The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

But her brother wouldn’t back down. “Ask him about the strange explosion that took down part of the wall at Threave, Helen. Does it remind you of any stories I used to tell you about?”

  She gasped, and her gaze shot to Magnus’s. Knowledge of the Saracen black powder was rare enough to be remarkable. “Is it true? Is what my brother says true? Was William part of this phantom army?”

  But she didn’t need to ask. His eyes burned into hers, hot and full of torment.

  She stepped back, covering her mouth in shock. “Dear God!”

  It seemed incredible that William could have been part of something that seemed almost mythical or apocryphal. How little she’d known him!

  To her surprise, her brother looked just as stunned as she was. “Damn,” Kenneth muttered. “It’s true.”

  “If you care anything about your sister’s safety you will never mention it again.”

  Kenneth’s mouth fell in a grim line.

  She looked back and forth between them. “What does it have to do with my safety?”

  The men exchanged looks; clearly neither was eager to explain. After a long pause, Magnus broke the silence. “There are many people who would be willing to pay a price to learn the identities of the alleged ‘phantom army.’ Anyone known to be connected to any of them is in danger.”

  “But I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Aye, but no one knows that,” her brother pointed out.

  God, he was right. Helen stared at Magnus. “Am I in danger?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you have a reason to believe I might be.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s why you were so worried in the forest.”

  “What happened in the forest?” her brother demanded.

  Magnus looked as if he wished Kenneth far away, but eventually he said, “I thought someone was watching us.”

  Kenneth swore. “Why didn’t you go after them?”

  His mouth thinned at the criticism. “Because I wanted to get your sister to safety, that’s why. I couldn’t very well take her along. I was about to organize a scouting party when you got in my way.”

  “I’m going with you.” Before Magnus could object, he added, “She’s my sister. If she’s in danger I’ll protect her.” He turned to her. “Come, Helen. I’ll take you back to camp.”

  She shook her head. “Magnus will do it.” She watched Kenneth’s expression darken. “It shall only take a few minutes and you can see me from camp. There is something I must say to him.”

  “If you need help finding the right words, I have a few suggestions.”

  Helen ignored him, not needing much of an imagination to guess what those words might be.

  “Get MacGregor and Fraser,” Magnus said to him. “I don’t want to take any more men from camp than that. We will leave as soon as I am done.”

  Kenneth didn’t like it, but he left them alone.

  The ramifications of William’s involvement with the mysterious warriors were staggering, but one possibility loomed above the others. She thought of the changes in Magnus. His closeness to William. The tight bond he seemed to have with the king. “And what about you, Magnus? What does Bruce’s phantom army have to do with you?”

  “The king acknowledges no such army.”

  “So because it’s not official, it doesn’t exist? You’re part of it, aren’t you?”

  He held her gaze, his expression perfectly unreadable. “Don’t ask me a question I cannot answer.”

  But she didn’t need to ask. She knew. He was part of the group, too. Her brother suspected the truth as well. That was one of the reasons he wanted him to stay away from her.

  Was it also one of the things that was keeping Magnus from admitting his love for her? Was he trying to protect her? Her heart swelled.

  She stepped closer to him, until their bodies were almost brushing. “I don’t want your protection, Magnus. I want your love.”

  His expression was fierce in the moonlight, almost as if she had him on the rack. He was waging some kind of horrible war inside himself that she didn’t understand. He shook her off. “Nay. I promised to protect you, damn it, and I will.”

  Her heart caught mid-beat. She stilled. Promised? A horrible premonition crept up inside her. “To whom did you make this promise?”

  He seemed to realize he’d made a mistake and wished the words back, but it was too late. She could see the apology in his gaze. “To Gordon. I vowed to him that I would protect you.”

  Helen let out a very slow breath through the hot vise fitted tightly around her chest. “Is that why I am on this trip? Is it so that you could watch over me?”

  He tried to avoid her eyes, but she stared at him until he met them. “Aye.”

