The Saint (21 page)

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she became aware of Magnus before her. She was no longer in his lap, but was curled up in the same wooden chair with a plaid draped over her.

Suddenly, she realized what he was looking at. Bruce was still unconscious, but his face was no longer so pallid and his breathing was stronger. He looked … better.

“What happened?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I kept giving him the whisky and the lemon.” A look of shame crossed his face. “I must have dozed off a few hours ago. I woke and found him like this.”

Had the remedy for the sailors’ illness worked?

Her first reaction was relief.
Thank God, it wasn’t poison
.

She hoped. But a niggle of doubt lingered. Could it have been the foxglove? Some thought the foxglove a remedy for poison. It was impossible to know for certain.

She quickly began an examination, placing her hand on the king’s head, feeling that it wasn’t so clammy, then on his stomach, relieved to not feel the twisting underneath, and on his heart, which beat remarkably steadily.

“Well?” Magnus asked expectantly.

She shook her head. “I don’t know, but I think … I think …”

“He’s getting better?”

She drew in a deep breath and sighed. “Aye.”

He bowed his head, murmuring, “Praise God.” He looked back up. “You did it.”

Helen felt a swell of pride but knew he wasn’t correct. “Nay,
we
did it.”

And just for a moment when she looked into his eyes, time slipped away. She saw the lad she’d fallen in love with and felt the force of the connection between them beat as strongly as ever.

Under the cover of darkness, the
birlinn
approached the shore. He waited anxiously—eagerly—as John MacDougall, the exiled Lord of Lorn, made his way up the rocky beach,
his feet once more treading solidly on Scottish soil. It was a moment to celebrate.

Lorn had been forced to take refuge in Ireland after the MacDougall loss at the battle of Brander last summer, but the once powerful chieftain hadn’t conceded defeat. He’d been planning his retribution against the false king every day since.

Now, the time was at hand. Robert Bruce may have made a near miraculous return from ignominy and defeat, but his run of good fortune was about to come to a deadly end. Ironically, by a sword of his own making.

The two men—allies in the quest to see Bruce destroyed—clasped arms in greeting.

“The team is ready?” Lorn asked.

“Aye, my lord. Ten of the greatest warriors from Ireland, England, and those loyal to our cause from Scotland are waiting to attack on your command.”

Lorn smiled. “The perfect killing team. I would thank Bruce for the idea but do not believe I shall have the chance. The next time I see him, the bastard will be dead. I trust you will not disappoint me?”

Lorn had recognized his skills and picked him to lead his killing team. He would not let him down. “Bruce might have his phantoms, but I have my reapers. He will not escape my scythe, my lord.”

Lorn laughed. “Fitting, indeed. What is your plan?”

“We shall wait to attack until he takes to the mountains, when he is far from help.”

“How many men protect him?”

“A handful of knights, and a few dozen men-at-arms. No more than fifty warriors in total. A number that should be easily handled in a surprise attack.”

Again they would use Bruce’s own tactics against him. Bruce had proved the effectiveness of small numbers in quick, surprise attacks launched in darkness in places of their choosing.

“And what of his phantom army? Have you managed to identify any of them?”

MacKay’s face sprang immediately to mind. He was almost convinced his old nemesis was part of the famed group. He gritted his teeth. “I have a few suspicions, but I think you are keeping most of them busy out west.”

Lorn smiled. “As I shall continue to do. How soon do you think it will be done?”

“Bruce has a few more castles that he plans to visit before turning west. I should think sometime in late July. He plans to hold the Highland Games in August.”

He decided not to mention it would be at Dunstaffnage, which was Lorn’s stolen castle.

Lorn frowned, not bothering to hide his impatience. “What is this I’ve heard of Bruce falling ill again at Dunrobin?”

“Rumors, my lord,” he assured him, surprised the news had reached Lorn’s ears in the west, when such an effort had been made to contain it.

The poison had been his one miscalculation. One he would not make again. He was fortunate that Helen was a better healer than he’d realized. Bruce dying at Dunrobin would have brought scrutiny and criticism to the clan.

It was the last thing he wanted. What he did, he did for the Sutherlands. The honor of the entire clan had been impinged when they’d been forced to bow to the usurper, but he would get it back by defeating Bruce and restoring Balliol to the throne. Will’s hand had been forced by Ross, but he would thank him in the end.

Conscious that every moment he spent on Scottish soil he was in danger, Lorn did not linger. “In July, then.” They shook hands, and Lorn started toward his
birlinn
. He’d nearly reached the water’s edge when he turned back. “I almost forgot. You were right—there were reports of a strange explosion last December.”

He stilled.
Gordon
.

“But not at Forfar,” Lorn said. “At Threave, when Bruce’s phantoms were said to have defeated two thousand Englishmen.”

It was the confirmation he’d been waiting for. William Gordon had been a member of Bruce’s famed guard, which made MacKay almost certainly a member as well.

And then there was Helen. What had she known of it? He intended to find out.

The connection didn’t last. If Helen hoped that the bond forged in those long, desperate hours while caring for the king marked a new beginning with Magnus, she was to be disappointed.

In the intervening days as the king continued to improve, Magnus displayed the same steady, matter-of-fact disposition that she remembered so well. And just as before, the inability to decipher his true feelings proved frustrating. He was polite to a fault, but distant and remote. He displayed none of the fierce longing and attraction that rose in her chest and nearly suffocated her with its intensity whenever she looked at him. She could almost imagine he hadn’t lost control and kissed her—really kissed her.

