The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(76)

Nay, “alive” wasn’t exactly right. Perhaps “thriving” was the better word. It was the same way Hawk looked when he was holding the ropes of his sail: at home and in control. As if this was exactly where she was supposed to be. Clearly it made her happy, and just as clearly he liked seeing her happy.

Magnus didn’t need to turn his head and look through the postern gate down the ravine to the river to catch a glimpse of auburn blazing in the sunlight to answer the lad’s question. He’d seated himself on this bale of hay by the practice yard for a reason. For the better part of the three weeks since word of Gordon’s body being discovered had arrived at Dunrobin (and the day after he’d nearly taken her in the alehouse), he was painfully aware of exactly where “the lady” was.

The role of vigilant protector had taken its toll, eroding the barrier he’d erected between them like waves on a wall of sand. Every time her eyes lit up when she saw him, every time her hand fell on his arm as if it belonged there, every time she asked him for help added to his torment. He knew his feelings were wrong, but he couldn’t stop them.

He should be glad that they would be beginning the final stage of their journey through the mountains tomorrow. In a handful of days they would be at MacAulay’s castle of Dun Lagaidh on the northern banks of Loch Broom. From there they would board a birlinn for the quick sail to the final stop of Dunstaffnage for the Highland Games. His guard duty to the king on his royal progress would be over.

But what about Helen? When would his duty to her end?

Damn you, Gordon. Do you know what you’ve done to me?

He shook off the memory. “She’s down by the river, teaching some of the lasses how to fish.”

The lad looked as if Magnus had just told him the world was round. “Lasses can’t fish! They talk too much.”

Magnus bit back a laugh. Helen had always been a horrible fisherman, but he didn’t think she’d ever noticed. And it hadn’t stopped her from offering to cure a few of the younger girls’ boredom on a hot, sunny summer day. From what he’d seen earlier, Macraith’s daughter was faring much better. Not coincidentally, she was as shy as a mouse and hardly said a word.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

The lad stopped frowning, remembering why he was there. “Malcolm’s hand slipped while he was sharpening the laird’s blade and he’s bleedin’ real bad.”

Malcolm had to be one of Macraith’s other foster sons. “You’d better hurry then, lad. The lady will see to it.”

A few minutes later, he saw Helen come rushing through the gate alongside the boy. She had her battle face on and was so focused on the task ahead, she passed right by without noticing him before disappearing into the armory.

Over the hour or so it took to treat the boy, a succession of people ran in and out of the small building, fetching cloth, water, various jars of her different ointments and medicines, and the special bag he’d had the tanner make for her to hold the various tools she’d collected (more than half of which had been “borrowed” from him).

The look on her face when he’d presented it to her …

Damn it, don’t think about it. But his chest squeezed nonetheless.

He’d just finished the final touches on his latest project when he heard the door open. A few moments later, a shadow crossed in front of him.

“Have you been sitting here the whole time?”

He steeled himself and looked up. It didn’t help. He was hit with a wave of longing so hard it stole his breath.

Would it be so wrong? He knew the answer, but by all that was holy, he was tempted.

“Aye. How’s young Malcolm?”

Her brows drew together, concerned. “I’m not sure. ’Twas a deep cut, which nearly took off his right thumb and didn’t seem to want to stop bleeding.”

“He’s a tough lad. I didn’t hear him cry out when you set the hot iron upon it.”

She squeezed down on the bale to sit beside him. The feel of her pressed up against him sent every nerve-ending on edge. His heart hammered. He tried not to breathe, but her soft, feminine scent permeated his skin, infusing him with the intoxicating aroma that he thought was lavender.

She bit her lip, and he had to turn away. But the sharp tug in his groin lingered. He ached for her. Touching her had been a mistake. He’d tasted her passion, felt her body move against his, heard her moan, and now it was all he could think of.

“I didn’t burn the wound closed.”

“Why not?” It was the preferred method of sealing a wound.

“He asked me if the scar would interfere with his ability to hold a sword, and I said it might. Sewing the wound leaves a thinner scar.”

“But is more likely to lead to infection.”

She nodded. “Aye. He chose to chance the greater risk.”

Magnus understood. Malcolm was training to be a warrior. Not being able to hold his sword properly would be like a death knell to a young lad.

He gave her a sidelong look. “So I take it you have enough to keep you busy?”

Their eyes met. A flicker of understanding passed between them. She smiled almost shyly at the reminder of their conversation. “Aye, thank you.”

At first the conversation on the ramparts at Dingwall had unsettled him. It was strange to realize he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought. She’d always been so naturally at ease with him, he’d never realized it wasn’t that way with everyone. Nor had he realized how anxious she’d been about assuming her role as lady of the keep. But the more he thought about it, the more he understood. She had a skill, and she wanted to put it to use. She liked the challenge and excitement just as much as he did.