The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(2)

Magnus caught the scent of something that revived his aching body like nothing else: victory. With a sudden, inexplicable burst of strength from the very bowels of his determination, he took the offensive. Pummeling with his hammer and thrusting with his targe, he drove his surprised opponent back.

Munro stumbled, and Magnus seized the advantage, wrapping his foot around the henchman’s ankle to knock him completely to the ground. Kneeling on his chest, he thrust his shield against his enemy’s throat and lifted the hammer high above his head.

“Yield,” he bit out forcefully, his words carrying across the silent arena. The stunning reversal had struck the crowd dumb.

Munro tried to fight back, but Magnus was in control. He dug the edge of the targe deeper, crushing his opponent’s throat and cutting off his breath.

“Yield,” he repeated. Rage surged through his veins, the brutality of the fight having taken its toll. The urge to finish it rose up hard inside him. But these were the Highland Games, not the life-and-death Games of the Gladiator.

For one long heartbeat, however, it might have come to that. Munro refused to yield and Magnus refused to let him go until he did. Despite the temporary truce of the Games, the hatred raging between the two proud Highlanders threatened to destroy it.

Fortunately, the decision was taken from their hands.

“Victory to MacKay,” a man’s voice rang out. Baron Innes. The holder of Inverbreakie Castle and the host of these games.

A cheer rang out. Magnus lowered his hammer, pulled back his targe, and released Munro. Standing, he thrust his arms out wide, basking in the cheers and savoring the rush of victory.

He’d done it. He’d won. Helen.

A swarm of people gathered around him. His father, younger siblings, friends, and a fair number of pretty young lasses.

But none was the lass he most wanted to see. Helen couldn’t come to him. And as much as he wanted to see her right now, he dared not seek out her gaze.

For his Helen, the lass he intended to marry, was none other than Helen Sutherland of Moray, the daughter of his greatest enemy, the Earl of Sutherland.

Thank God it was over! Helen didn’t think she could bear another minute. Sitting there, watching Magnus get beaten to within an inch of his life, and not being able to react, being forced to smother every flinch, every gasp of horror, every whispered prayer for him not to get up, as the man who was like a brother to her pummeled him to the ground, had been pure agony.

Magnus was too tough for his own good. The stubborn ox didn’t know when to give up!

She was going to kill him herself for putting her through that. He knew she didn’t enjoy the violent competitions in the Highland Games—why men beat each other senseless in the name of sport, she would never understand—but for some reason he’d made her promise to be here.

“Are you all right?”

Helen tried to force her heart back down to her chest, but it seemed lodged permanently in her throat. She turned mutely to her brother.

Kenneth’s concerned gaze flickered over her face and down to her hands, which were still clenched in the soft wool folds of her skirts. “You seem distressed. I thought you were going to faint for a moment.”

Her pulse quickened. He was far too observant. She was distressed, but she dared not let him suspect the reason. Her brother despised the MacKays, and Magnus most of all. The two were close in age, but Magnus had gotten the best of him in the competitions since they were lads. If Kenneth found out about them …

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It would be a disaster if he discovered she was consorting with the enemy. Sutherlands hated MacKays. MacKays hated Sutherlands. That’s just the way it was. But not for her.

“I didn’t expect it to be so … intense,” she said, which was the truth. Belatedly she recalled her family loyalty. “And of course, I’m disappointed.”

Kenneth eyed her suspiciously, as if he didn’t quite believe that was all there was to it. He knew her too well. She held her breath, but then the crowd roared again, distracting him. His face darkened as he took in the glee of the MacKays. “I can’t believe he won.” He shook his head. “Father is going to be furious.”

A different kind of alarm shot through her. “Perhaps it would be best if we did not tell him? Not right away, at least.”

Kenneth’s eyes met hers, his expression instantly grave. “Is it that bad?”

“He will be fine,” she said firmly, assuring herself as much as her brother. Of course he would. It was the only possibility she would consider. “But I do not want to distract him. He needs all his strength to fight the illness.”

But each time the lung ailment came back it seemed worse. She probably shouldn’t have come, but Magnus had made her promise. And the thought of not seeing him for another year with the threat of war swirling all around them …

She couldn’t stay away.

It was only a week. Her father would be fine without her for a week. She’d left precise instructions for Beth, the serving lass who helped her care for her father, and Muriel had promised to check on him. It was she who’d taught Helen everything she knew about healing.

Kenneth held her gaze, the concern and fear in his eyes for their father mirroring her own. “Then perhaps you are right, it’s better not to upset him.” He took her elbow and nodded in the direction of their fallen champion. “Come, you’d best see to Munro. Although it appears it’s mostly our champion’s pride that has taken a beating.” A wry smile turned his mouth. “Perhaps he will learn a little humility.”