  She nodded. “I see.” And she did. Clearly. Without the blindness of illusions. It was duty that had forced his nearness, not that he’d softened toward her.

  Stung, hurt, and not a little angry, she started to walk away, but he caught her arm, preventing her. “Helen, wait. It’s not like that.”

  Her eyes blurred. Hot tears pressed against the back of her throat. “Oh really, then how is it? Are you here—am I here—because you love me, or because you want to protect me?”

  His silence was all the answer she needed.

  It was a long night. Magnus, MacGregor, Sutherland, and Fraser rode for hours patrolling the forests, mountains, and countryside near their camp at the eastern end of Loch Glascarnoch, trying to find any sign of the interloper. But whoever it was had vanished without a sign.

  There were few inhabitants in the area—only a handful of stalker huts and bothies—and so far no one they questioned reported seeing or hearing anything since the king’s party had traveled through. No suspicious men, no riders, no armed warriors, no brigands, nothing. Of course, it would be a hell of a lot easier if they knew exactly what they were looking for.

  They were just returning to their horses after wresting an unhappy cottager and his wife from their beds when Sutherland fell into step beside Magnus.

  Magnus tensed, the muscles at his neck and shoulders bunched in anticipation.

  “Are you sure someone was there?” Sutherland asked. “Perhaps it was an animal.”

  He gritted his teeth. Coming from anyone other than Sutherland, the question wouldn’t have riled him so much. But he couldn’t look at the bastard without seeing that damned sword and feeling the blood-chilling moment of uncertainty when he hadn’t known whether he was going to be able to get Helen out of its way.

  Sutherland’s hot-tempered recklessness had been inches away from costing his sister her life. Only the knowledge that the bastard had cause for his anger—and Magnus’s own guilt for what had nearly happened with Helen—prevented him from fully regretting his decision to let him go. But he was waiting for an excuse to shed some of that too-hot blood and didn’t doubt Sutherland would give him one.

  “It wasn’t an animal. Someone was there. I heard the ting of metal on metal.”

  “It could have been someone from camp.”

  Fraser had overheard Sutherland’s question. “But why wouldn’t they make themselves known?”

  Magnus and Sutherland exchanged angry glares in the darkness, both thinking the same thing: perhaps the person had been too embarrassed to interrupt what was happening.

  “It wasn’t someone from camp,” Magnus said flatly. He didn’t know how to describe it, except that he’d felt the weight of malevolence in the air and it had been aimed at him—or them, he didn’t know which. It was that extra sense. The primitive instinct that detected danger and set every nerve-ending on edge. His gut told him someone was there and that person was a threat. And his instincts had helped him survive too many times for him to ignore them.

  “We can’t take any chances,” MacGregor said, sidestepping Fraser’s question.

  “But you aren’t certain my sister is in danger?”

  Magnus’s mouth fell in a flat line. He knew Sutherland wasn’t sa
tisfied with the little he’d told him of the King’s message—simply that there was a vague rumor of Gordon being connected to the secret army—but that was all he needed to know. Hell, he already knew too much. With MacRuairi and Gordon’s unmasking, and Sutherland and Helen’s suspicions about him and MacGregor, the identities of the Highland Guard were fast becoming one of the worst-kept secrets in Scotland. “I’m certain of nothing.”

  “There is also the king’s safety to consider,” MacGregor pointed out.

  Sutherland shook his head. “So we have an unspecified target from an unspecified threat?”

  Magnus clenched his fists, which were itching to connect with the other man’s jaw. He was sure as hell earning his war name in having to put up with Sutherland right now. “You wanted to come along tonight. If you don’t want to be here, you’re free to return at any time. Join your friend Munro on the watch. But I intend to make damned sure your sister, the king, and everyone in that traveling party is safe.”

  “Your duty is to the king; I’ll worry about my sister.”

  Magnus met Sutherland’s glare, hearing the unspoken challenge: was he going to make a claim on Helen?

