The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(3)

If her brother didn’t sound altogether displeased by Donald’s loss, Helen didn’t wonder why. He’d suffered many defeats at the hand of their champion, and Donald loved to remind him of every one. Kenneth would have his day—as Magnus had just had his. But she knew how difficult it was for her proud brother, who was itching to step out of their shadows and prove himself.

As soon as her brother looked away, Helen stole one last glance toward Magnus. But he was surrounded, lost in the crowd of cheering admirers, his enemy’s daughter undoubtedly far from his mind.

She sighed. Soon he’d have crowds of ladies following him about like Gregor MacGregor and Robbie Boyd. The famed archer with the face of Apollo and the strongest man in Scotland had taken on a godlike status at the Games and had their own retinues of starry-eyed young women hanging on their every move.

She followed her brother and pretended not to let it bother her. But it did. She wasn’t jealous—not really. Well, perhaps more of the freedom the women had to talk with Magnus in public than of the women themselves. Although the curvaceous blonde attached to his arm was quite pretty, she recalled with a pang.

Why did everything have to be so complicated?

At first she hadn’t given a second thought about sneaking away to meet him. The feud hadn’t mattered to her. All she’d been thinking about was that she liked him. That for the first time she’d met someone who seemed to understand her.

When she was with him she felt unique, not different. He didn’t care that she didn’t like sewing or playing the lute. That she spent more time in the barn than she did in church. That watching animals give birth held an unmaidenly fascination for her. He thought it was funny when she pointed out to Father Gerald that bleeding seemed a strange way of restoring humours when all it seemed to do was make the patient weak and pale. He didn’t care that she’d rather wear a simple woolen kirtle (more often than not tied up between her legs) than a fancy court gown. He hadn’t even laughed the one spring she’d decided to cut her hair because it kept getting in her eyes.

But the constraints of the feud had begun to chafe. Stolen moments for the week of the Highland Games every year—and if they were lucky, perhaps a council meeting or two—were no longer enough. She wanted more. She wanted to be able to stand by Magnus’s side instead of those women and have him smile down at her the way he did that made her insides melt.

If a little voice in the back of her head that sounded like her father said, “Perhaps you should have thought of this in the beginning, Helen lass?” she quieted it. It would be fine. Somehow they would make it work.

She loved him, and he loved her.

She gnawed on her lower lip. She was almost certain of it. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? It didn’t matter that barely had their lips touched, and her heart finished slamming into her chest, when he’d set her harshly away from him.

Part of her sensed his feelings ran just as deeply and passionately as hers. And despite the danger, despite the knowledge that her family would consider her actions a betrayal, she couldn’t stay away. It was foolish—impossible. But also exciting. When she was with Magnus she felt freer than she’d ever felt in her life.

How could she not take what they had and hold on tight? As the famous ancient Roman poet Horace said, “Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.” Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future. She might not have been much of a student when her father had brought in tutors for her, but she remembered that. The words had resonated.

It seemed to take forever to tend Donald’s wounds, if not his tattered pride, but at the first opportunity she snuck away and waited for Magnus to find her. It didn’t take him long. Usually, making him work to find her was part of the fun. But she was so anxious to see him, she made it easy on him.

The snap of a twig was the only warning she had before two big hands circled her waist from behind and snatched her down off her perch.

She gasped as her back met the hard planes of his chest. Her cheeks flushed with heat. By saints, he was strong! The lean frame of youth was now stacked with layer upon layer of hard, steely muscle. The changes in him had not gone unnoticed, and being plastered so intimately against those changes sent a strange warmth shimmering over her and a flutter of awareness low in her belly. Her heart quickened.

He spun her around to face him. “I thought we agreed no more climbing trees?”

Agreed? Ordered was more like it. She wrinkled her nose. Sometimes he could be just as bossy and overprotective as her brothers. “Ah, Helen,” they’d say with an indulgent sigh, ruffling her red hair as if it were to blame. “What have you gone and done now?” They meant well, but they’d never understood her. Not like Magnus did.

Helen ignored his frown and gasped, as she gazed up into the familiar, handsome face. The boyishly strong, even features had been bruised and battered almost beyond recognition. He’d bathed and made some attempt to tend his wounds, but there was no washing away the big red and purple mass covering his jaw, the split lip, the broken nose, and the large cut near his eye. She traced the area around it lightly with her fingers, seeing that someone had already tended it. “Does it hurt horribly?”

He shook his head, capturing her hand in his to draw it away. “Nay.”

“Liar.” She pushed him away, hearing the grunt of pain and realizing she’d forgotten about his ribs. She put her hands on her hips. “It’s no more than you deserve after what you did.”