The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(101)

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.”

Twenty-three

Helen’s lungs were bursting and her legs burning when Magnus finally stopped to let them rest, while he filled the skins with water from the lochan in the center of the wide corrie.

She tried to catch her breath, taking in great gulps of air, but her lungs were too busy heaving. Good God, they’d been climbing for only a short while, and she felt as if she’d just run for miles! She looked at Magnus in disbelief. He wasn’t breathing hard at all. What was wrong with him?

But as exhausted as she was, the king looked far worse—despite the fact that Magnus had borne much of his weight, half-carrying him against his side over the rough, rocky terrain.

It was no more than an hour since they’d crossed the river and journeyed into the forbidding mountains. It had taken Magnus only minutes to pick out a virtually invisible path of rocks through the rushing waters.

Beinn Dearg, Gaelic for red mountain (if the color of the rock was the basis of the name, she thought pink was more accurate), was the highest of a series of four peaks around an impressive array of corries, gorges, and lochans. Or so she would take Magnus’s word for it. Right now, the beauty of the scenery was bathed in fear and danger—not to mention an ever-darkening layer of clouds and winds. The higher they climbed, the darker and colder it seemed to become. Magnus said it wasn’t unusual to see patches of snow up here in midsummer. She didn’t doubt him. She was grateful for the extra plaid, but the wind cut through the layers of wool as if it were the sheerest silk.

After he finished filling the skins, he handed one to the king and the other to her. “Drink.”

She shook her head, ignoring the loose strands of hair that blew across her face like shredded red ribbons. She’d given up attempting to contain them. The wind was blowing too hard. The moment she tucked them back, they just came loose again. “I’m not thirsty.”

“That’s why you need to drink. One of the biggest dangers in these mountains is not drinking enough.”

Realizing she was well beyond her area of expertise, she took his advice. Fortunately, Magnus also had some beef and oatcakes with him. She hadn’t eaten anything since last night, and she attacked those with more enthusiasm than the bland food deserved. The king took a few bites and pushed it away. Her brow furrowed with concern. The lack of appetite was not a good sign.

She could see Magnus scanning the countryside behind them and felt her pulse give an anxious start. “Have we lost them?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “If not, we’ve slowed them down. It will take some time to cross the river, and their horses won’t be much use in the mountains. They’ll have to leave them behind.”

“Don’t worry, Lady Helen,” the king interjected wearily from his seat on a boulder where Magnus had set him. “We’ve the best guide around. No one knows these mountains like MacKay. They’ll not catch him.”

Helen did not doubt Magnus’s abilities; it was hers and the king’s she was worried about. They were slowing him down. She’d loved scampering across the countryside in her youth, but these mountains were a different beast altogether.

She frowned, seeing fresh blood trickling down the king’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me it started bleeding again?”

Bruce reached up, feeling around his forehead. “Did it? I didn’t realize.”

Helen looked at Magnus. “We need to do something.”

She didn’t need to say the rest. The king was already weak from the loss of blood. The fact that he’d managed this far—even with Magnus’s help—without passing out was quite a feat.

“We can’t light a fire until I’m sure they’re not following us.” He stopped. “Damn, I should have thought of it before.”