The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(17)

First women, now drink. Today began a bloody new chapter for him. He took another swig. All hail the fallen Saint.

Moonlight filtered through the wooden planks and small window in the large building constructed just beyond the castle gates to house the MacDougall chief’s birlinns. But since the MacDougall loss at the Battle of Brander a few months ago, it belonged to Bruce.

A few torches had been lit, but Magnus didn’t bother with a brazier. Cold had become his comfort. Like the drink, it kept him numb.

“I feel nothing,” he’d told her. God, how he wished it were true!

A small part of him had thought she wouldn’t be able to do it. That despite what he’d said, she would not bind herself to someone else forever. That she loved him enough to do what was right.

But she didn’t. Not then and not now.

He sat on his pallet, leaning his back against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, and drank. He drank to find peace, to reach the mindless oblivion where the torture of his thoughts wouldn’t find him. Instead he found hell. An angry, black hell where the fire of his thoughts raged and burned in the farthest reaches of his soul.

Was it happening right now? Was Gordon taking her in his arms and making love to her? Was he giving her pleasure?

The torture went deeper, became more explicit, until he thought he’d go mad with the images.

How much time had passed, he didn’t know, before the door opened. A man strode in.

When he saw who it was, blood raged through his veins. “Get the hell out of here, Sutherland.”

Despite the slur of drink, there was no mistaking the warning in his voice.

The blasted fool ignored it. He crossed the room with his usual arrogant swagger. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared to. Gordon was looking for you. I think he wanted you to accompany him to the bridal chamber. But he left without you.”

Nothing could have dulled the stab of pain that hit him then. It was happening right now. Oh, Jesus.

The bastard smiled. Magnus’s hand squeezed around the neck of the jug until the blood fled from his knuckles. But he wouldn’t give Sutherland the satisfaction of showing him how well his dagger had stuck. “Is that all you wished to tell me or is there something else?”

Helen’s brother stopped a few feet away from him, looming over him. Despite the obvious intent, Magnus wasn’t threatened. The disadvantage of his position on the floor wouldn’t last long if he didn’t want it to. Sutherland didn’t know just how much danger he was in. This wasn’t the Highland Games. Magnus had three years of war behind him, fighting alongside the best warriors in Scotland. Sutherland had fought with the English.

“I think they’re going to be quite happy together, don’t you?”

Magnus flexed his hand. God, how he itched to smash it through Sutherland’s gleaming-white sneer!

“Or maybe you don’t want that at all? Maybe you still fancy yourself in love with my sister? Maybe that’s the reason why you never told Gordon about your illicit little romance?”

“Have care, Sutherland. Your friend isn’t here to protect you this time.”

He was rewarded with an angry clench of his enemy’s jaw.

“I wonder whether he’ll still be your friend when he hears the truth.”

Magnus was on his feet with his hand around the other man’s neck before he could react. “You’ll keep your damned mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.” He shoved him up hard against a wooden post. “It’s in the past.”

In a move that would have made Robbie Boyd proud, Sutherland pushed up with the back of his arm, breaking Magnus’s hold, and twisted out of the way. “Damned right it’s in the past, and there’s not a blasted thing you can do about it. I’ll bet right now he’s—”

Magnus snapped. He let his fist fly right into the bastard’s sneering grin. He heard a satisfying crunch. The force of the blow would have felled most men, but Sutherland absorbed the shock with a snap of his head and returned the blow to Magnus’s gut with enough force to exact a grunt.

Either Sutherland had become a much better warrior or the drink had taken more of a toll than Magnus realized. Or perhaps both. The result was that in the exchange of blows that followed, Sutherland gave him more of a battle than he expected. It had been a long time since Magnus had brawled with only fists for a weapon, but it didn’t take him long to get the upper hand. He let off a barrage of blows that would have knocked Sutherland senseless if someone hadn’t pulled him back.

“Stop! Damn it, MacKay, that’s enough!”

He was grabbed from behind, an arm around his neck. He reacted instinctively, twisting and intending to use the momentum and leverage to throw the other man over his head, but recognition broke through the haze.

It was Gordon. What the hell was he doing here?

From the look on Sutherland’s face, he was wondering the same thing.

“What is this about?” Gordon looked back and forth between them. His eyes narrowed with an intensity that gave Magnus an uneasy prickle. “Or perhaps I don’t need to ask? If you two want to kill each other, do it someplace else. This isn’t the time.”

He was right. Magnus was ashamed he’d let the bastard get to him. He didn’t try to offer an excuse.

He and Sutherland exchanged a look. Despite his taunts, it was clear Sutherland had no intention of telling Gordon about Helen. His intent had only been to torment Magnus with what he knew.