The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(103)

But he was wrong. She missed him the moment he left. The rocky perch on the mountainside suddenly felt much colder and windier, and the day a little darker.

Helen was glad when the king closed his eyes, wishing she could do the same. But she needed to stay alert—at least until Magnus returned.

She clutched the hilt of the dirk in her hand and kept watch over their bleak surroundings. The minutes stretched with increasing anxiousness. It seemed he’d been gone forever, but it was probably only three-quarters of an hour before a form appeared on the hillside above her.

She sighed with relief, recognizing Magnus right away. But one look at his face stopped her heart cold. Cool. Calm. Perfectly under control. She knew what that meant.

His words confirmed it. “We have to move. They’re right behind us.”

How the hell had they found them so quickly? Magnus knew these mountains better than just about anyone. But whoever was tracking them was keeping pace—hell, doing better than keeping pace.

When he’d seen the two black-clad figures hurrying up the slope, he’d been tempted to surprise them. Despite the skill of the men who’d attacked them, he was confident he could defeat them. Two of them. It was the whereabouts of the third man that held him back. He hoped he’d gone, but couldn’t count on it. Had he only himself to worry about, he wouldn’t have a second thought.

Caution didn’t come easily to Magnus, but his duty to the king and Helen came first. As much as he’d like to kill those two men, he wanted to see Helen and the Bruce safely to Loch Broom even more. He was confident that he would be able to lose the pursuers in the mountains.

Helen had done an admirable job of keeping them alive to this point, but she would not be able to carry the king out of these mountains if Magnus was injured. At nearly six feet tall, thick with muscle, and covered in chain mail, Robert Bruce was not an insubstantial load. Magnus was more tired than he let on. But he’d carry the king to hell and back if that’s what it took.

And it appeared as if it just might come to that. After helping Helen to her feet, he attempted to rouse the king. But it was as if Bruce had drunk a barrel of whisky. He was slow to wake, slurring his speech, and barely able to stand. Magnus held him upright by wrapping the king’s arm around his shoulder and sliding his own arm around the king’s waist.

After telling Helen to stay close and watch her step, he led them up the mountain. He had no choice. There was only one path through these cliffs, and—

That was it.

The markers.

He walked faster now, practically dragging the king up the steep ascent beside him. Even with his training, it didn’t take long for his breath to start coming hard.

“Sorry, Saint,” Bruce said with a wobbly smile. “ ’Fraid I’m not much help.”

The slip of his war name concerned him far less than the gray cast to the king’s skin and his glassy eyes. He didn’t need Helen to tell him how bad it was.

“You’re doing fine, Sire.”

“Feels like someone split my head open with an axe,” he mumbled, and then more lucidly, “Hell, someone did.”

Magnus laughed.

Helen must have overheard because she joined in from behind. Being able to laugh in trying circumstances was an asset for a warrior. It shouldn’t surprise him that Helen shared this quality.

Finally, he saw what he was looking for: a pile of white stones. He stopped, and once Bruce had his balance, went to work.

“What are you doing?” Helen said, watching him lift the heavy pieces of marble in his arms.

The white stones were an oddity on Beinn Dearg amongst the red rock, and served as markers on the path. Using piles of rocks to serve as guideposts was common in the Highlands, as were the cairns that marked the peaks.

“The stones are markers. I’m going to try to throw them off the trail.” And if they were lucky, off the mountain. “There’s a fork in the road. I’m going to move the rocks to the other path.”

“Where does that way lead?”

Magnus gave her a look. “It’s the fast way down.”

Her eyes widened a little, understanding his meaning. “But what if someone else—”

“I’ll put them back as soon as I can.”

It took him no more than a few minutes to move the small cairn. If it didn’t send their pursuers over the edge of the cliff, at least it should slow them down. Especially in the thickening clouds. It was easy to get turned around and lose your bearings.

A storm was brewing, but he decided to keep that information to himself.

Helen was holding up surprisingly well, but he was aware of every line of exhaustion on her face—no matter how hard she was trying to hide it. Both she and the king needed to rest. He hated to push her like this, but rest would have to wait until he knew whether his ploy had worked. For now, they had to put as much distance between them and the men pursuing them as possible.

Once they reached the summit, the path would take them down the west side of the mountain into a narrow gorge. From there, they could follow the gorge to the wide glen, and then the forest that would lead them straight to Loch Broom. But Magnus intended to take a more circuitous route over another of the peaks, taking shelter in a cave he knew of on the mountain before taking a more northerly path to Loch Broom.

The first route was more direct and far less strenuous, but it would also leave them extremely vulnerable to attack. There was no place to hide.