His duties to the king and hers as healer ensured that for the first time since arriving at Dunrobin Castle he could not avoid her, but any attempts at personal conversation were instantly quashed. As the king continued to improve, Magnus’s duties tended less toward personal bodyguard and more toward captain of the king’s guard. Duties that took him away. More often, Gregor MacGregor, Neil Campbell, or Alexander Fraser could be found at the king’s bedside.

But Helen knew the king’s illness had given her a reprieve,
and she did not intend to squander the opportunity. Her declaration of love had fallen on deaf ears. Obviously, he didn’t believe her. She would just have to prove it to him, showing him how she felt by boldly tempting him with the one weapon she had: desire.

The only problem was that she didn’t know how to be bold. With little female guidance—even less since Muriel had gone—flirting and seduction were not an art she’d perfected. So she took to observing the servants. But unless she intended to start wearing gowns from which her bosom spilled out, and pick up a pitcher of ale to bend over and pour (displaying those bosoms to their full advantage) while men fondled her bottom, she didn’t know how to proceed.

But he was not as immune to her as he wanted her to think. Never far from her mind was that kiss. He wanted her. Of that he was willing to admit. It was a start. An opening through which she could attack. If lust was the sword that would penetrate his shield, she intended to do what she could to pierce his defenses.

With Donald gone it should have been easier. Will had sent him to Inverness in search of Muriel when the first messenger had returned empty-handed. But of course, there were still her brothers with whom to contend.

She grimaced. They were making it exceedingly difficult on her. Will was in a foul temper, which Kenneth blamed on the king’s illness. When she wasn’t attending the king, her eldest brother the formidable earl ensured her duties kept her too busy to do anything else. Kenneth was worse. Except for the blissful (and far too short) two days while he was at Skelbo Castle, it seemed as if every time she turned around, her unnecessary and unwanted “protector” was there.

“Where are you off to this beautiful morning, sister?”

She stiffened. He followed her so closely he was lucky she hadn’t stomped on his nose. It would serve him right if
she did. Her brother was nearly as handsome as Gregor MacGregor but far more arrogant. Attention from women was the one thing he’d never had to fight for. Women fell at his feet, and he let them enjoy the view.

Helen gritted her teeth and tried to smile. “I thought I’d check with the cook to see if the shipment of lemons has arrived. The king enjoys a bit of the juice with his ale.”

She wondered whether he even heard her answer. Kenneth’s eyes narrowed as he scanned her gown.

“Interesting dress,” he said slowly. “But some of it seems to be missing.”

Helen felt the heat rise to her cheeks but ignored his comment—and his obvious disapproval. She took the fine silk in her hands and spread the skirt wide, swishing it around a little for effect. The silvery pink threads caught in the light streaming through the high windows of the Great Hall where he’d caught her. “Isn’t it beautiful? The latest style from France, I’m told. Lady Christina was wearing one just like it at the wedding.”

Helen had lowered hers by an inch in the bodice, but she wasn’t going to point that out. What difference did an inch make?

Quite a bit, it seemed, if her brother’s reaction was any guide. “Lady Christina is a married woman with a husband who would kill any man for looking at her.”

“And I’m a widow,” she pointed out. She thrust her chin up, refusing to let him cow her. “I shall wear what I like, brother.”

She could tell that Kenneth didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed by her sudden assertion of independence.

He considered her for a moment, and then seemed to decide. A wry smile turned his mouth. “It won’t work, you know. You won’t change his mind. MacKay is one of the most proud and stubborn men I know, and damned if I’m not happy about it right now. You refused him and married
his friend; it will take more than a low gown to change his mind.”

Furious, Helen met his amused gaze with a glare. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” But the heat in her cheeks belied her claim; she was embarrassed that her ploy had been so obvious.

Brothers could be so infuriating. Especially when he only laughed and tweaked her nose in response as if she were two. “Ah, Helen, you are still such an innocent.” He had that even more infuriating “silly Helen” look on his face. If he looped her under his arm and mussed her hair, she might sock him in the stomach the way she used to do when she was younger. “One night as a married woman does not make you a
coquette
.”

Not even one night, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. It would only bolster his argument, and her “widowhood” imparted a certain amount of freedom that she was reluctant to lose.

“Hell, that bastard’s so stubborn you could probably crawl into his bed naked and he wouldn’t notice you.”

Kenneth was laughing so hard he didn’t see the flare of possibility in her widened eyes. Climbing into his bed naked … good God! … was that what women did? It seemed rather extreme, but she added it to her mental list of weaponry.

She thought about thanking her brother for the suggestion, but didn’t think he’d be as amused by the irony. “If we are done, then I should see to the king’s meal.”

“Ah Helen, don’t get all prickly. I’m sorry for laughing.” He tried to look chastened, but his deep blue eyes, so like her own, sparkled with laughter.

Brothers!
Her mouth thinned. Sometimes she wished she were five years old again and she could just kick him—even if he was twice her size.

As if he knew what she was thinking, he took a step back. He crossed his arms, clearly not done with her yet.
“You’ve taken quite an interest in the king’s food. The cook mentioned that since Carrick—I mean, the king—has resumed eating, you’ve insisted on overseeing his meals personally.”

Helen thought she covered her reaction, but Kenneth had always been irritatingly perceptive. All signs of his previous humor vanished. “What is it?”

She shrugged. “The king nearly died under our roof. It is prudent to have care.”

He watched her until she felt like squirming. Sometimes he could be just as stern and intimidating as Will.

“But that’s not all is it?”

She shook her head. She hadn’t given voice to her fears, but the urge to confide in someone was overwhelming.

With a harsh curse, Kenneth looked around, took her firmly by the elbow, and pulled her into the small storeroom behind the stairs that smelled of ale and wine. Although the hall wasn’t crowded, there were always people milling around to overhear.