The Saint (40 page)

His heart dropped like a stone. The hill fell off steeply on the far side, and in the dark it would be easy to slide off the rocky ridge …

He held his breath as he glanced over the ridge. He scanned the ground below still cast in the shadowy darkness of early morning, and slowly exhaled when he didn’t see anything other than rocks littering the corrie below.

But his relief was short-lived. Where the hell were they?

He looked around, willing them to materialize from out of the vast wilderness around him. He was surrounded by mountains, the largest of which, Beinn Dearg, loomed forbiddingly to the north ahead of him. Below, a river cut through the narrow gorge, and to his right behind him he could just make out the forest and the loch where he’d left the rest of the royal party.

Damn it, where could they have gone?

Suddenly a harrowing sound pierced the morning air. His blood went cold, recognizing the clash of steel. It was coming from the corrie below.

Knowing he would never make it in time if he followed the path, which wound back down the hill, he took one look over the steep, rocky ridge and realized it was the only way.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped over the edge and drew on every one of his climbing skills. He was going to need them. One slip and they’d all be dead.

Helen knew they couldn’t stay here. As the black of the midnight sky began to lighten on the slow creep toward dawn, it became apparent that the gap in the rocks would not hide them for long. Situated as they were in the gorge
between the mountains, in the daylight they would be visible from above.

She needed to find a better shelter, a place where she could do something to tend to the king’s wound. It seemed to have stopped bleeding for now, but he’d lost too much blood, and each time he woke it was for shorter periods. His skin was pale and cool to the touch, which could be attributed to the cold night air, but she feared differently. Head injuries were always dangerous, but it was the unseen damage that was often the most deadly.

About an hour before dawn, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Cramped as they were between the rocks, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried when her movement did not wake the king.

Carefully, she climbed out from between the rocks and peered over the edge of the riverbank. The foggy mist had not completely cleared but had thinned enough for her to make out her general surroundings.

Mountains. Lots of them. With plenty of heather, crags, and intimidating rocky cliffsides, but unfortunately bereft of trees or other obvious hiding places. The river stretched as far as she could see in both directions, with no bridge or natural crossing point. But to the southeast, back in the direction from which they’d come, she could see the river widen into what looked like a small lochan. With any luck, they might find a nice thick copse of trees nearby to take cover in.

It was the only option she had. She wasn’t fool enough to attempt to climb those mountains in the hopes of finding a cave, not with the ailing king and not with Magnus’s warning ringing in her ears.

Magnus. Dear God, where is he?

She was cold and scared, more than intimidated by their bleak, unfriendly surroundings, and overwhelmed by the responsibility of keeping them both alive. What she wouldn’t do for his rocklike, solid presence right now.

But it was up to her. She’d gotten them this far. All she had to do was find them someplace safe, and Magnus would find them. He had to.

With the cover of night quickly slipping away, Helen woke the king. “Sire.” She shook him gently, and then harder when he stirred groggily. “Sire.”

He opened his eyes, but it took him a few moments to focus. “Lady Helen.” He brought his hand to his head. “By the rood, my head hurts!”

She smiled encouragingly. “Aye, I suspect it does. I’m sorry, but we can’t stay here. If someone is looking for us, they will see us as soon as the sun comes up.”

He started to nod but stopped with a pained wince. It took some effort to help extricate him from the rocks. His movements were sluggish and unsteady. But Robert the Bruce was a fighter, and once again he proved his mettle. By sheer force of will and determination, he stood and readied his sword in his hand.

She was glad of the dark plaids they both wore around their shoulders, not simply for warmth on the cold, damp morning—the higher they walked the more it felt like December rather than late July—but also to hide the king’s mail.

But they’d gone no more than a few hundred feet when the king stopped her.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He motioned toward the mountains, instinctively herding her behind his back. “I saw something move. There. On the hillside behind the rocks.”

The next moment Helen saw it, too, when two men stood from a crouched position behind a pile of stones.

Her breath caught. She looked frantically around for someplace to run, but it was too late. They’d been seen.

The two warriors with their ghastly helm-covered visages started toward them. They looked like two fearsome war machines ready to cut down anything in their path.

But Robert Bruce hadn’t become king by sitting on a throne; he’d won the position with his sword. He had no intention of giving up without a fight, and neither did she.

As the king lifted his sword to meet the onslaught of the two warriors who attacked, Helen slid her eating knife from her waist, keeping it hidden in the folds of her skirt.

The two men were so focused on the king that they didn’t pay any attention to her. The sounds were terrifying. Their blades were moving so fast. She didn’t know how the king was fending them off.

“Who are you?” Bruce asked in between blows, his breath heaving from the exertion.

The men exchanged glances from behind the slits of their helms and laughed. “The reapers,” one said, in a thick Irish accent.

They weren’t all English, she realized. As did the king.

“What do you want?” Bruce asked between another furious series of blows.

“Death,” the same man said. “What else?”

The king was weakening. Both men knew it, as did Helen. She knew she couldn’t wait much longer. But with the mail, there were few places her small knife could penetrate.

Finally, the man who remained silent gave her his back. She didn’t hesitate. Rushing forward with one target in mind, she plunged her blade deep into the leather of his chausses.

He yelped in surprised pain as the blade cut through the back of his thigh. The king took advantage of his surprise and plunged the heavy blade of his sword right through his belly.