  God, he wanted to. With every fiber of his being he wanted to. No matter how wrong. He’d been moments away from having no choice. He thought of what had happened. How she’d fallen apart in his arms. How ready she’d been for him. Her responses had been so honest. So sweet and innocent—nay, inexperienced. She wasn’t innocent, damn it.

  His promise to Gordon to keep her safe sure as hell didn’t extend to what had happened, nor did his fear for Helen relieve him of his duty to the king. Her arse of a brother had reminded him of that and saved him from making a big mistake.

  But he wished she hadn’t learned the truth. He could still see her face when he’d accidentally let slip his promise to Gordon. She looked like a little girl who’d just learned that her favorite faerie tale wasn’t real. And then when she’d tried to force a declaration from him …

  He wanted to tell her both—it was love and his promise—but knew it was better if he let her walk away.

  His mouth tightened, letting his anger at himself—at the bloody situation—find a worthy target: Sutherland. “I don’t need you to remind me of my duty.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Magnus wanted to tell him to go to Hades, but it would only provoke the fight that was being held back by threads, and right now his focus needed to be on finding the source of the threat.

  After returning to camp to check with the sentries he’d posted that nothing was amiss, they followed the stalker paths up along the strath—the wide river valley—north to Loch Vaich. The forest in Stratvaich was known for its deer, and stalker paths crossed all over these hills.

  They’d ridden no more than a few miles from camp when they came upon a fisherman readying his boat at the jetty. After exchanging greetings, Magnus said, “An early start to the day, is it?”

  “Aye,” the man replied. He was young and cheerful, if humbly attired. “The darker the night, the bigger the trout.”

  Magnus smiled at the familiar fisherman’s adage and explained their purpose.

  The man’s cheerful expression changed. “I’m not sure if they are the men you’re looking for, but I was fishing with my laddie at the other end of the loch the day before last and saw a group of warriors in the trees along the western bank.”

  A buzz ran over his skin. “How many?” The man shrugged. “Eight, maybe nine. I didn’t stay long to find out.”

  “Why not?” MacGregor asked.

  The man shivered. “As soon as they saw us, they donned their helms and picked up their swords. I thought they were going to jump in the water and come after us. I rowed as fast as I could in the other direction. But they frightened my laddie something fierce.” He laughed, uncomfortably. “With the blackened helms covering their faces and the black clothing, in the darkness he thought they looked like phantoms. Bruce’s phantoms, he said.” Knowing Sutherland was watching him, Magnus didn’t chance a glance at MacGregor. “But to me they just looked like brigands.”

  After pinning down exactly where the fisherman had seen the warriors, Magnus thanked him, and they rode hard to the location the man had given them, not a mile up the western side of the loch.

  It wasn’t difficult to find where the men had made camp.

  “Whoever it was, they didn’t leave that long ago,” MacGregor said, kneeling over a pile of wood covered by dirt. “The fires are still warm.”

  They searched the area, but although the brigands had made no effort to hide their presence, they hadn’t been generous enough to leave anything behind that would identify them.

  “Do you think it was the same men?” Fraser asked.

  Magnus nodded grimly. “The timing is too close to be coincidence.”

  “Whoever it was, it looks like you ran them off,” Sutherland said, pointing to the hoof marks in the ground that led north through the forest.

  He hoped so, but he didn’t like it. If they were brigands or a roaming war band, it would seem more logical for them to be camped nearer the road. And if they weren’t brigands, then who the hell were they?

  Magnus and the others followed the tracks around the loch west until they met the main road to Dingwall, before finally returning to camp. Whoever the warriors were, they seemed to be long gone.

  The first tentative rays of dawn were breaking through the mist on the loch and the camp already had begun to stir. They’d have maybe an hour or two to sleep before the carts would need to be packed for the day’s journey.

  But sleep didn’t come to Magnus. He couldn’t shake the unease, the sense that something wasn’t right.

  Hours later, as the royal party neared the far end of Loch Glascarnoch, Magnus had confirmation.

