The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel Read online

  “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.