The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(55)

“I’m not tired. I assure you I’ve had plenty of sleep.” She looked back and forth between them as if sensing something else at play. “I will rest later this afternoon. After I have seen to the king and the midday meal.”

Magnus’s jaw tightened, as did Munro’s. Giving them no opportunity to object further, she lifted the skirts of her indecent gown and flounced up the stairs. Magnus exchanged a look with Munro and stomped up behind her.

It was going to be a very long meal.

Twelve

“More ale, Your Grace?”

“Aye, thank you, Lady Helen,” the king said eagerly.

Helen bent over the reclining king to pour the ale into the goblet. The king smiled appreciatively, and she turned to the expressionless man beside him. Holding the jug to her chest in blatant offering, she asked, “Magnus?”

“Nay.” She thought his voice snapped, but then he added pleasantly, “Thank you.”

She looked for any sign that he’d noticed the gown or the swell of flesh threatening to slide out every time she leaned forward, but his face remained perfectly impassive. Her brother was right—she could be naked and he probably wouldn’t notice. The dress had been a foolish waste of time. She’d felt a little nervous donning it—it revealed far more of her bosom than she’d ever shown before—but apparently there had been nothing to worry about. She might have been wearing a monk’s robe for all the notice Magnus took of it.

Or of her.

She was tempted to dump the blasted pitcher of ale on his head. He might notice that!

Mouth pursed, she set the jug back down on the tray. Picking up a plate, she inhaled the rich, buttery perfume. But the deep breath she intended to take was cut short by the tightening of fabric across her chest. Lud, the silly dress was too tight to even take a deep breath!

“Tarts?” she said, holding the plate out.

“Please,” the king said, appearing to be holding back a laugh.

Helen frowned and turned to Magnus. He shook his head, made a grumbly sound low in his throat, and shifted in his seat.

She wrinkled her nose at his curtness and slid one of the tarts from the plate. They smelled divine.

Plopping down on the bench beside Magnus, she sunk her teeth into the flaky strawberry tart, unable to hold back a groan of pleasure. “These are heavenly.” She sighed with a flick of her tongue, catching the rivulet of juice before it dribbled down her chin.

Bruce laughed. “I don’t think I should mind all the new foods you insist I eat if they could all taste like this.” He made a face. “A king forced to eat carrots and beets, it’s a disgrace.”

She returned his laugh, and then turned to Magnus with a concerned frown when she noticed he was shifting again. “Is something wrong?”

His face was perfectly placid. “Nay, why do you ask?”

“You keep shifting in your seat.” The frown between her brows deepened as she realized what might be the cause. “Do you need a cushion? I know you’ve been spending many hours by the king’s bedside.” Her cheeks heated. “It is not uncommon to have swelling—”

“Piles? Good God!” If Helen hadn’t been so taken aback by the vehemence of his reaction, she might have found the look of outrage on his face comical. “I don’t need a blasted cushion! And I sure as hell don’t have swelling anywhere.”

The king was making a choking sound that immediately drew her attention. She jumped to her feet and leaned over him, concerned. “Sire, are you all right?”

The coughing subsided, but this time she was sure there was laughter behind the innocent facade. “I’m fine,” he assured her after a moment.

Confused, Helen looked back and forth between the men, but neither seemed inclined to illuminate her. “Sit down,” the king said. “Finish your tart.”

Helen complied, and she could feel the king’s eyes on her while she ate. “MacKay says you knew one another as children?”

Helen cast a surreptitious glance at Magnus from out of the corner of her eye, surprised that he would have mentioned it but not surprised he would have made it seem of youthful unimportance. No longer shifting, he sat as still as one of the druids’ mystical standing stones. “Aye,” she said cautiously. “Though we were not children. Magnus was ten and nine when we met.”

“Hmm,” the king said. “I can’t imagine your brothers were very happy when they found out about your, uh … friendship.”

This time she didn’t dare look at Magnus, fearing the accusation she would see in his gaze. She recalled exactly how her brother had reacted. And how she had as well: by rejecting his offer of marriage.

She shook her head, a pained pinch in her chest. “Nay, Sire. The feud was still too fresh in their minds.”

Magnus said nothing, his silence feeling like a condemnation of its own.

I would do differently today! she wanted to shout. Just give me a chance.

But he wouldn’t look at her.

Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Bruce switched the subject. “Aye, well, feuds and old alliances are all in the past.” He smiled. “Since I’ve been confined to my chambers, I’ve spent some time at the window, watching the training. Your brother Kenneth is a skilled knight.”

She felt Magnus tense at her side. She knew he and Kenneth had been locked in one competition after another the past few weeks, but the king’s observation pleased her nonetheless. She was proud of her brothers and her clan. She nodded. “Aye, he is. At Barra Hill, Kenneth held off a thousand rebels with two hundred men by positioning his archers at …” All of a sudden her voice dropped off, as she realized what she was saying. She’d been so eager to sing Kenneth’s praises, she’d forgotten the “rebels” were Bruce’s men.