The Saint (4 page)

Except for him.

“Helping the bride get ready,” MacRuairi replied. “She’ll be here soon enough.”

Bride
. That pricked. Even knowing that MacRuairi was watching, he flinched.

The smile left MacRuairi’s face. “You should have told him. He deserves to know.”

Magnus shot an angry glare back at the man who made it hard as hell to like him—though somehow Magnus did. “Back off, Viper,” he said in a low voice. Gordon didn’t need to know anything. Helen had made her choice well before their betrothal. “There is nothing to tell.”

He pushed back from the bench, not wanting to listen to any more of MacRuairi’s prodding, when he noticed a group of men entering the Hall.

Ah hell
. He muttered a curse, seeing the impending disaster and knowing there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stave it off.

His partner in the Highland Guard and closest friend, William Gordon, broke into a wide smile and headed straight for him. “You made it. I was beginning to wonder.”

Magnus didn’t have a chance to respond. The other man he’d noticed—the one who’d provoked his reaction—prevented it.

“What the hell is
he
doing here?” Kenneth Sutherland demanded angrily.

Magnus held very still, but every battle instinct flared. Sutherland’s hand had gone to the arming sword at his waist. The moment he moved, Magnus would be ready. MacRuairi, too, having sensed the threat, had tensed with readiness at his side.

“He’s my guest, as well as my friend,” Gordon said to his foster brother and soon-to-be brother-in-law—what the hell Gordon saw in the bastard, Magnus couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t often that the good-humored Gordon sounded angry, but there was a distinct edge of steel in his voice now.

“Your friend?” Kenneth said, aghast. “But he—”

Realizing he was about to say something about Helen, Magnus got to his feet and slammed his flagon on the table. “Leave it. What is between us has no bearing on today.” He eyed his old enemy intently, and then forced himself to relax. “The feud is in the past. Just like imprudent alliances,” he added, unable to resist prodding him.

The Sutherlands had aligned with the Earl of Ross and England against Robert Bruce. But after Bruce’s victory over the MacDougalls at the Pass of Brander in August, the Earl of Ross had been forced to submit. The Sutherlands had reluctantly followed suit a month ago. Magnus knew Sutherland’s pride must have still been smarting.

From what Gordon told him, Sutherland had acquitted himself well in battle and was considered a formidable warrior—equal to if not surpassing Donald Munro and his elder brother, William, who’d become earl on his father’s death two years ago. But to Magnus’s mind, Sutherland had one fatal flaw: his temper. And if the angry flush on
Sutherland’s face was any indication, it hadn’t lost any of its volatility.

“Bastard,” Sutherland growled, taking a step forward. But Gordon held him back.

The air, which only moments before had been light with celebration, was now charged with strife. Swords had been drawn, if not in fact then in spirit. In response to the threat, two sides had formed. Sutherland’s men had gathered behind him and the members of the Highland Guard who’d been nearby had come to stand beside MacKay, with Gordon caught in the middle.

“Let him come, Gordon,” Magnus said idly. “Mayhap the English have taught him something.”

He and Sutherland were of a similar height and build, but Magnus had no doubt he could still best him in a sword fight—or with any weapon, for that matter. It seemed that most of his youth had been spent with the purpose of besting Sutherlands. If it wasn’t Munro, it was one of Helen’s brothers.

Sutherland bit out a crude oath and tried to break free from Gordon’s hold. He might have succeeded if a new group hadn’t entered the Hall. A group not armed in leather and steel but in silk and satin.

Focused on the threat before him, Magnus hadn’t seen the women approach until one woman stepped forward. “Kenneth, what’s wrong? What’s happening here?”

Magnus froze at the sound of her voice. The muscle slid from his limbs. For a moment he felt boneless, empty but for the fire burning in his chest. The fire that it seemed would never die.

Helen stood before him. Every bit as breathtaking as he remembered—yet different. There was nothing unconventional about her beauty now. The freckles that had once been smattered across her nose had vanished in the creamy perfection of ivory skin. The rich auburn hair that had tumbled about her shoulders in wild disarray—when it
hadn’t been chopped indiscriminately—had been tamed into a maidenly coronet of braids. The tiny, pixie features were no longer quirked with laughter and mischief but were soft in repose. Only her eyes—a clear crystal blue—and lips—the reddest he’d ever seen—were the same.

