The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(122)

Although her first instinct was to cry out and attempt to warn the guards below, she wasn’t sure they would hear her from here. But the men in the garderobe certainly would. They would have time to kill her and the king before the guards could reach them.

No, her best chance was to warn the king and try to get past them before—

Too late. The door started to open.

She sank back into the shadows and retreated up the stairs and down the dark corridor to the king’s chamber. The men’s footsteps were just behind her.

Heart hammering in her chest, she opened the door, slid inside the narrow opening, and quickly closed it behind her.

“Lady Helen!” the king exclaimed, surprised to see her again. “What is it?”

Helen was looking around the room, praying for a miracle, at the same time she answered, “Men, Sire. At least three of them, coming this way. Blow out the candles. We don’t have much time—it won’t take them long to search the rooms for yours.”

It was a small donjon with only a few solars on each of the three levels. And they would guess the king would be placed up high.

Bruce had already grabbed his sword, but they both knew they were doomed if it came to that. Three men were too many for the still weakened king. And there was always the fear that there could be more.

“You try to summon help,” Bruce said. “I’ll hold them off.”

But Helen had another idea.

* * *

Magnus and the others stormed through the gate just as the first cry was raised. They raced to the tower where the king had been moved after the fire.

The wall of guardsmen he’d left to keep watch on the tower was in disarray. Without stopping to ask questions, he pushed through the guardsmen and raced up the stairwell, MacGregor, Sutherland, and Fraser right on his heels.

He heard the clash of swords above him and then the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the wooden floor. Reaching the third level, he exited the stairwell into the outer area of the three chambers on this floor—the largest at the end serving as the king’s temporary solar.

The body of one of his men was on the floor, a man in black standing over him. The horrible stench that filled the air told him how they’d gotten in. Magnus let out a roar, pulled the mail-piercing dirk from his waist—the area was too small to use a sword or hammer effectively—and attacked.

But he feared they were already too late when he noticed two more men had come out into the corridor from the king’s chamber.

The space wasn’t large enough to accommodate so many. But it didn’t take him long to rectify that by one.

After the first man fell, Magnus went for the man on the left, whom he recognized despite the helm, and MacGregor took the one on the right.

They squared off, blades drawn. “You wanted your rematch, Munro,” Magnus said. “You have it.”

“You figured it out, did you?” Munro laughed and jerked off his helm, which would be a detriment in such close combat.

Magnus recoiled from the sight of blistering skin on the left side of his face. Most of his hair on that side had been singed off as well. “Get caught in the blast? Looks painful.”

“Bastard.” Munro came at him. There was little room to move about, and both men knew it would come down to the first few blows. Munro’s missed. Magnus’s didn’t.

Munro’s weakness was his arrogance and aggressiveness. As Magnus anticipated, the other man went on the immediate attack. He was waiting. As the blade came toward him, he sidestepped at the last minute. Turning, he jabbed his elbow into Munro’s nose. If Munro had space to retreat it would not have been as deadly a mistake. But he had nowhere to go. Magnus used the moment of distraction to insert his blade right through the mail and into his gut.

Munro slumped against him in shock. Magnus held him there until his body went limp. Tossing him to the side, he saw MacGregor do the same with his man, and then followed Sutherland, who was ahead of them, into the king’s chamber.

It was dark.

Fearing the worst, he tore open the shutters, allowing moonlight to spill into the chamber.

His gaze scanned the chamber. No body. Nothing. What the hell?

“Where is he?” MacGregor asked, voicing Magnus’s question.

Suddenly they heard a loud thump as someone dropped from the fireplace. “Right here,” Bruce said. He turned around to help someone down.

Magnus’s stomach dropped as he recognized the light blue of a gown. The light blue of the gown Helen had been wearing earlier.

Oh, Jesus. “Helen?” His voice was filled with the same sick disbelief churning in his stomach.

“Helen?” Sutherland echoed at his side.

“Damn it, what are you doing here?” Magnus said.

The king gave him a sharp look. “Coming to my rescue. Again,” he added to Helen with a wink.

She blushed.

Magnus listened with blood pounding in his ears as the king explained—with a few clarifications from Helen—how Helen had been returning to her chamber when she’d heard the men coming up the garderobe. She’d come back to warn the king, but not wanting to alert the attackers to their location, she’d had the idea of throwing items out of the king’s window to alert the guards. Then, to give them more time, they’d blown out all the candles, tried to clear the room of all traces of the king, and she’d found a hiding place in the fireplace. It didn’t look large enough to hold one person, let alone two.