The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(105)

“Aye, you’re right about that, lass. We’ll get through this.”

She nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I know.”

Her unwavering confidence filled him with warmth. They walked in silence for a while, even the sounds of their hard breathing lost in the swirling wind.

“It looks like it might rain,” she observed.

Aye, they were in for a vicious downpour. “The cave will be dry enough. I suspect you must be getting hungry?”

She groaned. “Don’t mention food. I think if I ever see another dried piece of beef or oatcake after this, it will be too soon.”

He chuckled, adjusting the king to take more of the weight off his bad shoulder. Ignoring the pain had become impossible; now it was simply enduring. The brief stops he took to rest were becoming more frequent.

“Although the deer are plentiful, I do not think you would like your meat raw?”

She made a face.

“Then I’m afraid our feast will have to wait until we reach Dun Lagaidh Castle.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“We’ll rest the night in the cave. If they haven’t followed us, tomorrow by midday.”

“And if they have?”

His mouth fell in a grim line. Then he would have to chance an attack. But he would better the odds by choosing the perfect spot. “We’ll worry about that if it happens.”

By the time they reached the cave, Helen was in a state of sheer exhaustion. She didn’t know how Magnus did it. The climb was strenuous enough without the added weight of the king. Stubborn and tough.

Bruce had stirred a few times on the journey, but it wasn’t until Magnus set him down in the cave and gave her a chance to examine him that she could assure herself that his condition had not worsened. His collapse had been from exhaustion and loss of blood. Now that the wound had been sealed, and with some rest, she hoped he would improve. He managed to drink some water and nibble on a few bites of oatcake before he drifted back into the healing balm of oblivion.

“How is he?” Magnus asked.

The rain had started not long after they reached the cave, and she could hear it splattering against the rocky ground. “Weak,” she said. “But his wound doesn’t look any worse and there is no sign of a fever.” She tucked the plaid more firmly around the sleeping king. “If we weren’t in a cave on a mountain in a rainstorm, I should think he would be resting quite comfortably.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She tilted her head.

“For keeping him alive. Your women told me how you left your hiding place to help him.”

She blushed. “I had to.”

He gave her a look as if he thought that was debatable.

After ensuring that she and the king were as comfortable as they could be, he handed her the dirk again. “You are going to look for them?”

He nodded. “Aye. I won’t return until daybreak.”

Her heart squeezed with fear. She longed to cling to him and beg him not to go, but she knew there was no choice. After all he’d done to keep them safe, she could be brave for him. “Be careful.”

The boyish grin tugged at her heart with aching familiarity. “Always. Besides, I have something to protect me.” He withdrew a small piece of glass from his sporran and held it out in his palm. “I didn’t know how else to preserve it.”

She sucked in her breath. Greenish-tinged in color, it was the size and shape of a coin, and suspended in the middle were the dried petals of a purple flower. Her flower. The one she’d given him all those years ago.

Emotion strangled her throat. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. He really had loved her. All this time. This big, strong warrior—proud, noble, and stubborn to a fault—had given her his heart and never taken it back. Steadfast.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Their eyes held, and the ghost of all that had been lost passed between them. He reached out and stroked the side of her face, regret poignant in his gaze. “I am, too, m’aingeal.”

Helen watched him stride away, feeling as if her heart were going along with him. He would come back to her. Please, come back to me.

Twenty-four

Magnus climbed higher on the ridge, moving with extra care. His shoulder was on fire and every muscle in his body felt shredded with fatigue. Of course the storm only complicated matters, making his footing and handholds slippery.

It took him twice as long as it should have to reach the ledge where he could keep watch overnight. There were still a few hours of light in the long summer days, but the clouds made it feel like midnight.

On a clear day, this vantage on the cliff would give him a view for miles—to Loch Broom in the west, the hills of Assynt in the north, An Teallach and Sgurr Mor in the south, and Loch Glascarnoch, from where they’d come, in the east. In the storm, however, he couldn’t see more than a hundred yards. But those hundred yards would be all he needed if someone approached. The narrowest part of the path was just beneath him and fell off sharply on the opposite side. It was the perfect place for a surprise attack.

He settled in for the long night. He ate a small ration of food and drank his fill of the water he’d replenished in the burn before they’d started up the hill. Leaning back against the rock, he stretched his legs out before him and rested his very weary limbs.