The other man roared in fury. He came at the king with a vengeance, making Helen realize that the two men had been toying with them, dragging out the battle. No longer. This man intended to kill.

The attacker forced Bruce back to the river. Helen
shouted a warning, but it was too late. The king stumbled on a rock and fell backward. Helen lurched forward with a cry as he landed with a thud. He wasn’t moving.

The warrior lifted his sword with both hands high above his head.

“No!” she shouted. “Don’t!”

She raced forward, barreling into him with all her strength. But it wasn’t enough. It was as if she’d run headlong into a stone wall; he barely moved.

He turned his head in her direction. “You’ll get your turn—”

He stopped, his attention caught by something behind her.

She turned instinctively, recognizing him even before the sound of his battle cry roared in her ears.
“Airson an Leòmhann!”
For the lion.

Magnus! She nearly wept with relief. And she might have, if the king weren’t in need of her.

She scrambled to his side, trying to revive him while keeping one eye on the battle taking place not a few feet away.

If it weren’t Magnus fighting, and if her heart weren’t lodged in her throat, she might be impressed. As skilled and invincible as the attackers had seemed to her, it was clear Magnus was even more so. But she was too worried about him to notice how fast he moved. How powerfully his sword crashed into the other. How his broad chest and powerful arms seemed built to wield the steel.

She would admire him later. Right now she just wanted it to end.

He granted her wish. One powerful blow brought the man to his knees. She turned her head, not needing to see the one that would bring his death.

She closed her eyes, fighting the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. But when she opened them again, Magnus was standing before her.

Their eyes met.

Her heart lurched.

There was no holding back this emotion.

When he opened his arms, she ran into them.

Magnus held her as if he would never let her go. When he thought of what he’d seen, how close he’d come to losing her again, he doubted he’d be able to ever again.

He cupped her chin, turned her face to his, and with one long look that spoke of the truth in his heart, he kissed her. The soft sweetness of her mouth made his heart clench. God, he loved her. He could no longer fight it.

He swept his tongue against hers, crushing her against him, and for one blistering moment gave in to the fierce emotion ripping through him and tearing him to shreds.

She kissed him back, every bit as passionately. Every bit as desperately.

But a moan brought him back to reality. A moan not from Helen, but from the king.

Reluctantly, he released her. Their eyes held for one long heartbeat. In that one look, they said everything that mattered. Tears of happiness welled in her eyes. And God, no matter how wrong, he felt it, too.

Another moan, however, dropped her to her knees at the king’s side. “Careful,” she said softly as Bruce started to rise. “You hit your head when you fell.”

The king groaned. “Again? What happened …?”

He turned, for the first time noticing Magnus. “Saint, took you long enough to find us.”

“Saint?” Helen looked at him in surprise. “You?”

Magnus bit back a smile, helping the king to his feet. He’d explain later. “I apologize for the delay, Sire. Someone did a good job of leading me on a false trail.”

The king grinned and turned to Helen. “It seems your plan worked. That was quick thinking on your part, my lady. As was the knife in the leg.”

She blushed under the praise.

Magnus had lost a few years of his life when he’d seen her plunge the blade into the warrior. But he wanted to know all of it. “What happened?”

The king quickly explained how they’d been forced to flee deeper into the mountains, how his injury had weakened him, and how Helen had set the false path, and then led them down the hill to hide in the rocks.

When he finished his tale, it wasn’t only the king who was impressed. He’d always thought of Helen as fragile—something to be cherished and protected. But she was tougher than he realized. And had far more grit and determination than he’d given her credit for. “How did you navigate the hill in the darkness?”

When Helen appeared confused, he gestured to the hill behind him. She blanched when she saw what she had done. Even though they hadn’t descended from the summit as he had, it was a treacherous “path” all the same.

“It didn’t seem that steep in the darkness. We walked slowly.”

Magnus held her gaze. He tried not to let himself think of what could have happened, but it didn’t work. He was tempted to take her in his arms again, but that would have to wait.

“We need to get back to the others. There might be more of them around. Can you walk, Sire?”

Despite his pale, blood-streaked face, Bruce looked affronted. “Of course I can walk.” He straightened, and in the process swayed. He would have fallen had Magnus not caught him. “Ah hell.”

Helen rushed to his side and inspected the bandage on his forehead. “It’s started to bleed again. The bind isn’t strong enough. I need to seal it closed.”

Magnus noticed she carried the bag he’d made for her across her shoulder. “But you didn’t have a fire?”

She nodded.

“We’ll do it as soon as we get back to camp. I’ll help the king. I don’t want to stay here …”

His voice dropped off. He swore.

“What is it?” Helen asked.

But Bruce had seen what he had. “Horsemen.” He nodded to the ridge above them from which they’d all descended. “Three of them.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “And they’re not …?” her voice dropped off.

“Nay,” Magnus said. “They’re not ours.”

Helen’s gaze met his. “What are we going to do?”

His mouth fell in a grim line. If it were just him or if the king wasn’t about to fall at his feet, he would stay and fight. But as he’d learned from Bruce, sometimes you had to know when to pick your battles. This wasn’t one of those times. His first duty was to protect Helen and the king.

But they’d never make it back to camp.

He looked at the looming cliff on the other side of the river. They’d lose them in the mountains—his mountains. “We’re going to take the high road to Loch Broom.”

When Helen realized what he meant, she paled but gave him a look of such trust it made his chest tighten. “I hope you aren’t planning on running?”

He grinned. “Not this time.”