“Oh, no!” Her hands flew to the front of her bodice, the left side of which was now soaked with the lemony brew. “My dress!”
“Ah, hell.”
Something in his voice made her eyes fly to his face. He looked away quickly, but she’d seen it. Hunger. Raw hunger.
He’d been looking at her breast. She glanced down. Whatever had been hidden by her gown was hidden no longer. The water molded the fabric to her like a second skin. She might have been naked after all. She sucked in her breath, the primal awareness of his attraction washing over her in a hot wave.
“It’s ruined,” she said.
He’d gotten his reaction under control. “Is it?” He didn’t seem overly concerned. Actually he seemed pleased. “What a shame.”
Her eyes narrowed. It was almost as if … he’d done it on purpose. “It’s a new dress.” He didn’t say anything.
She stuck out her chest and held the skirts wide. “Don’t you like it?”
He gave her a swift once-over, assiduously avoiding her chest. “It’s stained.”
“I shall have to go change.”
“I won’t keep you.”
He was pleased. But why would he do such a thing? Only one explanation made sense.
“Here,” he said, taking the plaid from around his shoulders and wrapping it around her, covering her up. “You don’t want to catch a chill.”
For one flight of stairs? Her room was located directly under the king’s. He’d bundled her up as if it were the middle of winter in Norway. Very interesting. Very interesting indeed. It seemed her brother had been wrong after all. Not only had he noticed, he didn’t want her wearing the gown.
Magnus looked so pleased with himself, she couldn’t resist taking him down a notch. “It’s fortunate I ordered a number of new gowns along with this one.”
He stilled, and Helen felt a deep wave of satisfaction surge through her. Good God, she hadn’t thought him capable! He actually looked scared.
“You did?” he choked out.
She smiled with wide-eyed innocence. “Aye, though I’ve been a bit nervous to wear them.”
“Why’s that?” This time it was more of a squeak.
She grinned devilishly. “They aren’t nearly as modest as this one.”
She was rewarded with white lines around his mouth and the faint hint of a tic below his jaw.
When Helen left him standing there, he was clenching his fists, and she …
She had a decided skip in her step. The doubts of a few moments ago were gone. He did want her, and if his reaction was any indication, badly. Things were going to work out all right in the end—she just knew it.
A little more prodding and she’d have him.
Magnus watched her prance away and knew he’d just been deftly outmaneuvered. Worse, it was his own damned fault.
He’d been half-crazed with lust watching her serve the king his meal. It had taken every scrap of discipline he had not to let her see it. He’d done a good job of it, too—except for the shifting. Piles, Jesus! He shook his head with disgust. He’d been swollen all right. His cock had been as hard as an iron spike.
And Bruce—the blasted cur—had enjoyed every minute of his discomfort. A little too much. Magnus had seen the way the king’s eyes had lingered appreciatively on the swell of flesh rising above her bodice.
Magnus knew that he had better do something if he didn’t want to be fighting the urge to slam his fist into jaws all day. He thought he’d been so clever, coming up with the idea of the ale.
But he’d miscalculated. Badly. He hadn’t anticipated the effect of wet fabric.
Jesus, his mouth went dry just thinking about it. The heaviness. The roundness. The faint, wrinkly edge around the perfect bud of a nipple. He ached to slide his finger over the soft ridges. To lower his head, put his lips around the taut tip, and suck every last bit of ale from her skin.
His cock swelled, throbbing at the memory.
Hell, he’d go to bed with every inch of that incredible breast emblazoned on his mind. And he knew that as he’d done many nights before, he’d take himself in hand and try to take the edge off.
But the edginess only got worse over the next few days. His hand didn’t help. Working himself senseless on the practice field didn’t help. Nothing helped.
Helen had found his weakness and took every opportunity she could find to test him. Brushing up against him. Dropping things at his feet so she could bend over and pick them up. Reaching for anything she could on high shelves.
