The Saint (36 page)

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.

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.

She glanced at the jug in his hand—what the hell had happened to his flagon? There was nothing disapproving in her gaze, but he felt it all the same.

Suddenly, he felt naked and exposed. As though she’d stripped down the venerable earl and saw the uncertainty and desperation he was trying to drown in drink. He pushed the flagon aside, disgusted with his weakness. He was stronger than she, damn it. It was she who needed him.

“You wished to see me, my lord?”

“Damn it, Muriel, stop calling me ‘my lord.’ ”

She looked at him blankly. “What should you like me to call you?”

He crossed the room and slammed the door shut behind her, his fists clenched at his sides in fury. “What you’ve called me for years. Will. William …”
Love
.

He was flailing like a ship in a storm, but she simply shrugged as if nothing about him made any difference to her. “Very well. Why did you send for me, William?”

The cool, impersonal tone sent a fresh surge of panic raging through his blood. He grabbed her arm and forced her to look at him, fighting the urge to shake some sense back into her. “Stop it, Muriel. Why are you doing this? Why are you being so stubborn?”

A small, mocking smile turned her lips. “What did you think, that bringing me back here would change my mind? That you could bend me to your will? Crush me in your iron fist like you do anyone else who refuses you?”

“No, damn it.” But that’s exactly what he’d thought. He released her, raking his fingers through his hair. “I want you with me. I love you, Muriel. If I could marry you I would. I’m just trying to make the best of a horrible situation. You will never want for anything. I will treat you like a queen. I will care for you as if you were my wife.”

“Except that I shan’t be your wife,” she said matter-of-factly, ignoring the emotion he couldn’t seem to contain. “If you truly loved me, William, you wouldn’t ask this of me. I can forgive you for what you must do; won’t you show me the same respect?” He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything. “How do you think I should feel, when you marry and bring your wife here to stay?”

He felt a flicker of hope. “Is that what’s bothering you? I would never do that to you. You will never have to see her. I will send her to a different castle.”

“I see.” She pretended to consider his words. “You are very accommodating. How well you have it all planned out! You seem to have thought of everything. It is a very
good offer, and one I’m sure I should regret refusing. But I intend to return to Inverness in one week’s time, and nothing you can say and no amount of gold is going to tempt me to change my mind.”

He believed her. Damn her to Hades, he believed her. Rage roared through his blood, making him mad with it.

Look at her! A willowy, delicate woman. He could crush her in one hand. She wasn’t stronger than he was, damn it, she wasn’t.

His mouth pulled into a cruel semblance of a smile. “What if you have nothing in Inverness to go back to? What then, Muriel? One word from me and Ross will remove his patronage. How long do you think the gentleman physicians of Inverness will let you apprentice in their guild without it?”

But his cruel threat didn’t even elicit the bat of a damned eyelash. Long, thick, doe-like eyelashes that were so feathery soft, like the wings of a butterfly. He thought of how they curved against her cheek when he held her in his arms.