The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel by Monica McCarty
“It’s like a sharp pinch,” Christina added.
“But it goes away quickly,” Anna assured her.
Helen knew they were trying to be helpful, but the discussion was only increasing her anxiety. Bella seemed to understand. She stood up. “We will leave you, then.”
“Thank you,” Helen managed. “Thank you all. You have been very …” her voice choked a little, “… kind.”
In other circumstances—in the right circumstances—she would have laughed and smiled along with them, while peppering them with questions they probably wouldn’t want to answer. But these weren’t the right circumstances.
A few minutes later she was alone. Though it was the last place that she wanted to be, she scooted back and slid under the bed linens. It was common for the groom’s friends to accompany him to the bedchamber, and Helen didn’t want to be sitting in her embarrassingly thin chemise if they did.
Her fingers were like ice as she gripped the sheets to her chin and stared at the door as if at any moment the bogeyman were going to come bursting through.
Baaa.
Helen knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t quiet the frantic flutter of her heartbeat or the panic surging through her veins. How was she going to do this? How was she going to quietly submit to her wifely duty when in her heart she belonged to another man?
Magnus cared for her. She still couldn’t believe it. But the small twitch had betrayed him. She’d seen it only once before. It was the first time they’d met. The memory was as fresh as if it were yesterday.
The Games were being held at Dunottar Castle that year, near Aberdeen. At four and ten, it was the first time Helen had been permitted to attend. It was also the first experience she’d had with large groups of girls her own age, which had dampened the excitement of the adventure somewhat.
All they seemed to be interested in was discussing who was the most handsome competitor, who had the richest coffers, and who was likely to be looking for a wife. With all the giggling and mooning over Gregor MacGregor—who Helen had to concede was heart-stoppingly handsome—she looked for the first opportunity to slip away.
Deciding to search for shells along the beach to add to her collection, she crossed the narrow bridge of land that joined the castle to the mainland and started down the path on her right. The castle was one of the most dramatically situated that she’d ever seen. Perched on a small piece of land, surrounded by magnificent sheer cliffs that rose out of the sea over 150 feet, it was virtually impenetrable. Descending the cliffs even along the walking path was treacherous, as she discovered. More than once her foot slipped out from under her on the slippery rocks. She glanced down after one of these near mishaps and caught sight of something below.
A young lad knelt on the beach with a big pile of fur cradled in his lap. A dog, she realized, and she could tell by their position that something was wrong.
Her pulse jumped. The dog must have slid off the cliff. Helen loved animals and her heart squeezed with trepidation. She hoped the poor thing wasn’t hurt too badly and hurried her step to see if there was something she could do.
The lad—who was actually older than she’d initially thought, probably close to her brother Kenneth’s age of nine and ten—was facing in her direction but had yet to notice her. She was just thinking that she hadn’t seen him before—he was handsome enough to remember—when she saw a silvery flash above his head. Nay, not silver. The steel from a blade. Oh God, he was going to …
“Nooooo!” she shouted, racing toward him.
He glanced up, the dirk high in his hand, and the look of raw anguish on his face cut her to the quick. But by time she’d closed the remaining distance between them, the emotion was gone, hidden by a mask of control, but for the slight twitch below his eye. It was as if the sheer force of emotion he was trying to contain had found one small crack through which to escape.
Her heart melted. The small vulnerability at an age when it seemed so important for men not to have any—let alone show any—touched her. Why being a man meant you couldn’t have any emotion, she didn’t know. But toughness seemed to be some prerequisite to Highland warriorhood. And from his size, breadth of shoulder, and clothing, she could tell he was a warrior.
She came to a sudden stop before him and was relieved to see his hand come down.
“You shouldn’t be down here, lass. The path is dangerous.”
He spoke kindly, which, especially given the circumstances, impressed her. If she needed any proof of his words, all she had to do was look at the poor animal in his lap whose soft, whinging cries tore at every string in her heart.
She knelt down beside him, her eyes falling to the dog. It was a deerhound, and from the looks of him, one who’d been loved for many years. He had a large cut on his side, but it was his right rear leg that had provoked the dirk. It was bent at a hideous angle, the bone poking through the black and gray fur. A large pool of blood had gathered in the sand around it. But blood had never bothered her.
She wanted to reach out and pet its head, but she knew better than to touch an animal in pain. Unlike the lad before her, it would lash out.
“He fell?” she asked, gazing up at the young warrior.
He nodded. “Go now, lass. There’s no help for him. He’s in pain, and you …” His voice caught. “You shouldn’t see this.”
“You care for him?”
He nodded again, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. After a long pause, he said, “I’ve had him since I was seven. My father gave him to me when I was sent away to foster.”
The dog made another pained sound, and he flinched. She could see the fingers around his dirk tighten. She reached out, putting her hand on his wrist as if to stop him. But the solid muscle under her palm told her she would have little chance of that. “Please, I think I can help.”
