The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(59)

Magnus squeezed his hand around his throat, wanting to shut him up. But his enemy’s words were merely echoes of his own thoughts.

He might have kept squeezing had the door not opened. Magnus released him as MacGregor and a few of the other men strode inside.

Sutherland looked surprisingly pleased, despite the fact that Magnus had been seconds away from squeezing the life from him. “You’re hiding something,” he murmured, as he passed by. “And I intend to find out what it is.”

Magnus let him go, but the threat lingered in his wake. He jammed the last weapon on the shelf and turned to leave.

“Have care, Saint, before you do something you’ll regret.”

Magnus scanned the area, realizing he and MacGregor were alone. He supposed it wasn’t surprising, given his mood of late, that the other men had been avoiding him.

When Magnus didn’t respond, MacGregor added, “You’re letting him get to you. He’s waiting for you to make a slip. And if what I just saw is any indication, you are close to doing so. He’s been asking a lot of questions about you.”

Ah hell. Apparently, Sutherland had broadened his scope. He was too close to the damned truth as it was. “What kind of questions?”

“He’s interested in your movements the past few years, especially in recent months.”

“Let him ask all he wants—only a handful of people know the answer to that question and none of them will answer it.”

“Aye, but that isn’t all. I heard him mention to one of Fraser’s men that he was surprised Bruce had so many Highlanders in his personal guard, including so many past champions from the Highland Games.”

Bruce’s phantom warriors’ reputation as the best of the best had led to much speculation, but no one had made the connection to the Games until now. MacLeod, MacGregor, and Boyd were most at risk—their reputation as champions well known—but Magnus would not be immune from scrutiny as well.

Magnus’s mouth fell in a grim line. “Sutherland is a pain in the arse.”

“A dangerous pain in the arse. And a perceptive one. You have to admire him.” Magnus shot him a traitorous look. It was bad enough that the king had taken notice of Sutherland; now MacGregor, too? “Both he and Munro are watching you closely—you need to get them off the scent.” The famed archer gave him a hard look. “I’d tell you to lose, if I thought you would do it.”

His jaw locked. He’d rather have a bounty on his head, as was sure to happen were his identity discovered.

“Well, you’d better do something,” MacGregor said. “You’ve been pulled as tight as one of my bowstrings—by all the Sutherlands,” he added.

Magnus knew that MacGregor suspected the truth: he lusted after their dead friend’s widow. The fact that he’d loved her first didn’t stop his shame.

“Did he know?” MacGregor asked.

Magnus stilled, knowing who MacGregor meant. Eventually, he shook his head. “Not until after the wedding.”

Unlike MacRuairi, MacGregor didn’t voice his disapproval, but Magnus could see it on his face.

He should have told Gordon sooner. But he was too damned stubborn. Too damned sure he could control his feelings. And now it was too late. Damn, he missed him. They all did. Gordon’s death had left a hole in the Guard that would never be filled.

MacGregor gave him a long look. Though Magnus had never told any of the Highland Guard what happened the day Gordon died, he wondered whether some suspected the truth.

The famed archer didn’t waste time with questions; he cut right to the quick. “Either find yourself a woman or stop punishing yourself and take the one you want—I don’t give a shite which, but do something.”

Punishing himself with Helen? Perhaps he was. But some guilts were impossible to absolve.

Even if he could forget, he wouldn’t put her in danger. Her brother was doing that enough on his own. Sutherland had reminded him of how much was at risk. He wouldn’t add to that risk by linking her to another member of the Highland Guard.

For more reasons than one, Helen was lost to him forever.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Thirteen

What is he doing?

Helen sat at the dais with her heart squeezed in a vise of hurt and jealousy, unable to believe what she was seeing. The little tugs in her chest that had started at the beginning of the evening meal when she’d seen Magnus smile at the serving maid—Joanna, the daughter of the alewife, who had a reputation for being free with her favors—had sharpened as the meal drew on, and the signs of what he was doing became more blatant.

He was flirting. Showing Joanna that he wanted her in ways of which Helen had only dreamed.

Unable to turn away, Helen saw Joanna bend over—bend way over—to refill his goblet. She started to back away, but he stopped her, capturing her wrist in his hand and spinning her back toward him. She almost ended up in his lap. Then, he whispered something in her ear that caused her to giggle like a lass of six and ten rather than a woman at least twice that old.

Well, maybe not twice, Helen conceded. But she was definitely far too old to be giggling.

Helen had never noticed how beautiful the other woman was, with her long, dark hair and bold features. Muriel had never liked her, though Helen wondered now whether it might have had something to do with her brother. Joanna had been linked to Will a number of years ago.