The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(9)

MacRuairi lifted a wry brow. “That’s because I don’t want you grabbing a sword to join them.”

She reached over to give the infamous mercenary a gentle pat on the arm as if soothing a naughty child. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t have a sword.” She winked up at Magnus and whispered. “I have a bow.”

“I heard that,” MacRuairi snapped.

Magnus smiled, grateful for the distraction. But it was only temporary. He was acutely aware of the two people walking arm-in-arm down the long aisle to the dais.

Bread. Chew. Cheese. Chew. Smile at William. Laugh politely at the king’s joke. Don’t look across the room.

Helen sat at the dais between her betrothed and the King of Scotland and tried to go through the motions of normality. Tried to quell the firestorm of emotions reverberating inside her. Tried to breathe.

But she felt as if she’d taken a blow to the chest and nothing would put air back into her lungs. Magnus. Here. On her wedding day.

Dear God.

The shock of seeing him after so long had been like an explosion, shattering the very foundations of her carefully constructed façade. Just when she’d reconciled herself to this marriage, just when she’d convinced herself that she could go through with it, just when she’d given up hope that she would ever see him again, he appeared and blew it all apart.

For a moment she thought he was there to put a stop to the wedding. “Silly lass,” she could almost hear her father say. Magnus was no more likely to fall to his knees and beg her to come with him now than when she’d wished him to do so all those years ago. Proud Highland warriors didn’t beg.

And he was certainly that. Big. Hard. Every inch the powerful warrior. He was six and twenty now, she realized with a pang of longing at the differences forged by time. In the prime of his manhood, and it showed. There was no hint of boyishness left in his handsome face; it was all rugged, dangerous warrior. His features had hardened, his hair was darker and shorter, his skin had tanned from hours in the sun, and the wide mouth that had often been pulled in a grin fell in a flat line.

All those confusing, unsettling feelings came rushing back to her in a hot wave.

“Would you care for more cheese, Lady Helen?”

She startled at the question. Cheese? At a time like this? “No, thank you,” she managed with a small smile.

William grinned back at her, completely unaware of the calamity swirling around him.

What was she going to do? In a few hours she was to be married.

It was the day she’d dreaded from the moment her father had announced her betrothal. She had known William Gordon only through the recollections of her brother Kenneth. The two had been fostered together under the Earl of Ross and had been like brothers. Indeed, Kenneth was closer to William Gordon than he was to their own brother of the same name.

She’d protested the alliance to no avail. Her father was determined that she would marry. But then war had come, and miraculously she’d been granted a reprieve. Her betrothed had split from his family—and hers—to take up the sword for Robert Bruce. Her brother Kenneth had convinced her father not to break the betrothal, and indeed it had worked to their advantage. Her father had an ally in the Bruce camp should the war go against them, and she had the ideal situation of a fiancé without the prospect of a wedding.

For a while she’d convinced herself the wedding might never take place. But with Bruce’s victory and her family’s submission, it could no longer be delayed.

She’d thought she could go through with it. William was every bit as wonderful as her brother had promised. Charming, lighthearted, gallant, and certainly pleasant enough to look upon. But seeing Magnus …

His presence had to mean something. God could not be that cruel. He could not intend her to marry another, while the man she loved looked on?

Somehow she made it through the meal, escaping to the sanctuary of the room that had been set aside for her in the donjon tower as soon as she could.

Unfortunately, she was not alone. Since she’d arrived at Dunstaffnage the week before, she’d been welcomed with open arms by Lady Anna Campbell, the lady of the castle, and her friends, Christina MacLeod, Ellie MacSorley (formerly a de Burgh—making her sister to Bruce’s queen and daughter to the English loyal Earl of Ulster), and most surprisingly, Lady Isabella MacDuff (soon to be MacRuairi), the famous patriot who was supposed to be imprisoned still in an English convent. The ladies had taken one look at the motherless, sisterless girl and had tucked her under their very large collective wing.

Helen wasn’t used to female companionship. Except for Muriel, there were few women of her age at Dunrobin Castle. But even when the opportunity did arise—such as when visitors arrived or when they traveled for the Games—her interactions with other ladies were awkward and uncomfortable. She usually ended up saying or doing the wrong thing, and never seemed to share their interests. Her gaffes did not seem quite as bad with these women. And it was nice to not hear whispers every time she walked in the room.

There was an unusually strong camaraderie among the women that she didn’t quite understand, but couldn’t help admiring—and perhaps envy a little. Usually, she didn’t mind their company, but today their pleasant laughter and conversation prevented her from doing what she needed to do.

She had to see him. This was her chance to correct the biggest mistake she’d ever made in her life.