The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(16)

“I can imagine how that went,” he said. “Your brother has always had a particularly virulent streak when it comes to MacKay.”

She didn’t disagree with him. “I was scared. My father was ill and needed me to care for him. I let them persuade me it was nothing more than a youthful transgression. By the time I realized my mistake, Magnus was gone and you—” She stopped.

“And your father had betrothed you to me.”

“Aye.” She realized she’d sat up in the bed, and the sheets were now in her lap being twisted in her hands.

“You didn’t know he’d be here?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since that day. You never mentioned that you knew him.”

“Do you love him?”

There was something in his voice that bothered her. A niggle of guilt wiggled its way into her consciousness. She’d been so caught up in her own misery, she hadn’t thought much about William’s feelings. Unlike Magnus, he seemed much more adept at showing them. He was angry, yes, but also, she could see, disappointed. “I—”

He held up his hand, stopping her. “You don’t need to answer. I saw your face.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t say anything. Why you went through with it.”

Heat crept up her cheeks. “It didn’t seem to matter.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “You tried to talk to him.”

She nodded, shame heating her cheeks.

“And that’s what he told you?”

She nodded again.

He swore. “Stubborn arse.”

She didn’t disagree.

He leaned back in his chair again and seemed to contemplate the contents of his glass quite thoroughly. When he was done, he looked back up at her. “So what are we to do now?”

She looked at him uncertainly. “Do?” What could they do?

“It’s a fine mess.”

“Aye, that it is.”

“Unlike others, I’m not a saint.”

Her brows furrowed. “My lord?”

He shook his head with a laugh. “I will not share my wife.” His gaze intensified. “Nor do I care for bedding a martyr. When I make love to my wife, she will not be thinking of another man.”

There was something dark and promising in his voice that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. In another time, in another place, she might have been quite content to be married to William Gordon.

He smiled, perhaps guessing the direction of her thoughts. Leaving his drink on the floor beside the chair, he stood. “It appears I’m giving you a choice, my lady.”

She startled. “A choice?”

“Aye. Come to my bed willingly or don’t come at all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple. The marriage is not consummated—yet. If you wish to have it declared invalid I will not stand in your way.”

“An annulment?” Her voice barely sounded above a whisper.

He nodded. “Or if one cannot be procured, a divorce. It is not pretty, but it is a solution.”

It would cause a scandal. Her family would be furious. She looked at William. He would be shamed. And Magnus …

William seemed to read her thoughts. “He will never change his mind.” She stilled. “You married me,” he said softly.

Helen’s heart stopped. He was right. Dissolved or nay, Magnus would never be hers. She’d married his best friend. His pride and loyalty to his friend would keep him from her. To his mind, she belonged to William, and that was a line he would not cross. She knew that as well as William did. Mangus was lost to her.

“I’ll return in an hour and expect your answer.” He shut the door softly behind him, leaving her alone to the tumult of her thoughts.

He had to get out of here. It had been hard enough watching the women lead Helen from the Hall, but if Magnus had to watch Gordon leave—or God forbid, be forced to go along with him to witness him sliding into bed with his bride—he was going to kill someone. Probably MacRuairi, who kept looking at him as if he were the biggest fool in all of Christendom, or Kenneth Sutherland, whose knowing smirk told him that he’d guessed exactly how much this was torturing him.

Magnus couldn’t believe she’d actually gone through with it. She’d married someone else. And in another hour—maybe less—she’d be consummating those vows and lying in the arms of another man. Nay, not just another man, the closest friend he’d ever had.

Jesus. The burning in his chest exploded as he made his way out of the Hall, relieving one of the serving maids of a large jug of whisky on the way.

He couldn’t think about it. He’d go mad if he thought about it. It had taken everything he’d had to stand silent witness as she married Gordon, but the mere thought of her readying herself for bed …

Letting down her long, silky hair …

Removing her clothes …

Waiting in bed, those big blue eyes wide with maidenly nervousness …

She should be mine. He swore. The knife of pain bent him over. He took a long swig from the jug and stumbled out into the black, misty night.

He headed for the boathouse, where he and the other members of the Highland Guard without wives were sleeping. He intended to get good and drunk, so they wouldn’t have far to move him when he passed out.