But it wasn’t her beauty that had drawn him to her, it was the irrepressible good humor and untamed spirit that made her different from any other woman he’d ever known. A lively sprite who was as hard to catch as quicksilver.

He saw no evidence of that girl in the woman standing before him now, but it didn’t change the fierceness of his response. His chest felt as if it had been put in a vise of longing.

He’d thought he was prepared, damn it. Thought he could do this. But nothing could have prepared him for the shock of seeing her after three long years. Three years of war and destruction. Three years when he didn’t know whether he’d live or die. Three years of telling himself he was over her.

Three years of delusion.

Realizing that Gordon was looking at him with a frown, he quickly got himself under control, schooling his features in a blank mask. But calm deserted him.

It was then that she noticed him. He heard her gasp a dozen feet away. Her eyes widened and her face lost every bit of color. Her expression reminded him of the men he’d seen in battle after they’d taken an arrow to the gut: startled, shocked, and pained.

Instinctively, he made a move toward her, but MacRuairi held him back. Gordon was already at her side.

Gordon his friend.

Gordon her betrothed.

Gordon the man who would be her husband in a few short hours.

His stomach knifed.

“It is nothing, my lady,” Gordon said, taking her arm.

“A minor misunderstanding. I believe you’ve met my friend Magnus MacKay?”

His words had shocked Helen out of her trance. “Aye, my lord.” Because she couldn’t avoid it, she turned to him. But he hadn’t missed the slight stiffening of her shoulders, as if bracing herself. For one long heartbeat their eyes met. The lance of pain through his chest stole his breath. She nodded her head in acknowledgment. “My lord.”

“My lady.” He bowed politely. Formally. Marking the distance that must now be between them. This wasn’t the Helen of his youth, but a woman who belonged to another.

Lady Isabella saved the moment from further awkwardness. She was in the group of women who’d entered the Hall with Helen and rushed forward to greet him. “Magnus, you’re back!” Grabbing hold of his elbow, she turned him back to the table. “You must tell me all that is happening in the south.” She pursed her mouth in Lachlan’s direction and gave an indignant toss of her chin. “He tells me nothing.”

MacRuairi lifted a wry brow. “That’s because I don’t want you grabbing a sword to join them.”

She reached over to give the infamous mercenary a gentle pat on the arm as if soothing a naughty child. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t have a sword.” She winked up at Magnus and whispered. “I have a bow.”

“I heard that,” MacRuairi snapped.

Magnus smiled, grateful for the distraction. But it was only temporary. He was acutely aware of the two people walking arm-in-arm down the long aisle to the dais.

Bread. Chew. Cheese. Chew. Smile at William. Laugh politely at the king’s joke. Don’t look across the room
.

Helen sat at the dais between her betrothed and the King of Scotland and tried to go through the motions of normality.
Tried to quell the firestorm of emotions reverberating inside her. Tried to breathe.

But she felt as if she’d taken a blow to the chest and nothing would put air back into her lungs. Magnus. Here. On her wedding day.

Dear God.

The shock of seeing him after so long had been like an explosion, shattering the very foundations of her carefully constructed façade. Just when she’d reconciled herself to this marriage, just when she’d convinced herself that she could go through with it, just when she’d given up hope that she would ever see him again, he appeared and blew it all apart.

For a moment she thought he was there to put a stop to the wedding. “Silly lass,” she could almost hear her father say. Magnus was no more likely to fall to his knees and beg her to come with him now than when she’d wished him to do so all those years ago. Proud Highland warriors didn’t beg.

And he was certainly that. Big. Hard. Every inch the powerful warrior. He was six and twenty now, she realized with a pang of longing at the differences forged by time. In the prime of his manhood, and it showed. There was no hint of boyishness left in his handsome face; it was all rugged, dangerous warrior. His features had hardened, his hair was darker and shorter, his skin had tanned from hours in the sun, and the wide mouth that had often been pulled in a grin fell in a flat line.

