The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(99)

Knowing he would never make it in time if he followed the path, which wound back down the hill, he took one look over the steep, rocky ridge and realized it was the only way.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped over the edge and drew on every one of his climbing skills. He was going to need them. One slip and they’d all be dead.

Helen knew they couldn’t stay here. As the black of the midnight sky began to lighten on the slow creep toward dawn, it became apparent that the gap in the rocks would not hide them for long. Situated as they were in the gorge between the mountains, in the daylight they would be visible from above.

She needed to find a better shelter, a place where she could do something to tend to the king’s wound. It seemed to have stopped bleeding for now, but he’d lost too much blood, and each time he woke it was for shorter periods. His skin was pale and cool to the touch, which could be attributed to the cold night air, but she feared differently. Head injuries were always dangerous, but it was the unseen damage that was often the most deadly.

About an hour before dawn, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Cramped as they were between the rocks, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried when her movement did not wake the king.

Carefully, she climbed out from between the rocks and peered over the edge of the riverbank. The foggy mist had not completely cleared but had thinned enough for her to make out her general surroundings.

Mountains. Lots of them. With plenty of heather, crags, and intimidating rocky cliffsides, but unfortunately bereft of trees or other obvious hiding places. The river stretched as far as she could see in both directions, with no bridge or natural crossing point. But to the southeast, back in the direction from which they’d come, she could see the river widen into what looked like a small lochan. With any luck, they might find a nice thick copse of trees nearby to take cover in.

It was the only option she had. She wasn’t fool enough to attempt to climb those mountains in the hopes of finding a cave, not with the ailing king and not with Magnus’s warning ringing in her ears.

Magnus. Dear God, where is he?

She was cold and scared, more than intimidated by their bleak, unfriendly surroundings, and overwhelmed by the responsibility of keeping them both alive. What she wouldn’t do for his rocklike, solid presence right now.

But it was up to her. She’d gotten them this far. All she had to do was find them someplace safe, and Magnus would find them. He had to.

With the cover of night quickly slipping away, Helen woke the king. “Sire.” She shook him gently, and then harder when he stirred groggily. “Sire.”

He opened his eyes, but it took him a few moments to focus. “Lady Helen.” He brought his hand to his head. “By the rood, my head hurts!”

She smiled encouragingly. “Aye, I suspect it does. I’m sorry, but we can’t stay here. If someone is looking for us, they will see us as soon as the sun comes up.”

He started to nod but stopped with a pained wince. It took some effort to help extricate him from the rocks. His movements were sluggish and unsteady. But Robert the Bruce was a fighter, and once again he proved his mettle. By sheer force of will and determination, he stood and readied his sword in his hand.

She was glad of the dark plaids they both wore around their shoulders, not simply for warmth on the cold, damp morning—the higher they walked the more it felt like December rather than late July—but also to hide the king’s mail.

But they’d gone no more than a few hundred feet when the king stopped her.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He motioned toward the mountains, instinctively herding her behind his back. “I saw something move. There. On the hillside behind the rocks.”

The next moment Helen saw it, too, when two men stood from a crouched position behind a pile of stones.

Her breath caught. She looked frantically around for someplace to run, but it was too late. They’d been seen.

The two warriors with their ghastly helm-covered visages started toward them. They looked like two fearsome war machines ready to cut down anything in their path.

But Robert Bruce hadn’t become king by sitting on a throne; he’d won the position with his sword. He had no intention of giving up without a fight, and neither did she.

As the king lifted his sword to meet the onslaught of the two warriors who attacked, Helen slid her eating knife from her waist, keeping it hidden in the folds of her skirt.

The two men were so focused on the king that they didn’t pay any attention to her. The sounds were terrifying. Their blades were moving so fast. She didn’t know how the king was fending them off.

“Who are you?” Bruce asked in between blows, his breath heaving from the exertion.

The men exchanged glances from behind the slits of their helms and laughed. “The reapers,” one said, in a thick Irish accent.

They weren’t all English, she realized. As did the king.

“What do you want?” Bruce asked between another furious series of blows.

“Death,” the same man said. “What else?”

The king was weakening. Both men knew it, as did Helen. She knew she couldn’t wait much longer. But with the mail, there were few places her small knife could penetrate.

Finally, the man who remained silent gave her his back. She didn’t hesitate. Rushing forward with one target in mind, she plunged her blade deep into the leather of his chausses.