant offering, she asked, “Magnus?”
“Nay.” She thought his voice snapped, but then he added pleasantly, “Thank you.”
She looked for any sign that he’d noticed the gown or the swell of flesh threatening to slide out every time she leaned forward, but his face remained perfectly impassive. Her brother was right—she could be naked and he probably wouldn’t notice. The dress had been a foolish waste of time. She’d felt a little nervous donning it—it revealed far more of her bosom than she’d ever shown before—but apparently there had been nothing to worry about. She might have been wearing a monk’s robe for all the notice Magnus took of it.
Or of her.
She was tempted to dump the blasted pitcher of ale on his head. He might notice that!
Mouth pursed, she set the jug back down on the tray. Picking up a plate, she inhaled the rich, buttery perfume. But the deep breath she intended to take was cut sho
rt by the tightening of fabric across her chest. Lud, the silly dress was too tight to even take a deep breath!
“Tarts?” she said, holding the plate out.
“Please,” the king said, appearing to be holding back a laugh.
Helen frowned and turned to Magnus. He shook his head, made a grumbly sound low in his throat, and shifted in his seat.
She wrinkled her nose at his curtness and slid one of the tarts from the plate. They smelled divine.
Plopping down on the bench beside Magnus, she sunk her teeth into the flaky strawberry tart, unable to hold back a groan of pleasure. “These are heavenly.” She sighed with a flick of her tongue, catching the rivulet of juice before it dribbled down her chin.
Bruce laughed. “I don’t think I should mind all the new foods you insist I eat if they could all taste like this.” He made a face. “A king forced to eat carrots and beets, it’s a disgrace.”
She returned his laugh, and then turned to Magnus with a concerned frown when she noticed he was shifting again. “Is something wrong?”
His face was perfectly placid. “Nay, why do you ask?”
“You keep shifting in your seat.” The frown between her brows deepened as she realized what might be the cause. “Do you need a cushion? I know you’ve been spending many hours by the king’s bedside.” Her cheeks heated. “It is not uncommon to have swelling—”
“Piles? Good God!” If Helen hadn’t been so taken aback by the vehemence of his reaction, she might have found the look of outrage on his face comical. “I don’t need a blasted cushion! And I sure as hell don’t have swelling anywhere.”
The king was making a choking sound that immediately drew her attention. She jumped to her feet and leaned over him, concerned. “Sire, are you all right?”
The coughing subsided, but this time she was sure there was laughter behind the innocent facade. “I’m fine,” he assured her after a moment.
Confused, Helen looked back and forth between the men, but neither seemed inclined to illuminate her. “Sit down,” the king said. “Finish your tart.”
Helen complied, and she could feel the king’s eyes on her while she ate. “MacKay says you knew one another as children?”
Helen cast a surreptitious glance at Magnus from out of the corner of her eye, surprised that he would have mentioned it but not surprised he would have made it seem of youthful unimportance. No longer shifting, he sat as still as one of the druids’ mystical standing stones. “Aye,” she said cautiously. “Though we were not children. Magnus was ten and nine when we met.”
“Hmm,” the king said. “I can’t imagine your brothers were very happy when they found out about your, uh … friendship.”
This time she didn’t dare look at Magnus, fearing the accusation she would see in his gaze. She recalled exactly how her brother had reacted. And how she had as well: by rejecting his offer of marriage.
She shook her head, a pained pinch in her chest. “Nay, Sire. The feud was still too fresh in their minds.”
Magnus said nothing, his silence feeling like a condemnation of its own.
I would do differently today! she wanted to shout. Just give me a chance.
But he wouldn’t look at her.
Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Bruce switched the subject. “Aye, well, feuds and old alliances are all in the past.” He smiled. “Since I’ve been confined to my chambers, I’ve spent some time at the window, watching the training. Your brother Kenneth is a skilled knight.”
She felt Magnus tense at her side. She knew he and Kenneth had been locked in one competition after another the past few weeks, but the king’s observation pleased her nonetheless. She was proud of her brothers and her clan. She nodded. “Aye, he is. At Barra Hill, Kenneth held off a thousand rebels with two hundred men by positioning his archers at …” All of a sudden her voice dropped off, as she realized what she was saying. She’d been so eager to sing Kenneth’s praises, she’d forgotten the “rebels” were Bruce’s men.
The king saw her expression and laughed, giving her hand a fond pat. “That’s all right. I take no offense. Your loyalty to your brother does you proud. I remember that battle well, though I did not realize it was your brother in command. If all of Buchan’s men had used such tactics we would not have fared as well that day.”
Helen’s shoulders sagged with relief.
“He fostered with Ross?” the king asked.
She wondered at the king’s sudden interest in her brother. “Aye, both my brothers did, as is the tradition in our clan.”
“And that’s how you came to know William Gordon?”