He shook his head. “Tail is beyond help.” Tail? What an odd name for a dog! “It’s too badly broken, lass. There’s nothing to be done but put him out of his misery.”
But what about yours? Helen wanted to ask. “Will you allow me to at least try?”
He held her gaze and something passed between them. He must have sensed her earnestness because after a moment, he nodded.
She raced back to the castle to gather what she needed, after making him promise to do nothing to the dog while she was gone, and told him to gather all the wood he could find that had drifted onto the beach.
She was gone no longer than half an hour and was relieved to see him waiting with the dog where she’d left him. After explaining what she wished him to do, he placed one of the sticks in the dog’s mouth to prevent him from biting and held him down while she went to work.
She’d watched Muriel and her father do this only a handful of times on human bones, but somehow she seemed to know what to do. She applied what she’d seen, followed her instincts, and managed to reposition the bones, fashion a leg brace from the sticks, and hold them in position by wrapping strips of her chemise around them.
The hardest part was listening to the animal’s sounds of pain and keeping him still. But Magnus—that was the young warrior’s name, as she had learned in their quick exchange of names before she’d left—was strong.
He watched her in growing disbelief as she worked. After she’d finished telling him how to tend the injuries, and what herbs to mix in a tincture that would keep the dog sleepy while it had time to heal, he looked at her in wonder. “How …? You did it.”
He was looking at her with an expression on his face that made every part of her insides feel warm. “He did well. Tail, you called him?”
Magnus nodded. “My friends started to call him that because he followed me everywhere. He was my tail, they said. I called him Scout originally, but Tail stuck.”
She smiled and was surprised to see him smile back at her. “Thank you,” he said gruffly.
He held her gaze, and she felt something shift in her chest. With his golden-brown hair, soft brown eyes, and tann
Perhaps he read her thoughts. “How old are you, lass?”
She sat up straight, looking him in the eye. For some reason it was very important to her that he not think of her as a child. “I’m four and ten,” she said proudly.
He smiled. “All that, eh? But since you’re too young to be a healer, I think you must be an angel.”
She blushed. Hadn’t he seen her hair? Of course he had. She hated veils and “forgot” them as often as she could.
“Tell me, how is it, wee Helen, that you have such skill?”
She shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know—I’ve always been interested in it, I suppose.”
He would probably think her as odd as her father and brothers did. She ventured a glance up at him from under her lashes. But he wasn’t looking at her as if she were odd at all. He was looking at her as if …
Her breath caught. As if she were special.
“Well, it’s fortunate for me and Tail here that you are so talented.”
She beamed. She’d never met anyone like him. This bronzed young warrior with the kind eyes and dazzling grin. She knew right there and then that he was special, too.
“Helen!”
She heard her father’s impatient shouts from above and realized her absence had been noticed.
“I think someone is looking for you,” he said, helping her up.
She glanced down at the dog, still curled by his feet. “You’ll be able to carry him from here?” she asked.
“We’ll be fine. Now.”
“Helen!” her father shouted again.
She cursed under her breath, not wanting to leave him just yet.
Perhaps he was feeling the same reluctance to part. He took her hand, bowing over it as gallantly as any knight. Her heart actually strummed like the strings of a harp.
“Thank you, Lady Helen. I look forward to our next meeting.”
Their eyes held, and Helen felt the squeezing around her chest tighten, knowing he spoke the truth. There would be more meetings between them.
And there were. The next time she’d seen him—six months later, when she’d learned his identity at the negotiations to end the feud between their clans—the dog had been right at his heels, a small limp the only sign of his ordeal. There had been no question of them ever being enemies. Their bond had already been forged. First in friendship, and then in something much more.
She’d never seen the twitch below his eye again.
Until the wedding feast.
God, why hadn’t he stopped her? Why had he let her marry another man? The door opened.
She gasped—actually, she feared it sounded more like a squeak. William strode into the room and closed the door behind him. Alone. At least she would not have to endure the added discomfort of others watching him get into bed beside her.
He eyed her wryly, his gaze skimming over the sheet that had made its way even higher under her chin. “You can relax. Your virtue is safe for the moment.” His eyes hardened. “Or perhaps it is too late for that?”
It took her a moment to realize what he meant. Though she knew he had cause to wonder, the accusation still stung. She lifted her chin, a spot of heat burning on each cheek. “My virtue is perfectly intact, my lord.”
He held her gaze and shrugged. “Of course it is. He’s a bloody saint.”
The hint of bitterness in his voice tugged at her conscience.
He strode over to the table where a jug of wernage had been set out for her and poured himself a drink. He grimaced at the sweetness of the wine, but drank it nonetheless.
He hadn’t changed for bed, she noticed. He still wore the fine tunic and hose he’d worn to their wedding. He sat down in the chair beside the brazier and studied her over the rim of the glass.
Some of her tension eased.
