The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(106)

The hours passed slowly. Somewhere in the middle of the night it stopped raining, not that it mattered—since the ledge was only partially protected, he was soaked through.

No longer focused on the threat against getting them to safety, his thoughts slid to Helen. He was determined to put the past behind them and give them a chance. He could forget, damn it.

Was it so wrong of him to want a little happiness?

But in the long hours of the night, Helen’s face wasn’t the only one he saw. The nightmares returned.

Would he ever forget?

It seemed like eternity before dawn broke and chased away the ghosts.

He focused on the road, waiting for any signs that they’d been followed. He’d begun to think that perhaps they were in the clear when suddenly he caught a movement.

Damn. Two men. Although one, it appeared, was limping and had something wrapped around his leg. A satisfied smile curved his mouth. He hadn’t fallen to his death, but he suspected the man had come close.

The tenacity of the two men surprised him. They were going to a lot of trouble for one woman who might know something about the Highland Guard. It seemed more likely that this was about the king. But he couldn’t be sure. Bruce had told him the men had specifically mentioned “the lass.”

Had they been betrayed by one of their own? It seemed likely. But who? He trusted everyone except …

The Sutherlands. But they wouldn’t put Helen at risk, would they? “Lass.” Could they have been trying to protect her?

He scanned the area, seeing no sign of the other man. Where had he gone? His absence bothered him. As did the fact that the men had managed to find them. It was as if someone were guessing his every move.

Well, they weren’t going to guess this one.

Magnus readied himself, moving across the rocky ledge to the place where he would wait. He felt the rush of battle surge through his veins. Caution hadn’t worked. It was time to end this his way.

He keened his senses toward the ground below him, waiting for the first sound. They would only be able to traverse this path one man at a time. If all went well, he’d catch the first man unaware and get rid of him before the second realized what was happening.

Unfortunately, it didn’t go as well as he’d planned. The first man made the turn around the hill. It was the injured man. Magnus would have preferred to use the element of surprise against the other. But as it was, he jumped down in front of the injured warrior, with a fierce battle cry that nearly shocked him off the hillside. Magnus helped him along with one crushing blow of his sword on his shoulder and a hard kick to his gut. The man’s scream was punctuated with a hard thud a moment later.

The second man, however, reacted more quickly than he’d anticipated.

He came at Magnus hard, his blade crashing toward his head.

Magnus just managed to block the blow with his own. Infuriated by the narrow escape, he attacked with a vengeance, driving the other man back with blows so powerful they should have crushed him. But the other man fended them off with skill almost equal to his own. Almost.

But Magnus wore him down. Through the slits of his helm, Magnus could see the man knew it, too. His reactions slowed. His blocks started to shake as the muscles in his arms weakened. He breathed hard through the steel punctures of his helm.

In between blows he looked around, almost as if he were waiting for someone. A shiver of premonition ran through Magnus. Was the third man out there?

If he was, he wasn’t coming to this man’s rescue. Magnus let his opponent come at him and met the blow while turning to the left. Locking his foot around the other man’s, he brought him to the ground in a move that would have made Robbie Boyd proud. With both hands he brought his sword down hard into the man’s gut, piercing the mail and sinking into his entrails. A hard kick sent him flying after his compatriot.

Magnus kept his sword ready, waiting, watching. He turned, scanning the area all around and listening for any sound of movement.

Someone was out there and Magnus was challenging him to meet him. But whoever it was must have thought better of it.

The feeling of being watched dissipated like the mist in sunshine. By the time he’d caught his breath, it was gone.

Helen waited anxiously for Magnus to return. The king had slept restfully through the night, waking at dawn with an “axe-splitting” headache, but stronger and far more alert than he’d been since the injury. The pine sap had worked better than she’d imagined. While the wound was still an ugly, bloody mess, there were no signs of infection or fever.

But unlike the king, Helen had enjoyed precious few moments of sleep. She was too worried about Magnus.

The storm and dreary skies of the day before seemed a distant memory as the new day dawned bright and sunny.

Where is he?

Finally, about an hour after daybreak, she caught sight of him. The rush of relief turned to horror as he drew closer, and she saw the dirt and splattered blood on his cotun. He’d been fighting.

Without thinking, she raced toward him and catapulted herself into his arms. He caught her to him, holding her wordlessly until she steadied.

She didn’t realize she was crying until he took her chin and tilted her face to his. “What’s wrong, m’aingeal? Why are you crying?”

“I was worried.” She sniffled. “And rightly so—you were in a fight!”

He grinned. “Aye, but I’m here, aren’t I?” Suddenly, his brow furrowed. “Did you think I would not win?”