The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(12)

Though he said it gently, there was a look in his eyes that cautioned her against doing something “wayward.” It was too late to change her mind.

For once, he and Magnus were in accord.

Swallowing through the hot ball of longing and regret that seemed lodged in her lungs, Helen nodded. When her brothers stepped forward, she moved along with them.

If her hand trembled as her brother placed it in her betrothed’s, she did not notice. In a trance, she stood to the left of William—as women had been formed from the left side of Adam—and faced the church door. As was tradition, the first part of the ceremony would be conducted outside, with the final blessing to take place inside the chapel before the altar.

Thus it was that she was married to William Gordon in the same place she’d made a fool of herself earlier, with the man she’d thrown herself at not five feet away.

She was aware of Magnus the entire time, a solid, dark presence, hovering on the periphery of her vision, as she responded to the vows that would bind her to another man forever. He did not move, did not voice an objection when the priest asked if anyone knew of any reason this couple should not be married (had she really hoped he would?), and did not once look in her direction.

With William’s betrothal ring firmly on her finger, she followed the priest inside the dark chapel and knelt beside William as the marriage was solemnized before God. When it was over, William kissed her lightly on her dry lips, took her hand, and led her out of the chapel as his wife to a roar of cheers.

She barely noticed. It was almost as if she weren’t there. The pale, serene figure standing beside him wasn’t her. The shy smiles and murmured pleasantries in reply to the storm of congratulations heaped upon her did not come from her. That woman was a stranger.

It was as if part of her had died. The part with hopes and dreams. The part that thought everything would work out in the end. What was left was a shell of the woman she’d been before. In her place was the woman who did what was expected. The woman who sat beside her new husband throughout the long wedding feast and pretended that her heart had not broken. Who ate from among the endless platters of food and jugs wine and celebrated with the rest of the clansmen in the Great Hall of Dunstaffnage Castle.

She fooled them all.

“It’s about time.”

Helen turned to the king, who’d spoken. As in the morning, she’d been given the seat of honor to his right. Robert the Bruce, who’d won his crown on a battlefield, cut an impressive figure. Dark-haired and sharp-featured, he would have been considered handsome even if he were not a king and one of the greatest knights in Christendom. “About time for what, Sire?”

He smiled at her. “It seems your wedding feast is a great success. Everyone is having fun.”

William, who was on her right, must have overheard. He leaned forward and grinned. “Highlanders know how to celebrate as well as they know how to fight.”

Bruce laughed. “Aye, that they do.” He nodded toward a table to the right. “I’ve just never seen that Highlander do that kind of celebrating.”

Helen was smiling as she turned in the direction of his gaze. But the smile froze in a mask of horror. She could feel every ounce of blood drain from her face as pain stabbed like a knife of fire through her chest, claiming her breath.

In the midst of dancing clansmen and drunken revelers, Magnus sat on a bench with a serving maid in his lap. He had one big hand on her hip, holding her firmly against him, as the other gripped the back of her head and held her face to his. He was kissing her. Passionately. Every bit as passionately as Helen had longed to be kissed. The woman’s enormous br**sts were crushed against his powerful chest. Helen couldn’t look away from her fingers. The way they dug into his wide, muscular shoulders as if she couldn’t get enough transfixed her.

The lash of pain that sliced through her was white hot, slicing the flesh from her bone. Nay, slicing was too clean. This pain was jagged, crudely wrought pain with little finesse.

“We might need to change his name, eh, Gordon?”

The king’s words snapped her out of her stupor. He obviously hadn’t noticed her reaction. She turned to her new husband. Perhaps, he hadn’t either—

She stopped. Their eyes met. One look at William’s face and she knew she’d not been so fortunate. He’d seen her reaction. His gaze shot to Magnus. She could see the fury in the white lines around his mouth.

Oh God, he knew.

When William answered the king, however, he hid his reaction with a tight smile. “Aye, I think you are right.” His gaze locked on hers. “I wonder what could have caused such a change.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. She tried to cover her anxiety with a question. “Name, Sire?” Her voice barely trembled.

The king smiled. “A wee jest,” he said, patting her hand. “That’s all. It isn’t much like our friend to uh … celebrate so enthusiastically. I’d begun to think we really might have one of the Templars hidden in our ranks,” he said with a mischievous wink to William.

It was rumored that Bruce had given sanctuary to many of the Templars when the order had been disbanded and excommunicated by the pope—the same pope who’d excommunicated Bruce for the killing of his rival John “The Red” Comyn before the altar of Greyfriars nearly three years ago.

“I always thought there was a woman,” William said slowly. His gaze pinned hers.