“So you are the woman he’s been pining for all these years.” He shook his head disgustedly. “I should have known. How could I not have known?”
He didn’t seem to expect her to say anything.
After a moment, he looked at her again. “What happened? Did your families prevent a match?”
“That was part of it.” She explained how they’d met secretly for years until the fateful day when Magnus had asked her to run away and her brother had discovered them.
“I can imagine how that went,” he said. “Your brother has always had a particularly virulent streak when it comes to MacKay.”
She didn’t disagree with him. “I was scared. My father was ill and needed me to care for him. I let them persuade me it was nothing more than a youthful transgression. By the time I realized my mistake, Magnus was gone and you—” She stopped.
“And your father had betrothed you to me.”
“Aye.” She realized she’d sat up in the bed, and the sheets were now in her lap being twisted in her hands.
“You didn’t know he’d be here?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since that day. You never mentioned that you knew him.”
“Do you love him?”
There was something in his voice that bothered her. A niggle of guilt wiggled its way into her consciousness. She’d been so caught up in her own misery, she hadn’t thought much about William’s feelings. Unlike Magnus, he seemed much more adept at showing them. He was angry, yes, but also, she could see, disappointed. “I—”
He held up his hand, stopping her. “You don’t need to answer. I saw your face.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t say anything. Why you went through with it.”
Heat crept up her cheeks. “It didn’t seem to matter.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “You tried to talk to him.”
She nodded, shame heating her cheeks.
“And that’s what he told you?”
She nodded again.
He swore. “Stubborn arse.”
She didn’t disagree.
He leaned back in his chair again and seemed to contemplate the contents of his glass quite thoroughly. When he was done, he looked back up at her. “So what are we to do now?”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Do?” What could they do?
“It’s a fine mess.”
“Aye, that it is.”
“Unlike others, I’m not a saint.”
Her brows furrowed. “My lord?”
He shook his head with a laugh. “I will not share my wife.” His gaze intensified. “Nor do I care for bedding a martyr. When I make love to my wife, she will not be thinking of another man.”
There was something dark and promising in his voice that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. In another time, in another place, she might have been quite content to be married to William Gordon.
He smiled, perhaps guessing the direction of her thoughts. Leaving his drink on the floor beside the chair, he stood. “It appears I’m giving you a choice, my lady.”
She startled. “A choice?”
“Aye. Come to my bed willingly or don’t come at all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple. The marriage is not consummated—yet. If you wish to have it declared invalid I will not stand in your way.”
“An annulment?” Her voice barely sounded above a whisper.
He nodded. “Or if one cannot be procured, a divorce. It is not pretty, but it is a solution.”
It would cause a scandal. Her family would be furious. She looked at William. He would be shamed. And Magnus …
William seemed to read her thoughts. “He will never change his mind.” She stilled. “You married me,” he said softly.
Helen’s heart stopped. He was right. Dissolved or nay, Magnus would never be hers. She’d married his best friend. His pride and loyalty to his friend would keep him from her. To his mind, she belonged to William, and that was a line he would not cross.
“I’ll return in an hour and expect your answer.” He shut the door softly behind him, leaving her alone to the tumult of her thoughts.
He had to get out of here. It had been hard enough watching the women lead Helen from the Hall, but if Magnus had to watch Gordon leave—or God forbid, be forced to go along with him to witness him sliding into bed with his bride—he was going to kill someone. Probably MacRuairi, who kept looking at him as if he were the biggest fool in all of Christendom, or Kenneth Sutherland, whose knowing smirk told him that he’d guessed exactly how much this was torturing him.
Magnus couldn’t believe she’d actually gone through with it. She’d married someone else. And in another hour—maybe less—she’d be consummating those vows and lying in the arms of another man. Nay, not just another man, the closest friend he’d ever had.
Jesus. The burning in his chest exploded as he made his way out of the Hall, relieving one of the serving maids of a large jug of whisky on the way.
He couldn’t think about it. He’d go mad if he thought about it. It had taken everything he’d had to stand silent witness as she married Gordon, but the mere thought of her readying herself for bed …
Letting down her long, silky hair …
Removing her clothes …
Waiting in bed, those big blue eyes wide with maidenly nervousness …
She should be mine. He swore. The knife of pain bent him over. He took a long swig from the jug and stumbled out into the black, misty night.
He headed for the boathouse, where he and the other members of the Highland Guard without wives were sleeping. He intended to get good and drunk, so they wouldn’t have far to move him when he passed out.
First women, now drink. Today began a bloody new chapter for him. He took another swig. All hail the fallen Saint.
Moonlight filtered through the wooden planks and small window in the large building constructed just beyond the castle gates to house the MacDougall chief’s birlinns. But since the MacDougall loss at the Battle of Brander a few months ago, it belonged to Bruce.
A few torches had been lit, but Magnus didn’t bother with a brazier. Cold had become his comfort. Like the drink, it kept him numb.