The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel Read online

  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