The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(60)

She was even more convinced that there was something between her brother and Muriel after Donald had returned with the news that he’d found Muriel, but upon hearing that the king was no longer in danger, she’d declined to return; if Will needed her he could come and ask himself. Will had flown into a rage, cursing her and calling her ungrateful, his anger far too disproportionate to the offense.

But her brother’s problem was not what concerned her now. Watching Magnus, Helen felt as if acid were eating her up inside. She reached for her goblet, lifted it to her mouth, and drained the contents in a desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of control. She needed something to shore up her crumbling defenses. Something to heat the blood in her icy veins. Something to stop her from running over there and demanding to know why he was doing this. It was just like the wedding …

It’s nothing, she told herself. A little harmless flirting.

But it wasn’t harmless at all. It hurt.

Helen gasped, her body buckling as if she’d just taken a fist to the gut, when Magnus slid his hand from the woman’s wrist to her waist, and then to her bottom. His fingers spread wide to cup her curvaceous backside. He let it sit there. Possessively. Intimately. The soft caress a promise, a hint of what was to come.

Helen might have rushed over there right then had the king not stopped her.

“ ’Tis a fine feast, Lady Helen. I fear my men and I will be leaving your larder bare.”

Helen forced herself to attend the king, realizing she’d been neglecting her hostess duties for most of the meal.

Had he noticed?

If he had, he was good enough not to show it.

She tried to smile, but the reminder that the king’s party was leaving in a matter of days sent another surge of panic through her chest. “You are welcome to stay as long as you like, Sire. Our larder is well stocked and ready for many more feasts. Are you sure it is wise to leave so soon?”

The Bruce waved at the wine attendant to refill his goblet, and then motioned to hers to do the same. After handing her the wine, he leaned back in his chair. “We’ve been here nearly a month. I’ve many stops to make before the Games next month.” He smiled. “I thought you pronounced me healed?”

She frowned. “I said you appeared in good health. But that does not mean—”

He stopped her with a wave of his hand and a laugh. “I heard your instructions the first time or two.”

Helen quirked a brow and glanced to his plate. “Yet I do not see any of the kale I asked the cook to prepare on your trencher.”

The king made a face. “There are certain things I will not eat even for the sake of health. I did have your beets.”

Helen lifted her brow again.

He laughed. “Well, a bite of them anyway. They taste like dirt no matter how much sauce you put on them.”

Helen shook her head. The king could be as obstinate as a five-year-old when it came to eating something he didn’t like.

“What am I going to do when you are not there to watch over me?” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

“I suspect eat far fewer vegetables,” Helen replied dryly.

The king was still laughing when her brother Will drew him back into conversation.

Helen took another fortifying gulp of wine—savoring the feeling of warmth from the flush it induced—before chancing another glance at Magnus.

To her relief, the serving woman had moved off, and he was laughing with MacGregor and some of the other men. He looked relaxed, she realized. Happier and more at ease than she’d seen him in years. What had wrought this change in him? Was it the drink? The ale was certainly flowing freely at that corner of the table.

Too freely. The ever-efficient Joanna was making her rounds again with the jug and headed in his direction. The smile of anticipation on her face turned Helen’s chest inside out. She felt exposed—vulnerable—knowing that whatever happened next, it would hurt.

It did.

Joanna brushed against him as she leaned over to fill his cup. Her generous br**sts dangled before him like two ripe melons, waiting to be picked. The invitation couldn’t be much clearer.

Helen held her breath. Tell her no. Please, tell her no.

Magnus leaned over to whisper something in her ear. Something that caused Joanna to nod excitedly.

A knife twisted in Helen’s chest. His answer was clear, and it wasn’t no.

Don’t do this.

But her silent pleas had no effect. A few moments later, Magnus took another long drink of ale, slammed his cup down, and pushed back from the table. He stood, said something to his companions that caused them to laugh, and then made his way out of the Hall, his destination—or assignation—clear.

Every step he took landed on her heart, a heavy footfall that ground her hope into the dirt.

Why was he doing this? Was he trying to prove to her how little she meant to him? Was he trying to discourage her? Had she pushed him too hard?

Helen didn’t know. She just knew that she couldn’t let him do this. She wasn’t naive enough to think there hadn’t been other women in his past. But this wasn’t the past, this was now. She had to stop him before he did something …

Something that would break her heart for good.

She waited as long as she dared. But when she saw Joanna leave the Hall, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer.

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