The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(30)

He could barely stand to look at her.

If marrying William had been unforgivable, what chance did she have now that he was dead? Unlike marriage, death was a bond that could never be dissolved. In Magnus’s mind, she and William were forever connected, and his loyalty to his friend would never let him forget it.

Nor would he forget what would only add to his belief in her lack of loyalty. To him all those years ago, and now to his dead friend.

He cleared his throat. “You are leaving?”

She stilled. “Tomorrow.”

Say something.

He gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “Safe travels.”

Is that all, then? Her chest throbbed painfully. But it was clear he wanted nothing to do with her. “Magnus, I—”

He stopped her with a hard look. “Goodbye, Helen.”

Helen sucked in her breath against the hot stab of pain. Like a knife, his words severed any threads of hope. He’d cut her out of his life. The one person who’d always made her feel like she belonged no longer wanted her around.

“Get away from her.”

Helen gasped at the sound of her brother’s voice. Dread flooded her, anticipating the confrontation to come. Kenneth had made no secret who he blamed for William’s death, and nothing she’d said could convince him otherwise.

Helen grabbed her brother, holding him back. Aware that they were in a corridor where anyone could hear them, she said in a low voice, “I was only saying farewell, brother. You have no cause for concern.”

Helen could see the dangerous flush of anger in her brother’s face and knew he would not be so easily pacified. Kenneth wanted answers, and so far he’d had none.

“You do not even wait until Gordon is cold in his grave before panting after my sister. Oh, that’s right,” he said sarcastically. “There is no grave to go cold. You took care of that.”

Though Magnus gave no outward sign that the words had affected him, she sensed him tense. “What are you trying to suggest, Sutherland?”

“I’m suggesting nothing. You’ve made no secret of your feelings for my sister.”

Mortified heat crept up her cheeks. “You’re wrong, Kenneth. Magnus doesn’t feel—”

“I know exactly how MacKay feels.” He gave her one of those patronizing brotherly glances and set her to the side, squaring off against Magnus. “He might have fooled you, but he didn’t fool me. He was half-crazed the night you married Gordon. He wants you. He still wants you. The only question is how far he’d go to have you.”

Helen blanched in horror at what her brother implied. Magnus would never have had anything to do with William’s death. Her gaze flew to Magnus’s. His face had gone white. Horribly white. But it was the pained, haunted look in his eyes that struck her cold.

She threw herself in front of her brother, expecting Magnus to strike. It was no more than her brother deserved.

What she didn’t expect was for Magnus to turn and walk away.

The next morning Helen left with her family, certain that she would never see him again. Her heart was breaking a second time. She wanted to go after him but knew she could not. It was over. She felt the finality she’d never felt the first time.

Five

Kildrummy Castle,

May 1309

The sun beat down upon Magnus’s bare head and torso, his chest slick with the sweat of exertion. The truce negotiated between King Robert of Scotland and King Edward II of England in January had provided temporary peace from war but not from MacLeod. “Peace” for MacLeod only meant more training.

The leader of the Highland Guard and famed trainer of warriors came at him again, wielding the two-handed great sword as if it weighed no more than a stick. Striking first to the right high above Magnus’s head and then to the left, MacLeod forced Magnus to move his arm and shoulder in every direction to deflect the powerful blows.

It hurt like hell, but Magnus gritted his teeth and forced his body to fight through the pain, fending off every strike. Not any easy feat against the greatest swordsman in Scotland, especially for a man whose arm and shoulder had been severely broken only months before. But he was tough enough to withstand anything MacLeod threw at him.

Magnus knew he should be grateful that his arm had healed as well as it had, but the forced weeks of inactivity had been its own kind of pain. Eight wall-crawling weeks before he could remove his arm from the splints and sling. Another four before he could even think about picking up a sword.

His arm had been as weak as a damned Englishman’s! For the past two months, he’d thrown himself into a training regimen to rebuild his strength with the single-minded purpose of a zealot. He didn’t have time to think about …

He stopped himself, irritated by the lapse. Focus.

Now that his arm was healed, it was just a matter of pushing through the pain. Something that MacLeod seemed intent on maximizing.

Chief swung again with a crushing force that would fell most men. Magnus blocked the blow with his own great sword. The shattering clash of metal reverberated in the air and down the entire left side of his body. MacLeod pressed down so hard, Magnus could read the inscription on his sword: Bi Tren. Be valiant. Be strong. The motto of the MacKays, and fitting as hell right now. The pain was excruciating, but he pushed the fierce swordsman back.

“I think he’s getting tired, MacLeod,” MacGregor observed from the gallery—in this case a bale of hay, turned-over crates, and an old barrel that were set out near the section of the castle yard where they practiced every morning. A few other warriors had gathered around to watch as well. Other than offer the occasional encouragement, however, they were content to watch the two men battle in reverent silence. Except for MacGregor: he wouldn’t shut up. “You probably should go easy on him.”