She tried to catch her breath, taking in great gulps of air, but her lungs were too busy heaving. Good God, they’d been climbing for only a short while, and she felt as if she’d just run for miles! She looked at Magnus in disbelief. He wasn’t breathing hard at all. What was wrong with him?
But as exhausted as she was, the king looked far worse—despite the fact that Magnus had borne much of his weight, half-carrying him against his side over the rough, rocky terrain.
It was no more than an hour since they’d crossed the river and journeyed into the forbidding mountains. It had taken Magnus only minutes to pick out a virtually invisible path of rocks through the rushing waters.
Beinn Dearg, Gaelic for red mountain (if the color of the rock was the basis of the name, she thought pink was more accurate), was the highest of a series of four peaks around an impressive array of corries, gorges, and lochans. Or so she would take Magnus’s word for it. Right now, the beauty of the scenery was bathed in fear and danger—not to mention an ever-darkening layer of clouds and winds. The higher they climbed, the darker and colder it seemed to become. Magnus said it wasn’t unusual to see patches of snow up here in midsummer. She didn’t doubt him. She was grateful for the extra plaid, but the wind cut through the layers of wool as if it were the sheerest silk.
After he finished filling the skins, he handed one to the king and the other to her. “Drink.”
She shook her head, ignoring the loose strands of hair that blew across her face like shredded red ribbons. She’d given up attempting to contain them. The wind was blowing too hard. The moment she tucked them back, they just came loose again. “I’m not thirsty.”
“That’s why you need to drink. One of the biggest dangers in these mountains is not drinking enough.”
Realizing she was well beyond her area of expertise, she took his advice. Fortunately, Magnus also had some beef and oatcakes with him. She hadn’t eaten anything since last night, and she attacked those with more enthusiasm than the bland food deserved. The king took a few bites and pushed it away. Her brow furrowed with concern. The lack of appetite was not a good sign.
She could see Magnus scanning the countryside behind them and felt her pulse give an anxious start. “Have we lost them?”
He shrugged noncommittally. “If not, we’ve slowed them down. It will take some time to cross the river, and their horses won’t be much use in the mountains. They’ll have to leave them behind.”
“Don’t worry, Lady Helen,” the king interjected wearily from his seat on a boulder where Magnus had set him. “We’ve the best guide around. No one knows these mountains like MacKay. They’ll not catch him.”
Helen did not doubt Magnus’s abilities; it was hers and the king’s she was worried about. They were slowing him down. She’d loved scampering across the countryside in her youth, but these mountains were a different beast altogether.
She frowned, seeing fresh blood trickling down the king’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me it started bleeding again?”
Bruce reached up, feeling around his forehead. “Did it? I didn’t realize.”
Helen looked at Magnus. “We need to do something.”
She didn’t need to say the rest. The king was already weak from the loss of blood. The fact that he’d managed this far—even with Magnus’s help—without passing out was quite a feat.
“We can’t light a fire until I’m sure they’re not following us.” He stopped. “Damn, I should have thought of it before.”
“What?”
He reached into his sporran and pulled out a cloth. Unwrapping it, he revealed twigs with leaves wrapped around the ends. “Pine sap,” he said, unwrapping some of the leaves from around the twigs to reveal the yellowish, viscous material. “This is still fresh, but when it hardens I use it to help a fire catch in the damp. It makes a good glue if you mix it with ash and can also be used to seal wounds.”
“It’s perfect,” she said, taking the clean ends of one of the twigs. “I’ve had this on my hands enough times to know how sticky it can be.”
He quirked a brow, and she dimpled mischievously, knowing he was remembering all those trees in which she’d hid.
Their eyes held and emotion swelled in her chest. She felt it again. The same certainty she’d felt when she’d looked into his eyes this morning after he’d dispensed with the second attacker.He loves me.
She’d done it. Somehow she’d broken through his resistance.
If every bone in her body didn’t ache with exhaustion, if there weren’t three murderous scourges chasing after them, if the King of Scotland wasn’t about to keel over from an axe wound to his head, she could have enjoyed being with him like this.
There was no man she would rather have by her side in these circumstances. Not just because of her feelings for him, but because he always seemed to know what to do. Helen knew how precarious their situation was, but with Magnus by her side it didn’t feel that way. He seemed to have been built for these surroundings. Rugged, tough, resourceful, and honed to the peak of physical endurance, he was made to survive whatever nature threw at him. He would get them through this.
Carefully, she unbound the strips of linen from the king’s head. With as many wounds as she’d seen, she’d thought her stomach had become impervious. But it rolled when she saw the deep gash in the daylight for the first time. She caught a glimpse of white at his brow that she knew was bone. No wonder it was still oozing blood.
While Magnus held the two edges of the cut together, she rolled the sap end of the twig down the gaping wound. Before unwrapping the leaves, he warmed the next one in his hands for a few minutes, and it went on even easier. She was about to bind it with another piece of cloth, but he stopped her.
“You won’t be able to get it off. The sap should do the trick on its own.”
He was right. After a few minutes, it became clear that the blood could not permeate the thick sap. It looked a sight, but it was working.
The king, however, looked as if he’d reached the end of his rope.
