The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(32)

He was greeted with the hearty sound of laughter. The king sat in a large, throne-like chair before a small fireplace, a goblet of wine in his hand and a broad smile on his face.

Peace suited the Bruce. For the first time in over three years, since he’d stabbed his nemesis John “The Red” Comyn before the altar of Greyfriars Church, the king looked at ease, the lines of suffering and defeat on his battle-weary face less noticeable. After all he’d been through, God knew he’d earned it.

“MacKay, there you are,” he said. “Come, have some wine. MacLeod was just telling us about your training today. It seems our fair friend didn’t fare as well.” The king chuckled. “Nor does he look so fair.”

It didn’t surprise him. Only a handful of them could keep up with MacLeod. Although MacGregor was highly skilled with a blade—they all were—his weapon was the bow.

MacLeod shrugged, a rare smile curving his mouth. “I’m sure he’ll heal.”

The men laughed. In addition to MacLeod, a handful of the king’s closest companions and favored members of his large retinue had joined them. Among them were the venerable knights Sir Neil Campbell, Sir William De la Hay, and Sir Alexander Fraser, MacLeod’s young brother-in-law.

“I’m sending MacLeod west.” The king’s face darkened. “The Lord of Lorn is making trouble again. MacSorley said he’s gathering a fleet. Even in exile the bastard manages to defy me, and now his treasonous father has joined him!” The king stiffened with fury, no longer looking so relaxed. “Six months after he submitted and not two months since he attended Parliament, the Lord of Argyll has fled to Ireland.”

Magnus could understand the king’s anger. The MacDougall chief’s submission had been an important coup, a sign of the reconciliation of enemies to form a united Scotland. The quick defection of the powerful clan who were closely tied to the Comyns was bound to cause unrest in Argyll. Arthur “Ranger” Campbell would have his hands full at Dunstaffnage.

It would have been better had Campbell gotten rid of Lorn when he’d had the chance. Magnus understood why he hadn’t—he’d married the man’s daughter, after all—but Lorn and his father wouldn’t get a second chance.

Magnus felt a little bit of the dark cloud hovering over him lift. He couldn’t wait to get back to action. He’d be too busy to think about her. But sometimes it felt as if it would be easier to forget a missing limb.

“When do we leave?”

MacLeod shook his head. “You aren’t going.”

Magnus stiffened. “But I’m ready—you said so yourself.”

“Aye, but you and MacGregor have a different mission. You will be guarding the king.”

“I’ve decided to make a royal progress through the Highlands to thank the chiefs who offered shelter in those dark days after Methven.” King Robert’s face clouded as the memories struck of his days as an outlaw. Men like William Wiseman, Alexander MacKenzie of Eilean Donan, and Duncan MacAulay of Loch Broom had saved his life. “As well as ensure that those who have recently given me their pledge are not inclined to follow the example of the Lord of Argyll.”

Meaning the king wanted to ensure he didn’t have any more defectors.

“With the truce and the country at peace,” MacLeod interjected, “there is no better time.”

Magnus swallowed his disappointment. A peacekeeping jaunt through the Highlands didn’t sound like a mission for the illustrious Highland Guard. The king had a large retinue of knights. Even were trouble to arise, he would be well protected. With trouble brewing out west, wouldn’t Magnus be better utilized with MacLeod? Why did he feel as though he was being given this mission because of his injury?

“I’m putting you in charge,” MacLeod said. “The king will travel north through Ross and Cromarty before turning west through the mountains to the coast.”

Magnus’s mountains. He’d grown up ranging those hills. But the knowledge that MacLeod might have reason to have appointed him bodyguard—or guide—didn’t ease the sting of disappointment.

“We will finish in August at Dunstaffnage, where I will hold the first Highland Games in four years,” the king added enthusiastically. “What better way to mark the continuity of the realm and celebrate our victories?” He winked at Magnus. “Perhaps I will find some men to recruit for our army.”

Magnus stiffened. The subtle reference to his recruitment for the Highland Guard, which wouldn’t be understood by those not privy to their identities, was not lost on him. MacLeod had been hinting for weeks about finding him a new partner. But his partner was dead. He didn’t need or want another one.

“When do we leave?” Magnus asked.

“After the feast of Pentecost,” the king said. “I should like to be at Dunrobin Castle by the end of the month.”

Magnus stilled, carefully schooling his features into a mask of indifference, but every nerve-ending in his body flared in rejection. “Dunrobin?”

Helen’s home.

He could feel MacLeod’s heavy gaze on him, but it was Bruce who answered. “Aye. As the Sutherlands are the newest members to our fold, I thought it best to start with them.”

“I trust that won’t be a problem?” MacLeod asked.

Magnus clenched his jaw. Dunrobin Castle was about the last place he wanted to go and Helen the last person he wanted to see. His feelings where she was concerned were still too much in turmoil.