The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(24)

He was certain he was dead. But somehow, when it stopped, the tower was gone, and he was still alive.

He extracted himself from the pile of rubble and looked around for Gordon, blinking against the acrid smell of the black powder and the heavy cloud of dust and ash swirling all around him.

Through the ringing in his ears he heard a moan. Gordon! He crawled through the pile of rocks toward the sound. At first he couldn’t see him. Then he looked down and felt his stomach heave.

His friend was sprawled out on the ground in a sickly position, buried under a pile of enormous stones, the largest of which—part of one of the massive pillars of the vault—had fallen across his chest, pinning him and crushing his lungs.

Magnus swore, trying to pull the rocks off. But he knew it was useless. It would take three or four men of Robbie Boyd’s strength to lift that pillar—and he had only one good arm. His left arm had been crushed badly, at the shoulder and forearm. He tried to cry out for help, but the others had to be too far away.

But he wouldn’t give up.

“Stop,” Gordon wheezed. “It’s no use. You have to go.”

Magnus didn’t listen. He gritted his teeth against the pain and redoubled his effort with both hands.

“Stubborn …” Gordon’s voice dropped off. “Go. They’re coming. You can’t let them capture you.”

Suddenly, Magnus was aware of the voices behind him, coming from the sea-gate. He staggered to the collapsed wall and looked over, seeing the English climbing up. They’d been slowed, but not blocked. In a minute or two they’d be filling the bailey.

He swore and returned to his friend. “Try to press up, while I pull.”

Gordon shook his head. “I can’t move.” He held Magnus’s eyes. “I’m not going to make it.”

The sickly liquid sound of his voice punctuated his words. Blood was filling his lungs.

“Nay,” Magnus said furiously. “Don’t say that.”

“You know what you need to do. I can’t do it myself. My hands are pinned.”

Oh God, no. He shook his head. “Don’t ask that of me.”

Gordon ignored him. “Helen,” he breathed. “Promise me you’ll watch over her.”

“Damn it, Templar,” Magnus growled, his eyes stinging.

“Promise me.”

Magnus couldn’t find the words, but he nodded.

Their eyes held. “You can’t leave them to find me,” Gordon said. “I’m not sure how long this will take. I won’t take the chance that anyone can identify me. You know what’s at stake. The Guard. My family. They will be at risk.”

Helen would be at risk. Gordon didn’t need to say it. There was little the English wouldn’t do to discover the names of the Highland Guard. It was why they were so careful. Why they used war names to cover their identities. MacRuairi had been uncovered, and he had such a bounty on his head that all of England and half of Scotland were hunting for him.

Magnus didn’t have a choice. He did what he had to do.

Four

Helen did not let the difficulty of what she had to do dampen her spirits for long. She was confident she was doing the right thing in ending her marriage before it had begun to William, and that it would all work out for the best in the end. It was getting to the end, however, that would be hard.

But she wouldn’t let her brothers change her mind—not this time. Which meant she had to do her best to avoid them until William returned.

It wasn’t easy. The day after the men left, an unusually heavy winter storm descended over Lorn, burying the castle and surrounding countryside in nearly a foot of snow and delaying the departure of most of the wedding guests. The icy blast of winter also left the men—including her brothers—unable to train and confined to the Great Hall.

Thus, Helen spent most of her time with the women and children in the small second-floor solar occupied by Lady Anna and her husband, Arthur Campbell, who’d been appointed keeper of the castle.

After four days of nothing to do but sew (which Helen dreaded even in the best of circumstances) and listen to Christina MacLeod do her best to instill excitement in Pliny (the library at Dunstaffnage was limited to a few scholarly works), while trying to keep the six-month-old Beatrix MacLeod away from the brazier (she’d just learned to crawl) and quiet the four-month-old Duncan MacSorley (who seemed to cry at the barest provocation), they were all going a little crazed.

Ellie most of all. The new mother looked close to tears as she bounced the screeching infant in her arms. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she groaned, clearly overwhelmed. “He won’t stop. His father does nothing but grin like the devil, but all he does is cry.”

“My daughter did the same thing,” Bella said. “I think she screamed for two months straight when she was his age.”

Helen didn’t miss the note of sadness in her voice. Bella’s daughter was in England, living in exile with her father’s family. She didn’t know the exact circumstances, but it was clear Bella missed her terribly.

“The yarrow and mint seems to help a bit,” Ellie said with a look of gratitude to Helen. “But how I wish Erik were here! He seems to be the only one who can make Duncan quiet.”

“He’ll be back soon,” Bella said firmly.