The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(89)

“Your duty is to the king; I’ll worry about my sister.”

Magnus met Sutherland’s glare, hearing the unspoken challenge: was he going to make a claim on Helen?

God, he wanted to. With every fiber of his being he wanted to. No matter how wrong. He’d been moments away from having no choice. He thought of what had happened. How she’d fallen apart in his arms. How ready she’d been for him. Her responses had been so honest. So sweet and innocent—nay, inexperienced. She wasn’t innocent, damn it.

His promise to Gordon to keep her safe sure as hell didn’t extend to what had happened, nor did his fear for Helen relieve him of his duty to the king. Her arse of a brother had reminded him of that and saved him from making a big mistake.

But he wished she hadn’t learned the truth. He could still see her face when he’d accidentally let slip his promise to Gordon. She looked like a little girl who’d just learned that her favorite faerie tale wasn’t real. And then when she’d tried to force a declaration from him …

He wanted to tell her both—it was love and his promise—but knew it was better if he let her walk away.

His mouth tightened, letting his anger at himself—at the bloody situation—find a worthy target: Sutherland. “I don’t need you to remind me of my duty.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Magnus wanted to tell him to go to Hades, but it would only provoke the fight that was being held back by threads, and right now his focus needed to be on finding the source of the threat.

After returning to camp to check with the sentries he’d posted that nothing was amiss, they followed the stalker paths up along the strath—the wide river valley—north to Loch Vaich. The forest in Stratvaich was known for its deer, and stalker paths crossed all over these hills.

They’d ridden no more than a few miles from camp when they came upon a fisherman readying his boat at the jetty. After exchanging greetings, Magnus said, “An early start to the day, is it?”

“Aye,” the man replied. He was young and cheerful, if humbly attired. “The darker the night, the bigger the trout.”

Magnus smiled at the familiar fisherman’s adage and explained their purpose.

The man’s cheerful expression changed. “I’m not sure if they are the men you’re looking for, but I was fishing with my laddie at the other end of the loch the day before last and saw a group of warriors in the trees along the western bank.”

A buzz ran over his skin. “How many?” The man shrugged. “Eight, maybe nine. I didn’t stay long to find out.”

“Why not?” MacGregor asked.

The man shivered. “As soon as they saw us, they donned their helms and picked up their swords. I thought they were going to jump in the water and come after us. I rowed as fast as I could in the other direction. But they frightened my laddie something fierce.” He laughed, uncomfortably. “With the blackened helms covering their faces and the black clothing, in the darkness he thought they looked like phantoms. Bruce’s phantoms, he said.” Knowing Sutherland was watching him, Magnus didn’t chance a glance at MacGregor. “But to me they just looked like brigands.”

After pinning down exactly where the fisherman had seen the warriors, Magnus thanked him, and they rode hard to the location the man had given them, not a mile up the western side of the loch.

It wasn’t difficult to find where the men had made camp.

“Whoever it was, they didn’t leave that long ago,” MacGregor said, kneeling over a pile of wood covered by dirt. “The fires are still warm.”

They searched the area, but although the brigands had made no effort to hide their presence, they hadn’t been generous enough to leave anything behind that would identify them.

“Do you think it was the same men?” Fraser asked.

Magnus nodded grimly. “The timing is too close to be coincidence.”

“Whoever it was, it looks like you ran them off,” Sutherland said, pointing to the hoof marks in the ground that led north through the forest.

He hoped so, but he didn’t like it. If they were brigands or a roaming war band, it would seem more logical for them to be camped nearer the road. And if they weren’t brigands, then who the hell were they?

Magnus and the others followed the tracks around the loch west until they met the main road to Dingwall, before finally returning to camp. Whoever the warriors were, they seemed to be long gone.

The first tentative rays of dawn were breaking through the mist on the loch and the camp already had begun to stir. They’d have maybe an hour or two to sleep before the carts would need to be packed for the day’s journey.

But sleep didn’t come to Magnus. He couldn’t shake the unease, the sense that something wasn’t right.

Hours later, as the royal party neared the far end of Loch Glascarnoch, Magnus had confirmation.

From his position scouting high on the hilltop of Beinn Liath Mhor, he caught sight of a flash of metal in the sunlight. Skillfully and stealthily, at a distance safe enough to avoid detection, they were being hunted.

Twenty

William Sutherland of Moray was one of the most powerful men in Scotland. For as long as he could remember, people had jumped to do his bidding. He was the chief, damn it. An earl. The head of one of the most ancient Mormaerdoms. A feared and formidable warrior. But he was being defied at every turn by a woman who should be insignificant to him.