The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(98)

“Perhaps if you tie the cloth tighter?”

She was just about to unknot the piece of linen when she heard a sound in the distance.

A voice? A footstep?

The king had heard it, too. Without another word, they ran, having no choice but to flee higher into the impenetrable mountains. Magnus’s warning came back to her. She knew how dangerous it was to attempt to navigate the treacherous terrain, especially in the darkness.

But it soon became clear that they would not make it very far up the steep mountains. Nor were they going to be able to outrun their attackers. The king was losing strength. He started to stumble, obviously fighting the dizziness from the prodigious amounts of blood he was losing from his head.

The blood! she realized. That must be how they were being followed.

“Wait,” she said, forcing the king to come to a stop. “I have an idea.”

Not bothering with the scissors this time, she tore another large section of linen from her chemise. The wool of her skirts was now touching her thighs. She quickly made a pad and carefully exchanged it for the sodden one.

They were fortunate that the heather and boggy grasses of the ground near the loch had given way gradually to a rockier terrain as they climbed the hill. But what she wouldn’t give for a forest or a …

She peered down into the darkness, hearing the unmistakable flow of water over rocks. A burn!

Explaining what she intended to do, the king waited while she very carefully climbed higher on the hill, squeezing drops of blood from the cloth as she went. She went as far she dared—hopefully near enough to the summit—and then turned back, taking care not to leave any footprints, though she doubted it was possible to see them in the darkness.

After she collected the king, they headed in the opposite direction toward the water, using rocks whenever they could to step upon. It was slow going, but eventually they hit the river. From there they moved faster, following the rocky bank until she found what she was looking for: a large gap between the rocks. It wasn’t big enough to fully hide in, but at least they would have some shelter, while she tended the weakened king and they waited for daylight and—she prayed—help.

Magnus lost the trail just before dawn.

After sorting through the varying accounts of what had happened from Helen’s attendants and the others who’d hidden in the forest, he hadn’t wasted any time and had set out after them.

According to the women, only one of the attackers had followed Helen and the king. Knowing he would be faster on his own, and with few men to spare (MacGregor had most of their best men hunting down the other attackers), Magnus left Sir Neil to attend to the survivors, sent one of the remaining knights west, another east, and took to the north in the direction the tracks seemed to lead.

What a mess! At least a score of men dead, the rest scattered; the king was badly—perhaps gravely—injured, and Helen …

Somewhere out there in the dark, dangerous countryside, Helen was trying to keep them both alive. But how long would she be able to elude their pursuers? And just who in the hell were they? Brigands? Mercenaries? If they were, they were some of the best he’d ever come across.

The attack had been well planned, well executed, and very nearly disastrous. His heart twisted. He just hoped to hell he could find them in time.

He wouldn’t consider the alternative. He was supposed to keep them safe, damn it.

He forced himself to focus on the task at hand, knowing he’d lose his mind if he thought of all the things that could go wrong. Not just if their pursuer caught up with them, but also what might happen in the merciless, unforgiving terrain of these hills and mountains. One misstep …

Don’t think about it. He couldn’t lose her. Not again.

He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, but with little moonlight piercing the mist it was difficult to follow the tracks. He wished Hunter were here. Ewen Lamont could follow a ghost in a snowstorm. A torch would have helped, but Magnus couldn’t risk giving away his position.

About a half-mile from camp, he saw the first drop of blood. If the women’s accounts of what had happened were correct, he suspected it was Bruce’s. An axe in the head? Bloody hell.

Magnus quickened his pace, the trail becoming much easier to follow. Too easy. Dread twisted in his gut as the sporadic drops became long streaks. Whatever Helen had done to tend the wound, it hadn’t held. Worse, he knew that if he could follow the path, so could someone else.

The first gasp of dawn appeared over the eastern horizon when the trail of blood came to an abrupt end near the ridge of Meall Leacachain.

His heart dropped like a stone. The hill fell off steeply on the far side, and in the dark it would be easy to slide off the rocky ridge …

He held his breath as he glanced over the ridge. He scanned the ground below still cast in the shadowy darkness of early morning, and slowly exhaled when he didn’t see anything other than rocks littering the corrie below.

But his relief was short-lived. Where the hell were they?

He looked around, willing them to materialize from out of the vast wilderness around him. He was surrounded by mountains, the largest of which, Beinn Dearg, loomed forbiddingly to the north ahead of him. Below, a river cut through the narrow gorge, and to his right behind him he could just make out the forest and the loch where he’d left the rest of the royal party.

Damn it, where could they have gone?

Suddenly a harrowing sound pierced the morning air. His blood went cold, recognizing the clash of steel. It was coming from the corrie below.