The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(31)

Magnus shot him a nasty glare. “Go to hell, MacGregor. I didn’t hear you volunteer.”

But MacGregor was used to his foul temper, having borne the brunt of it for the past five months.

Like Magnus, MacGregor was fully healed from the arrow that should have killed him. Other than the angry red scar where the hole had been burned shut—which eventually would lighten—he bore no signs of his ordeal. He’d even managed to avoid a fever.

Because of Helen.

Damn it, don’t think about her.

Magnus’s jaw clenched against the reflexive surge of emotion. When he thought of Helen, inevitably he thought of Gordon. The two were forever linked in his mind. The shock of Gordon’s death had faded, but not the guilt. Helen was caught up in that guilt.

He was grateful for what she’d done for him—and for MacGregor—but there was nothing left between them.

Watch over her.

The promise he’d made to Gordon haunted him. He had nothing to feel guilty for, damn it. No link had been made between Gordon and the already legendary attack of the Highland Guard at Threave.

He wasn’t breaking his vow to Gordon. There was no threat. No real threat, at least. And there wouldn’t be any at all if her brothers would keep their mouths shut. The earl and Kenneth Sutherland had made trouble at the king’s first Parliament in St. Andrews a couple of months ago with their dangerous questions about the circumstances of Gordon’s death. Questions that were also being raised by Gordon’s English-loving family in the south.

It was the timing of the mission with the wedding that had created problems. Too many people were aware of exactly when they’d left. Usually the Highland Guard missions were undertaken with few people aware of their comings and goings. Admitting to being in Galloway would be too risky, so they’d claimed to be in Forfar laying siege to the castle, which had been taken for Bruce. Supposedly, Gordon had been killed in an attack by freebooters on the way home.

Helen was perfectly safe.

But Magnus wasn’t. He was distracted when MacLeod came at him again, nearly taking off his head.

“He’ll get his turn,” MacLeod said, referring to MacGregor. “Once I’m done with you. Again.”

For the next thirty minutes—forty minutes? It felt like forever—MacLeod worked him until his eyes burned with agony and every muscle in his body shook with exhaustion. It was almost as if he were trying to get him to quit. When it became clear Magnus wasn’t going to do that, that he would fight until he collapsed, MacLeod finally relented.

“That’s enough. You’re ready. Get cleaned up and meet me in the king’s solar in an hour.” He smiled at MacGregor. When Chief smiled like that it didn’t bode well. “Your turn.”

“Have fun,” Magnus said to MacGregor as he started toward the barracks to retrieve soap and a drying cloth. He looked back over his shoulder at MacLeod. “Watch his face. The serving lasses from the village were upset the last time you bruised him up a little.”

The men sitting around watching snickered.

“Sod off, MacKay,” MacGregor said.

“Too bad that arrow wasn’t a little higher,” Magnus added. “You might actually look like a warrior.”

The man renowned for his handsome face let off a string of ugly oaths.

Magnus actually smiled as he walked away, a rarity of late. It was a source of constant annoyance to MacGregor—and thus a constant source of amusement among the Highland Guard—that no matter how many battles he fought, his face came out unscathed.

For a warrior, scars were expected. A badge of honor and impossible to avoid, especially on the face. But it was almost as if MacGregor’s mother had dipped him headfirst in the protective waters of the River Styx like Achilles: no matter how hard he tried, his face healed smooth and unmarked.

Poor bastard.

It didn’t take Magnus long to gather his belongings and make his way to the river behind the castle to bathe. Though it was a warm spring day, the river of melted snow from the mountains retained its wintry chill.

The numbing effect on his muscles drove away the pain almost as effectively as the mandrake, poppy, and vinegar concoction Helen had left for him. He’d taken it—at first. But dulling the pain also meant dulling his thinking and reactions. So when he resumed training, he’d weaned himself off the foul-tasting brew.

He took his time in the water, allowing the cold to restore his aching muscles. But as the hour drew close, he became anxious to return to the castle.

MacLeod had been testing him, he realized. And if “you’re ready” was any indication, he’d cleared Magnus at last to rejoin the others in the west. MacRuairi and MacSorley were in the Isles, keeping watch over John of Lorn, who was stirring up trouble again from Ireland. Seton, Boyd, MacLean, and Lamont were in the southwest, keeping the peace in Galloway with James Douglas and Edward Bruce. Campbell had been with Magnus, MacGregor, and MacLeod, but had returned to Dunstaffnage the month before for the birth of his first child. A son named William, named after their fallen friend.

Magnus was tired of infirmity and eager to rejoin the others. He needed action. A mission. Here with the king’s court he had too much time to think. It was harder to escape the memories. Memories that hung over him like a dark cloud and were far more painful and raw than any broken bone.

The guard posted at the solar must have been expecting him. He opened the door as soon as Magnus approached.