He’d never known her to take an interest in needlework, but it seemed as if every gown she wore had been taken down two inches in the neck and taken in two inches everywhere else. He was surprised she could breathe, they were so bloody tight.
But it wasn’t just the clothing—or lack thereof—that was driving him into a frenzy. Far more dangerous was the open, honest desire he saw in her eyes.
Bloody hell, couldn’t she at least try to hide it? Show some proper decorum for once? But artifice wasn’t Helen’s way. It never had been. She wanted him, and he could see it in her eyes every time she looked at him. Resisting that had stretched him to the limit.
Thank God, the end was in sight. The king had recovered, Magnus had kept his word to Gordon, and Helen wasn’t in any danger. He could leave with a clear conscience.
But his conscience wasn’t clear. Something nagged at him. A vague uneasiness that he attributed to being so long under his enemy’s roof.
He was hardly objective when it came to the Sutherlands, but he didn’t trust them. Bruce might think them loyal subjects, but Magnus wasn’t so easily convinced. Swallowing pride wasn’t part of the Highland creed. Vengeance. Retribution. An eye for an eye. Those were the mother’s milk of Highland warriors.
But suspicion and lifelong enmity weren’t enough to jeopardize the tentative alliance with the Sutherlands that Bruce had fought so hard to win. The betrothal between the king’s sister and the earl was all but agreed upon.
Magnus had survived the past few years by instinct, and pushing it aside didn’t sit well.
So as he did every day, he took his frustrations out on the practice field on a series of opponents, including Munro. Unable to properly quiet his taunts by beating him into the ground, Magnus was in a foul temper by the time the king called the day’s “exercises” complete. Holding back—whether on the lists or every time Helen looked up at him with those take-me-in-your-arms-and-ravish-me eyes—left him feeling like a lion in a very small cage.
The last thing he needed was Kenneth Sutherland tossing oil on the flames of his discontent. If it weren’t so dangerous, Magnus might actually admire the bastard’s tenacity.
Magnus was returning his arsenal of weaponry to the armory for storage when Helen’s brother cornered him. “Munro gave you an opening, why didn’t you take it?”
Magnus turned around slowly. “I would have, if I’d seen it in time.”
Sutherland shook his head. “You pulled back. I saw you.”
Magnus shrugged. “It’s nice to know I have such an admirer in the Sutherland ranks. I’m flattered by your appreciation of my skill. Perhaps I can give you a few pointers tomorrow?”
A rewarding flush of anger crept up the other man’s face. “You can give me a fair fight.”
“Haven’t you heard?” Magnus said with a lift of his brow. “We’re friends now.”
“You and I will never be friends.”
He held his gaze. “Something we agree on.”
What Gordon had seen in the arrogant, hot-tempered arse he didn’t know. Magnus had hated the Sutherlands for as long as he could remember, and proximity sure as hell hadn’t changed his mind any.
Sutherland stepped forward, effectively—due to his size and the small building—blocking Magnus’s way to the door. Magnus, his back to the wall, gave no indication that he recognized the threat. But his muscles tensed with readiness.
“I want the damned truth about what happened to Gordon.
”
Magnus tried to rein in his impatience, but he felt the horses pulling away. “You’ve had it. We were attacked. He took an arrow in the chest and fell overboard before anyone could catch him. His armor dragged him down.”
Sutherland wouldn’t have believed him, even if it had been the truth. “It’s merely a coincidence, then, that I heard of a battle in Galloway at the very time you were gone. A battle where Bruce’s phantom warriors fought off thousands of English soldiers to rescue Edward Bruce from Threave Castle?”
Magnus laughed, though it was the last thing he felt like doing. “Do you believe in ghosts and goblins, too? If these phantoms did half the feats attributed to them, I’d be skeptical. But believe what you want; it doesn’t change the truth. Did your reports also tell you Forfar Castle fell at the same time?”
