The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel Read online

  Helen blanched in horror at what her brother implied. Magnus would never have had anything to do with William’s death. Her gaze flew to Magnus’s. His face had gone white. Horribly white. But it was the pained, haunted look in his eyes that struck her cold.

  She threw herself in front of her brother, expecting Magnus to strike. It was no more than her brother deserved.

  What she didn’t expect was for Magnus to turn and walk away.

  The next morning Helen left with her family, certain that she would never see him again. Her heart was breaking a second time. She wanted to go after him but knew she could not. It was over. She felt the finality she’d never felt the first time.

  Five

  Kildrummy Castle,

  May 1309

  The sun beat down upon Magnus’s bare head and torso, his chest slick with the sweat of exertion. The truce negotiated between King Robert of Scotland and King Edward II of England in January had provided temporary peace from war but not from MacLeod. “Peace” for MacLeod only meant more training.

  The leader of the Highland Guard and famed trainer of warriors came at him again, wielding the two-handed great sword as if it weighed no more than a stick. Striking first to the right high above Magnus’s head and then to the left, MacLeod forced Magnus to move his arm and shoulder in every direction to deflect the powerful blows.

  It hurt like hell, but Magnus gritted his teeth and forced his body to fight through the pain, fending off every strike. Not any easy feat against the greatest swordsman in Scotland, especially for a man whose arm and shoulder had been severely broken only months before. But he was tough enough to withstand anything MacLeod threw at him.

  Magnus knew he should be grateful that his arm had healed as well as it had, but the forced weeks of inactivity had been its own kind of pain. Eight wall-crawling weeks before he could remove his arm from the splints and sling. Another four before he could even think about picking up a sword.

  His arm had been as weak as a damned Englishman’s! For the past two months, he’d thrown himself into a training regimen to rebuild his strength with the single-minded purpose of a zealot. He didn’t have time to think about …

  He stopped himself, irritated by the lapse. Focus.

  Now that his arm was healed, it was just a matter of pushing through the pain. Something that MacLeod seemed intent on maximizing.

  Chief swung again with a crushing force that would fell most men. Magnus blocked the blow with his own great sword. The shattering clash of metal reverberated in the air and down the entire left side of his body. MacLeod pressed down so hard, Magnus could read the inscription on his sword: Bi Tren. Be valiant. Be strong. The motto of the MacKays, and fitting as hell right now. The pain was excruciating, but he pushed the fierce swordsman back.

  “I think he’s getting tired, MacLeod,” MacGregor observed from the gallery—in this case a bale of hay, turned-over crates, and an old barrel that were set out near the section of the castle yard where they practiced every morning. A few other warriors had gathered around to watch as well. Other than offer the occasional encouragement, however, they were content to watch the two men battle in reverent silence. Except for MacGregor: he wouldn’t shut up. “You probably should go easy on him.”

  Magnus shot him a nasty glare. “Go to hell, MacGregor. I didn’t hear you volunteer.”

  But MacGregor was used to his foul temper, having borne the brunt of it for the past five months.

  Like Magnus, MacGregor was fully healed from the arrow that should have killed him. Other than the angry red scar where the hole had been burned shut—which eventually would lighten—he bore no signs of his ordeal. He’d even managed to avoid a fever.

  Because of Helen.

  Damn it, don’t think about her.

  Magnus’s jaw clenched against the reflexive surge of emotion. When he thought of Helen, inevitably he thought of Gordon. The two were forever linked in his mind. The shock of Gordon’s death had faded, but not the guilt. Helen was caught up in that guilt.

  He was grateful for what she’d done for him—and for MacGregor—but there was nothing left between them.

  Watch over her.

  The promise he’d made to Gordon haunted him. He had nothing to feel guilty for, damn it. No link had been made between Gordon and the already legendary attack of the Highland Guard at Threave.

  He wasn’t breaking his vow to Gordon. There was no threat. No real threat, at least. And there wouldn’t be any at all if her brothers would keep their mouths shut. The earl and Kenneth Sutherland had made trouble at the king’s first Parliament in St. Andrews a couple of months ago with their dangerous questions about the circumstances of Gordon’s death. Questions that were also being raised by Gordon’s English-loving family in the south.

  It was the timing of the mission with the wedding that had created problems. Too many people were aware of exactly when they’d left. Usually the Highland Guard missions were undertaken with few people aware of their comings and goings. Admitting to being in Galloway would be too risky, so they’d claimed to be in Forfar laying siege to the castle, which had been taken for Bruce. Supposedly, Gordon had been killed in an attack by freebooters on the way home.

  Helen was perfectly safe.

  But Magnus wasn’t. He was distracted when MacLeod came at him again, nearly taking off his head.

  “He’ll get his turn,” MacLeod said, referring to MacGregor. “Once I’m done with you. Again.”

  For the next thirty minutes—forty minutes? It felt like forever—MacLeod worked him until his eyes burned with agony and every muscle in his body shook with exhaustion. It was almost as if he were trying to get him to quit. When it became clear Magnus wasn’t going to do that, that he would fight until he collapsed, MacLeod finally relented.

  “That’s enough. You’re ready. Get cleaned up and meet me in the king’s solar in an hour.” He smiled at MacGregor. When Chief smiled like that it didn’t bode well. “Your turn.”

  “Have fun,” Magnus said to MacGregor as he started toward the barracks to retrieve soap and a drying cloth. He looked back over his shoulder at MacLeod. “Watch his face. The serving lasses from the village were upset the last time you bruised him up a little.”

  The men sitting around watching snickered.

  “Sod off, MacKay,” MacGregor said.

  “Too bad that arrow wasn’t a little higher,” Magnus added. “You might actually look like a warrior.”

  The man renowned for his handsome face let off a string of ugly oaths.

  Magnus actually smiled as he walked away, a rarity of late. It was a source of constant annoyance to MacGregor—and thus a constant source of amusement among the Highland Guard—that no matter how many battles he fought, his face came out unscathed.

  For a warrior, scars were expected. A badge of honor and impossible to avoid, especially on the face. But it was almost as if MacGregor’s mother had dipped him headfirst in the protective waters of the River Styx like Achilles: no matter how hard he tried, his face healed smooth and unmarked.

  Poor bastard.

  It didn’t take Magnus long to gather his belongings and make his way to the river behind the castle to bathe. Though it was a warm spring day, the river of melted snow from the mountains retained its wintry chill.

  The numbing effect on his muscles drove away the pain almost as effectively as the mandrake, poppy, and vinegar concoction Helen had left for him. He’d taken it—at first. But dulling the pain also meant dulling his thinking and reactions. So when he resumed training, he’d weaned himself off the foul-tasting brew.

  He took his time in the water, allowing the cold to restore his aching muscles. But as the hour drew close, he became anxious to return to the castle.

  MacLeod had been testing him, he realized. And if “you’re ready” was any indication, he’d cleared Magnus at last to rejoin the others in the west. MacRuairi and MacSorley were in the Isles, keeping watch over John of Lorn, who was stirring up trouble