The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(39)

When his body grew tight, hot, and hard. Painfully hard.

Lady Muriel’s eyes widened at the intensity of his reaction.

The blood had leeched from his face, but returned quickly when he realized how loudly he’d spoken. A number of eyes were turned in his direction, especially those on the dais.

MacGregor was staring at him with a strange expression on his face—as if he’d just made a connection Magnus didn’t want him to make.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, attempting to smooth the gaffe. “That isn’t necessary.”

She nodded, eyeing him cautiously.

He’d scared her, he realized. Feeling like an arse, he would have attempted to put her at ease, but MacGregor had already drawn the lass’s attention back to him—where in Magnus’s experience it was likely to stay. Once MacGregor let his interest be known in a lass, it wasn’t often that it wasn’t returned.

The healer wasn’t as flamboyantly beautiful and young as the women MacGregor usually flirted with, but she was pretty in a reserved fashion. And she seemed to be enjoying the attention. He heard her laugh at something no doubt outrageous that MacGregor whispered in her ear.

But Magnus made the mistake of turning his head and caught Munro doing the same thing to Helen. Their blasted shoulders were touching.

Magnus’s fist clenched his goblet. He fought the reflexive surge of anger and forced his gaze away, only to meet that of another.

Kenneth Sutherland was watching him, and if his narrowed gaze was any indication, he hadn’t missed Magnus’s reaction. But instead of the taunting smile that Magnus expected, Sutherland appeared surprised, apparently noticing for the first time what had taken Magnus only a few minutes to conclude: Munro wanted Helen.

And Sutherland didn’t look happy about it.

Magnus recalled that he hadn’t been the only one to suffer the sting of Munro’s arrogant taunts and humiliations. Sutherland had as well. Probably more so, since Magnus had only had the misfortune of seeing Munro at the Highland Games.

They might not agree about anything else, but apparently he and Sutherland were of one mind when it came to Donald Munro.

It was damned unsettling. He didn’t like to think he and Sutherland had anything in common.

Although, of course, there had been Gordon. Sutherland was the friend of his boyhood and Magnus of his manhood. Magnus tried not to think about it.

He returned his attention to the conversation next to him. The healer and his friend were talking about MacGregor’s miraculous arrow. That particular battle wound had already earned the famed archer an endless supply of feminine appreciation. Lady Muriel, however, was more sophisticated than his usual audience. Rather than ooh and ah, and flutter her eyelashes at him as if every word from his mouth were gilded, she told him that he was very lucky in the Englishman’s aim.

“What is the most dangerous surgery that you’ve performed?” MacGregor asked her.

Lady Muriel paused for a minute, considering. When Helen did that, she had a tendency to bite her lip.

He was doing it again, damn it.

“It was about a year ago, after the battle at Barra Hill.”

“You were there?” Magnus asked, surprised. Though it wasn’t uncommon for a tent or castle near the battle site to be set aside to tend the wounded, he wouldn’t have thought a man of Lord Nicholas de Corwenne’s repute would allow his daughter to be so close to danger.

Barra Hill had been one of the most deadly battles in Bruce’s war. He’d chased John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, from the battlefield and laid waste to the countryside with thoroughness that was still talked about today. It would be some time before the “hership of Buchan” was forgotten.

“Aye, my father usually brought me along when he was attending the earl. He believed the best learning was done by experience. He was right.” Her eyes grew distant and a wistful smile played upon her lips. He could tell she was remembering her father fondly. He must have died not long ago, Magnus realized.

“What happened?” MacGregor asked.

“A man took a war hammer to the head, breaking a bone in his skull and causing blood to build up underneath. I had to bore a small hole into his skull to relieve the pressure.”

“He survived?” MacGregor asked.

She nodded. “He returned to his wife and five children with a dent in his head and a story to tell.”

Crushed skulls were a common injury in battle, Magnus knew. As was trepanning, the method to treat them. It just wasn’t often that it was a success.

“A fine feast, Lady Helen,” the king said loudly, drawing their attention to the center of the table. “Your brother is fortunate to have a sister who is not only a skilled healer but also an admirable chatelaine.”

Helen dimpled with pleasure at the praise, her flawless ivory skin tinged a becoming pink. “Thank you, Sire.”

Bruce returned her smile. “Though perhaps your brother won’t be calling upon those skills much longer.”

Magnus knew of what Bruce spoke, but Munro did not. Assuming the king spoke of Helen’s marriage, the Sutherland henchman stiffened with offense. Munro hid it well, but Magnus was watching him carefully and saw the flare of barely concealed animosity leveled at the king. Magnus knew exactly how much the proud warrior must hate to have to bow to his enemy—he would hate it, too.

“The lady has suffered a recent loss,” Munro said pointedly, a protective hand on her arm that Magnus wanted to rip off.