“Aye, but the attack to free the king’s brother involved something unusual—an explosion.” Magnus felt the other man’s scrutiny and knew he wasn’t going to like what he said next. “Is it a coincidence that Gordon used to tinker with black powder when we were lads?”
The danger posed by those carelessly uttered words caused him to snap. Before Sutherland could react, Magnus had his hand wrapped around his throat and his back against the wall.
But rather than show fear, Sutherland smiled as if this was what he’d wanted.
“Believe in peasants’ tales if you want—I don’t give a shite,” Magnus seethed. “But your wild speculations are putting your sister in danger.” The other man’s smile fell. “Aye, did you ever think what would happen to her if someone were to actually listen to your ravings? Keep your bloody fantasies to yourself or Helen will pay.”
“Let me worry about my sister. You stay away from her. I know what you are thinking, even if she does not. You’re sick—depraved—God damn it, she was your friend’s wife! I would think even a MacKay would have some honor—”
Magnus squeezed his hand around his throat, wanting to shut him up. But his enemy’s words were merely echoes of his own thoughts.
He might have kept squeezing had the door not opened. Magnus released him as MacGregor and a few of the other men strode inside.
Sutherland looked surprisingly pleased, despite the fact that Magnus had been seconds away from squeezing the life from him. “You’re hiding something,” he murmured, as he passed by. “And I intend to find out what it is.”
Magnus let him go, but the threat lingered in his wake. He jammed the last weapon on the shelf and turned to leave.
“Have care, Saint, before you do something you’ll regret.”
Magnus scanned the area, realizing he and MacGregor were alone. He supposed it wasn’t surprising, given his mood of late, that the other men had been avoiding him.
When Magnus didn’t respond, MacGregor added, “You’re letting him get to you. He’s waiting for you to make a slip. And if what I just saw is any indication, you are close to doing so. He’s been asking a lot of questions about you.”
Ah hell. Apparently, Sutherland had broadened his scope. He was too close to the damned truth as it was. “What kind of questions?”
“He’s interested in your movements the past few years, especially in recent months.”
“Let him ask all he wants—only a handful of people know the answer to that question and none of them will answer it.”
“Aye, but that isn’t all. I heard him mention to one of Fraser’s men that he was surprised Bruce had so many Highlanders in his personal guard, including so many past champions from the Highland Games.”
Bruce’s phantom warriors’ reputation as the best of the best had led to much speculation, but no one had made the connection to the Games until now. MacLeod, MacGregor, and Boyd were most at risk—their reputation as champions well known—but Magnus would not be immune from scrutiny as well.
Magnus’s mouth fell in a grim line. “Sutherland is a pain in the arse.”
“A dangerous pain in the arse. And a perceptive one. You have to admire him.” Magnus shot him a traitorous look. It was bad enough that the king had taken notice of Sutherland; now MacGregor, too? “Both he and Munro are watching you closely—you need to get them off the scent.” The famed archer gave him a hard look. “I’d tell you to lose, if I thought you would do it.”
His jaw locked. He’d rather have a bounty on his head, as was sure to happen were his identity discovered.
“Well, you’d better do something,” MacGregor said. “You’ve been pulled as tight as one of my bowstrings—by all the Sutherlands,” he added.
Magnus knew that MacGregor suspected the truth: he lusted after their dead friend’s widow. The fact that he’d loved her first didn’t stop his shame.
“Did he know?” MacGregor asked.
Magnus stilled, knowing who MacGregor meant. Eventually, he shook his head. “Not until after the wedding.”
Unlike MacRuairi, MacGregor didn’t voice his disapproval, but Magnus could see it on his face.
He should have told Gordon sooner. But he was too damned stubborn. Too damned sure he could control his feelings. And now it was too late. Damn, he missed him. They all did. Gordon’s death had left a hole in the Guard that would never be filled.
MacGregor gave him a long look. Though Magnus had never told any of the Highland Guard what happened the day Gordon died, he wondered whether some suspected the truth.
