The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(51)

She quickly began an examination, placing her hand on the king’s head, feeling that it wasn’t so clammy, then on his stomach, relieved to not feel the twisting underneath, and on his heart, which beat remarkably steadily.

“Well?” Magnus asked expectantly.

She shook her head. “I don’t know, but I think … I think …”

“He’s getting better?”

She drew in a deep breath and sighed. “Aye.”

He bowed his head, murmuring, “Praise God.” He looked back up. “You did it.”

Helen felt a swell of pride but knew he wasn’t correct. “Nay, we did it.”

And just for a moment when she looked into his eyes, time slipped away. She saw the lad she’d fallen in love with and felt the force of the connection between them beat as strongly as ever.

Under the cover of darkness, the birlinn approached the shore. He waited anxiously—eagerly—as John MacDougall, the exiled Lord of Lorn, made his way up the rocky beach, his feet once more treading solidly on Scottish soil. It was a moment to celebrate.

Lorn had been forced to take refuge in Ireland after the MacDougall loss at the battle of Brander last summer, but the once powerful chieftain hadn’t conceded defeat. He’d been planning his retribution against the false king every day since.

Now, the time was at hand. Robert Bruce may have made a near miraculous return from ignominy and defeat, but his run of good fortune was about to come to a deadly end. Ironically, by a sword of his own making.

The two men—allies in the quest to see Bruce destroyed—clasped arms in greeting.

“The team is ready?” Lorn asked.

“Aye, my lord. Ten of the greatest warriors from Ireland, England, and those loyal to our cause from Scotland are waiting to attack on your command.”

Lorn smiled. “The perfect killing team. I would thank Bruce for the idea but do not believe I shall have the chance. The next time I see him, the bastard will be dead. I trust you will not disappoint me?”

Lorn had recognized his skills and picked him to lead his killing team. He would not let him down. “Bruce might have his phantoms, but I have my reapers. He will not escape my scythe, my lord.”

Lorn laughed. “Fitting, indeed. What is your plan?”

“We shall wait to attack until he takes to the mountains, when he is far from help.”

“How many men protect him?”

“A handful of knights, and a few dozen men-at-arms. No more than fifty warriors in total. A number that should be easily handled in a surprise attack.”

Again they would use Bruce’s own tactics against him. Bruce had proved the effectiveness of small numbers in quick, surprise attacks launched in darkness in places of their choosing.

“And what of his phantom army? Have you managed to identify any of them?”

MacKay’s face sprang immediately to mind. He was almost convinced his old nemesis was part of the famed group. He gritted his teeth. “I have a few suspicions, but I think you are keeping most of them busy out west.”

Lorn smiled. “As I shall continue to do. How soon do you think it will be done?”

“Bruce has a few more castles that he plans to visit before turning west. I should think sometime in late July. He plans to hold the Highland Games in August.”

He decided not to mention it would be at Dunstaffnage, which was Lorn’s stolen castle.

Lorn frowned, not bothering to hide his impatience. “What is this I’ve heard of Bruce falling ill again at Dunrobin?”

“Rumors, my lord,” he assured him, surprised the news had reached Lorn’s ears in the west, when such an effort had been made to contain it.

The poison had been his one miscalculation. One he would not make again. He was fortunate that Helen was a better healer than he’d realized. Bruce dying at Dunrobin would have brought scrutiny and criticism to the clan.

It was the last thing he wanted. What he did, he did for the Sutherlands. The honor of the entire clan had been impinged when they’d been forced to bow to the usurper, but he would get it back by defeating Bruce and restoring Balliol to the throne. Will’s hand had been forced by Ross, but he would thank him in the end.

Conscious that every moment he spent on Scottish soil he was in danger, Lorn did not linger. “In July, then.” They shook hands, and Lorn started toward his birlinn. He’d nearly reached the water’s edge when he turned back. “I almost forgot. You were right—there were reports of a strange explosion last December.”

He stilled. Gordon.

“But not at Forfar,” Lorn said. “At Threave, when Bruce’s phantoms were said to have defeated two thousand Englishmen.”

It was the confirmation he’d been waiting for. William Gordon had been a member of Bruce’s famed guard, which made MacKay almost certainly a member as well.

And then there was Helen. What had she known of it? He intended to find out.

Eleven

The connection didn’t last. If Helen hoped that the bond forged in those long, desperate hours while caring for the king marked a new beginning with Magnus, she was to be disappointed.

In the intervening days as the king continued to improve, Magnus displayed the same steady, matter-of-fact disposition that she remembered so well. And just as before, the inability to decipher his true feelings proved frustrating. He was polite to a fault, but distant and remote. He displayed none of the fierce longing and attraction that rose in her chest and nearly suffocated her with its intensity whenever she looked at him. She could almost imagine he hadn’t lost control and kissed her—really kissed her.