All those confusing, unsettling feelings came rushing back to her in a hot wave.

“Would you care for more cheese, Lady Helen?”

She startled at the question. Cheese? At a time like this? “No, thank you,” she managed with a small smile.

William grinned back at her, completely unaware of the calamity swirling around him.

What was she going to do? In a few hours she was to be married.

It was the day she’d dreaded from the moment her father had announced her betrothal. She had known William Gordon only through the recollections of her brother Kenneth. The two had been fostered together under the Earl of Ross and had been like brothers. Indeed, Kenneth was closer to William Gordon than he was to their own brother of the same name.

She’d protested the alliance to no avail. Her father was determined that she would marry. But then war had come, and miraculously she’d been granted a reprieve. Her betrothed had split from his family—and hers—to take up the sword for Robert Bruce. Her brother Kenneth had convinced her father not to break the betrothal, and indeed it had worked to their advantage. Her father had an ally in the Bruce camp should the war go against them, and she had the ideal situation of a fiancé without the prospect of a wedding.

For a while she’d convinced herself the wedding might never take place. But with Bruce’s victory and her family’s submission, it could no longer be delayed.

She’d thought she could go through with it. William was every bit as wonderful as her brother had promised. Charming, lighthearted, gallant, and certainly pleasant enough to look upon. But seeing Magnus …

His presence had to mean something. God could not be that cruel. He could not intend her to marry another, while the man she loved looked on?

Somehow she made it through the meal, escaping to the sanctuary of the room that had been set aside for her in the donjon tower as soon as she could.

Unfortunately, she was not alone. Since she’d arrived at Dunstaffnage the week before, she’d been welcomed with open arms by Lady Anna Campbell, the lady of the castle, and her friends, Christina MacLeod, Ellie MacSorley (formerly
a de Burgh—making her sister to Bruce’s queen and daughter to the English loyal Earl of Ulster), and most surprisingly, Lady Isabella MacDuff (soon to be MacRuairi), the famous patriot who was supposed to be imprisoned still in an English convent. The ladies had taken one look at the motherless, sisterless girl and had tucked her under their very large collective wing.

Helen wasn’t used to female companionship. Except for Muriel, there were few women of her age at Dunrobin Castle. But even when the opportunity did arise—such as when visitors arrived or when they traveled for the Games—her interactions with other ladies were awkward and uncomfortable. She usually ended up saying or doing the wrong thing, and never seemed to share their interests. Her gaffes did not seem quite as bad with these women. And it was nice to not hear whispers every time she walked in the room.

There was an unusually strong camaraderie among the women that she didn’t quite understand, but couldn’t help admiring—and perhaps envy a little. Usually, she didn’t mind their company, but today their pleasant laughter and conversation prevented her from doing what she needed to do.

She had to see him. This was her chance to correct the biggest mistake she’d ever made in her life.

Ironically, when she’d had the chance to seize the day she’d faltered. It was the one time in her life she’d tried to do what was right. Instead of following her heart, she’d let her brother persuade her to do her duty to her family and return with him. She knew Kenneth thought he was doing what was right, and perhaps given the circumstances it was. Rationally. But love wasn’t rational. Love had its own rules, and she’d been too weak to follow them. She’d been confused. Unsure of Magnus’s feelings for her and, truth be told, of hers for him. The enormity of the decision had overwhelmed her.

Her family had been so convincing. A youthful folly, they’d told her. “You know how you are, Helen, you love to love.” It was the excitement. The illicit nature of their relationship. She would see. Give it time. She would forget about him.

But it didn’t take her long to realize her feelings weren’t going away. That what she felt for Magnus was special. He saw her differently than anyone else and loved her for it. Her longing for passion had been misplaced. She’d taken for granted his calm solidity. The security in knowing that he was there for her.

She’d begged and pleaded for her family to reconsider, but an alliance with the hated MacKays was unfathomable. And then it was too late. Magnus had disappeared and her father had betrothed her to William.

She’d never thought it would be forever. She thought Magnus would come for her. But he hadn’t. War broke out, and nothing had ever been the same.