She stilled, glancing anxiously at Magnus. But he gave no sign that the question affected him. “Aye. Kenneth and William were foster brothers. I never knew him—only of him. Kenneth would come with tales to tell of their mischief.” She smiled unwittingly at the memories. “Although I’m sure I heard only a small portion of it. They were like brothers from the start. Our grandfathers had fought in the last crusade together, and the bond carried on through the following generations. Though I don’t think that connection was always appreciated. The Earl of Ross was furious when they started a fire in his stable after concocting some recipe from one of my grandfather’s journals—he considered himself something of an alchemist.”
Both men stilled as if she’d said something important. “Recipe?” the king asked carefully.
She shrugged. “The Saracen’s powder, but nothing ever came of it. The journal was lost in the fire and Ross made them promise never to tinker with ‘sorcery’ again.” She winked. “But I don’t think they listened.”
The king exchanged a glance with Magnus, and Helen realized the time was getting late. The midday meal had already started, and she still needed to change her dress. Will was going to be angry with her again, this time with cause.
She stood. “I should be going.”
The king stopped her. “What about tomorrow?”
Her mouth twitched.
“You didn’t think I’d forget.”
“Hardly,” she said dryly. He’d been asking her every day for nearly a week. “Tomorrow you may take a turn outside. For an hour—no longer.”
Bruce laughed. “I think I should prefer to have that old priest back. He was much less of a tyrant.”
Helen smiled sweetly. “He’s eager to bleed you again, if you’d like me to—”
“Nay! An hour, no more, I promise. Your enforcer will see to it.” He shot Magnus a glare. “Although I seem to remember you giving your oath to me.”
Magnus didn’t blink. “Seeing that Lady Helen’s instructions are followed ensures I have an oath to keep.”
The king shook his head. “You are quite a pair.” Her chest twisted. They were. Why wouldn’t he see it? “I know when I’m outnumbered.” The king gave her a look. “But I won’t give up. I feel better than I have in years and intend to be rid of this bed by the end of the week. We’ve delayed our journey and intruded on your hospitality long enough.”
The stab in her chest intensified. They couldn’t leave. Not until she’d convinced Magnus to give her another chance.
But maybe he would never be convinced. Maybe she’d been deluding herself. Maybe the passion she sensed behind the impassive facade was only wishful thinking. Maybe she’d been right all those years ago. Maybe he didn’t feel that way about her at all.
Her chest squeezed. Was that it? Did he not care for her anymore?
Nay. Magnus was the most steadfast man she knew—as well as the most stubborn. It was her family and her marriage to William that were holding him back. How could she show him that loving her was not a betrayal of the man she’d barely known?
Discouraged nonetheless, Helen murmured her farewells and left the room. She’d closed the door behind her and taken a few steps down the stairs when she heard it open again. “Helen, wait.”
Her heart stopped just hearing his voice.
She turned. Magnus’s big form loomed on the stair above her
, blocking the light, the air suddenly heavy and warm. He seemed to take up the entire stairwell. She was deeply conscious of the tight space. If she leaned forward a few inches her breasts would graze his …
She blushed.
Almost as if he could read her thoughts, he took a step back and pulled her back into the small corridor. “Thank you,” he said. “For all you’ve done for the king. The medicines, the meals, the ale,” he said, lifting a goblet that she hadn’t noticed.
Her senses had been otherwise occupied. Her nose with the warm masculine spice. Her eyes with the rough stubble along his jaw and the broad, muscular wall of chest that faced her. Her taste with the memory of his kiss. And her ears with the sharpness of her breath.
“You’ve nothing to thank me for,” she said unevenly. “The king is under our roof; it is my duty to care for him.”
“We both know you’ve gone well beyond your duty. I’ve noticed how you’ve personally seen to his meals. You didn’t need to do that.”
He trusted her. Helen felt a pang of conscience that she told herself was unwarranted. The change in diet was helping. There was no reason to suspect anything else.
“Bruce looks healthier than he has in years,” he added.
A wry smile turned her mouth. “I’m not sure the king shares your gratitude. He isn’t very fond of greenery.”
Magnus grinned, and it went straight to her heart. God, he was so handsome. She felt herself pulled by an invisible rope. They were alone, and she wanted him so desperately. She leaned toward him, her breasts brushing against the leather of his cotun.
He was so warm. She remembered how it felt to have his arms around her and willed them to close around her again. “Magnus, I …”
He flinched; his muscles turned as rigid and cold as stone.
Instinctively, she pulled away. The visceral rejection stung.
He doesn’t want me.
“I’m sorry,” she said, toneless, unable to look at him. “I need to go. They will be waiting for me.”
She spun away, knocking his arm. At least she thought she knocked it. For the next minute she cried out in surprise as ale doused her gown.
The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel Page 17
