The intensity of her words made Helen wonder how much of the truth her friend had guessed.
A wry smile curved her lips. “You do realize what you are advocating is tantamount to heresy. As a woman—a noblewoman in particular—I have no path other than that which is chosen for me. Duty has very little concern for my happiness.”
“But you don’t really believe in that, do you?”
Helen shook her head. Perhaps that was her tragedy. She sought a life of happiness in a world that did not value such emotion.
“I almost forgot.” Muriel crossed the short distance from the bed to the kitchen. The stone cottage was warm and cozy, but small—perhaps ten feet by twenty. The bed was built into the far wall. In the middle there was a table, bench, and chair set out before the brazier. At the other end was the small kitchen. Muriel reached up on one of the open shelves and pulled down a small pot. “Take this,” she said.
Helen pulled off the lid and sniffed, smelling the strong scent of camphor. Though it was usually used for sweets, Muriel’s father had learned from an old crusader that the Infidels used it to relieve aches. “A muscle salve?”
Muriel nodded. “It might help. MacGregor mentioned that MacKay’s arm was still giving him some pain. I was going to bring it to him, but I thought perhaps you would like to instead?”
Helen stared at her, knowing Muriel had guessed quite a lot. Including how desperately she’d been trying to find a way to see him. “What if he doesn’t want it?”
What if he doesn’t wantme?
Muriel gave her a solemn look. “Then you’ll have to convince him he does.”
Helen nodded. If only it were so simple.
After two long days of being locked in a room with three men it had been Magnus’s duty to despise since the day he was born—who made that duty bloody easy on him—it felt damned good to be outside with a sword in his hands again.
Two days of listening to the earl find countless ways to avoid committing to an alliance by diversion, excuse, or condition, of enduring the endless questions by the surprisingly tenacious Kenneth Sutherland about the circumstances of Gordon’s death, and of pretending he didn’t hear Munro’s barely concealed slurs had taken its toll. Magnus was ready to take off someone’s head. As the truce made that impossible, he settled for a good, hard sword practice in the yard.
With MacGregor standing watch by the king, who had uncharacteristically retired to his chamber to rest rather than join Sir William and his men falconing, it was left to Sir Neil Campbell—Ranger’s eldest brother—to help Magnus get the lead out of his muscles and exorcise the demons from his blood.
Exorcising one particular demon had proved harder than he’d anticipated. Being near Helen, seeing her every day, even if only from across the dais, stirred painful memories, reminding him of feelings he wanted to forget and proving far more of a temptation than it should.
He’d loved her once with his entire soul. Though that love had been crushed, vestiges of it still remained. A laugh would remind him of an afternoon spent sitting in the grass, watching as she plucked flowers for a chain—he could almost feel the warmth of her hair on his shoulder; a mischievous smile would remind him of how she’d used to try to hide from him, making it a game to find her; an absent tuck of an errant strand of hair behind her ear would remind him of the day she’d showed up with her hair chopped around her face so it wouldn’t get in her eyes.
Style and fashion were irrelevant when it came to practicalities. If her skirts dragged in the mud or got in the way of her climbing, she tied them up without thought or artifice. How could he not have been enchanted?
There had been only a dozen or so meetings between them, but every minute had been firmly imprinted on his mind. No matter how many times he told himself she’d changed, that even if he thought he’d known the girl he did not know the woman, he couldn’t force himself to believe it. The things he’d fallen in love with—her openness, her verve for life and thirst for happiness, her strength and passion—were still there.
But she was no longer his to love.
He drove the venerable knight back in a relentless attack, putting all his anger and frustration behind every swing of the sword.
Though Sir Neil was one of Bruce’s greatest knights, he had trouble keeping up with Magnus today.
When one particularly violent swing landed a little too firmly, the other man put down his sword. “Damn, MacKay. Take it easy. I’m on your side.”
Magnus lowered his sword, the heaviness of his breath and pain in his shoulder telling him exactly how hard he’d been going.
God’s bones, it felt good!
He smiled. “All this peace has made you soft, old man. Perhaps I can find a nice Englishman for you to practice with?”
“Bloody hell, I’ll show you soft.” The knight attacked, coming damn close to taking Magnus’s mind off his problems.
Until the source of those problems appeared out of the corner of his eye, distracting him just enough to suffer a blow to his arm—his bad arm.
He swore as the flat of the steel landed with full force on his exposed shoulder, causing his sword to fall from his hand.
Campbell looked stunned. It wasn’t often Magnus gave an opponent an opening like that, and to be the recipient of such a lapse surprised him. “Christ! Sorry about that. Did I hurt your shoulder?”
As Magnus was grabbing the offending shoulder he could hardly deny it. “Just give me a moment,” he said, furious at himself.