  From his position scouting high on the hilltop of Beinn Liath Mhor, he caught sight of a flash of metal in the sunlight. Skillfully and stealthily, at a distance safe enough to avoid detection, they were being hunted.

  Twenty

  William Sutherland of Moray was one of the most powerful men in Scotland. For as long as he could remember, people had jumped to do his bidding. He was the chief, damn it. An earl. The head of one of the most ancient Mormaerdoms. A feared and formidable warrior. But he was being defied at every turn by a woman who should be insignificant to him.

  He should never have noticed the physician’s pretty daughter. He hadn’t at first. Muriel had been like a ghost when she’d come to Dunrobin, and at one and twenty he was too young and proud to notice a chit six years his junior. But she’d avoided him, and that had pricked his pride and his curiosity. He’d looked closer, seeing not a ghost but a wounded, haunted lass who’d stolen his heart and never let it go.

  She’d been so damned vulnerable. He didn’t know what he’d wanted at first. To help her, maybe? To make her not so sad? But he’d never forget the moment she’d trusted him enough to tell him her secret. Hearing the horror of her rape …

  It had unleashed something inside him. Emotions that could never be reined back. He would have given anything to take that pain away from her. He’d wanted to comfort her, to protect her, and kill for her. But most of all he’d wanted to never let her go.

  Earls didn’t fall in love, damn it. He had a duty.

  He paced around the small solar, straining against invisible chains. He knocked aside the wine that had been brought for him by one of his bevy of servants, and reached instead for the uisge beatha. After emptying a good portion of the jug into his flagon, he stood before the fire, staring into the flames and refusing to allow himself to go to the window to see if she would answer his summons—this time.

  He tossed back the cup, downing the fiery amber brew as if it were watered-down ale. He was too angry, too frustrated, too pushed to the edge of his tether to notice. What the hell did she want from him?

  He didn’t understand her. Since her return a few weeks ago, he’d tried everything he could think of to
convince her to stay with him. He’d showered her with gifts—jewels, silks for gowns, fine household plate—a king’s ransom of riches that could keep her in luxury for the rest of her life. But she’d refused every one of them.

  He thought if he brought her back to Dunrobin, she would see how much he missed her—and how much she missed him. How being together was all that mattered. But she avoided him, refused to come near the castle, and stayed in that damned hovel of hers. He should have burnt it to the ground. Then she would have to come to him.

  Not even when he’d been forced to submit to Bruce had his pride taken such a beating. He’d gone to Inverness after her, damn it. He wouldn’t go after her again.

  So he’d ordered her to come to the Hall a few days ago for a feast. She obeyed, but she’d barely glanced in his direction. When he’d forced her to speak to him, she answered politely, “my lording” him to death, and generally treating him as if he meant nothing to her.

  Infuriated, he’d tried to make her jealous by flirting with Joanna, a servant he’d made the mistake of bedding years ago. But Muriel’s indifference to his actions made him panic. He sent for her later that night—claiming he had a headache—and she’d sent a posset … with Joanna.

  It would have served Muriel right if he’d bedded the lass. She was eager enough. But he wouldn’t hurt Muriel like that, no matter how much she deserved it for defying him like this.

  Will refused to consider that she no longer cared for him. That forcing her to come here might have been a mistake. She was just being stubborn, that was all. But with one week left, he was running out of time and ideas.

  He stilled at a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he said, bracing himself.

  The door opened and he almost let out a sigh of relief. He’d half-expected her to send Joanna again, but it was Muriel who entered the room.

  God, she was lovely. So fragile-looking, but with the unmistakable air of strength that had always drawn him. Long, wavy blond hair, porcelain skin, pale blue eyes, and refined features set in perfect repose and … indifference.

  He felt a strange hitch in his chest—not just of longing, but of fear. It twisted like a rope, getting tighter and tighter until the tension reached the snapping point. She couldn’t be this indifferent to him; he wouldn’t allow it.