The famed archer didn’t waste time with questions; he cut right to the quick. “Either find yourself a woman or stop punishing yourself and take the one you want—I don’t give a shite which, but do something.”
Punishing himself with Helen? Perhaps he was. But some guilts were impossible to absolve.
Even if he could forget, he wouldn’t put her in danger. Her brother was doing that enough on his own. Sutherland had reminded him of how much was at risk. He wouldn’t add to that risk by linking her to another member of the Highland Guard.
For more reasons than one, Helen was lost to him forever.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Thirteen
What is he doing?
Helen sat at the dais with her heart squeezed in a vise of hurt and jealousy, unable to believe what she was seeing. The little tugs in her chest that had started at the beginning of the evening meal when she’d seen Magnus smile at the serving maid—Joanna, the daughter of the alewife, who had a reputation for being free with her favors—had sharpened as the meal drew on, and the signs of what he was doing became more blatant.
He was flirting. Showing Joanna that he wanted her in ways of which Helen had only dreamed.
Unable to turn away, Helen saw Joanna bend over—bend way over—to refill his goblet. She started to back away, but he stopped her, capturing her wrist in his hand and spinning her back toward him. She almost ended up in his lap. Then, he whispered something in her ear that caused her to giggle like a lass of six and ten rather than a woman at least twice that old.
Well, maybe not twice, Helen conceded. But she was definitely far too old to be giggling.
Helen had never noticed how beautiful the other woman was, with her long, dark hair and bold features. Muriel had never liked her, though Helen wondered now whether it might have had something to do with her brother. Joanna had been linked to Will a number of years ago.
She was even more convinced that there was something between her brother and Muriel after Donald had returned with the news that he’d found Muriel, but upon hearing that the king was no longer in danger, she’d declined to return; if Will needed her he could come and ask himself. Will had flown into a rage, cursing her and calling her ungrateful, his anger far too disproportionate to the offense.
But her brother’s problem was not what concerned her now. Watching Magnus, Helen felt as if acid were eating her up inside. She reached for her goblet, lifted it to her mouth, and drained the contents in a desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of control. She needed something to shore up her crumbling defenses. Something to heat the blood in her icy v
eins. Something to stop her from running over there and demanding to know why he was doing this. It was just like the wedding …
It’s nothing, she told herself. A little harmless flirting.
But it wasn’t harmless at all. It hurt.
Helen gasped, her body buckling as if she’d just taken a fist to the gut, when Magnus slid his hand from the woman’s wrist to her waist, and then to her bottom. His fingers spread wide to cup her curvaceous backside. He let it sit there. Possessively. Intimately. The soft caress a promise, a hint of what was to come.
Helen might have rushed over there right then had the king not stopped her.
“ ’Tis a fine feast, Lady Helen. I fear my men and I will be leaving your larder bare.”
Helen forced herself to attend the king, realizing she’d been neglecting her hostess duties for most of the meal.
Had he noticed?
If he had, he was good enough not to show it.
She tried to smile, but the reminder that the king’s party was leaving in a matter of days sent another surge of panic through her chest. “You are welcome to stay as long as you like, Sire. Our larder is well stocked and ready for many more feasts. Are you sure it is wise to leave so soon?”
The Bruce waved at the wine attendant to refill his goblet, and then motioned to hers to do the same. After handing her the wine, he leaned back in his chair. “We’ve been here nearly a month. I’ve many stops to make before the Games next month.” He smiled. “I thought you pronounced me healed?”
She frowned. “I said you appeared in good health. But that does not mean—”
He stopped her with a wave of his hand and a laugh. “I heard your instructions the first time or two.”
Helen quirked a brow and glanced to his plate. “Yet I do not see any of the kale I asked the cook to prepare on your trencher.”
The king made a face. “There are certain things I will not eat even for the sake of health. I did have your beets.”
Helen lifted her brow again.
He laughed. “Well, a bite of them anyway. They taste like dirt no matter how much sauce you put on them.”
The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel Page 18
