Even if he could forget, he wouldn’t put her in danger. Her brother was doing that enough on his own. Sutherland had reminded him of how much was at risk. He wouldn’t add to that risk by linking her to another member of the Highland Guard.
For more reasons than one, Helen was lost to him forever.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Thirteen
What is he doing?
Helen sat at the dais with her heart squeezed in a vise of hurt and jealousy, unable to believe what she was seeing. The little tugs in her chest that had started at the beginning of the evening meal when she’d seen Magnus smile at the serving maid—Joanna, the daughter of the alewife, who had a reputation for being free with her favors—had sharpened as the meal drew on, and the signs of what he was doing became more blatant.
He was flirting. Showing Joanna that he wanted her in ways of which Helen had only dreamed.
Unable to turn away, Helen saw Joanna bend over—bendwayover—to refill his goblet. She started to back away, but he stopped her, capturing her wrist in his hand and spinning her back toward him. She almost ended up in his lap. Then, he whispered something in her ear that caused her to giggle like a lass of six and ten rather than a woman at least twice that old.
Well, maybe not twice, Helen conceded. But she was definitely far too old to be giggling.
Helen had never noticed how beautiful the other woman was, with her long, dark hair and bold features. Muriel had never liked her, though Helen wondered now whether it might have had something to do with her brother. Joanna had been linked to Will a number of years ago.
She was even more convinced that there was something between her brother and Muriel after Donald had returned with the news that he’d found Muriel, but upon hearing that the king was no longer in danger, she’d declined to return; if Will needed her he could come and ask himself. Will had flown into a rage, cursing her and calling her ungrateful, his anger far too disproportionate to the offense.
But her brother’s problem was not what concerned her now. Watching Magnus, Helen felt as if acid were eating her up inside. She reached for her goblet, lifted it to her mouth, and drained the contents in a desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of control. She needed something to shore up her crumbling defenses. Something to heat the blood in her icy veins. Something to stop her from running over there and demanding to know why he was doing this. It was just like the wedding…
It’s nothing, she told herself.A little harmless flirting.
But it wasn’t harmless at all. It hurt.
Helen gasped, her body buckling as if she’d just taken a fist to the gut, when Magnus slid his hand from the woman’s wrist to her waist, and then to her bottom. His fingers spread wide to cup her curvaceous backside. He let it sit there. Possessively. Intimately. The soft caress a promise, a hint of what was to come.
Helen might have rushed over there right then had the king not stopped her.
“’Tis a fine feast, Lady Helen. I fear my men and I will be leaving your larder bare.”
Helen forced herself to attend the king, realizing she’d been neglecting her hostess duties for most of the meal.
Had he noticed?
If he had, he was good enough not to show it.
She tried to smile, but the reminder that the king’s party was leaving in a matter of days sent another surge of panic through her chest. “You are welcome to stay as long as you like, Sire. Our larder is well stocked and ready for many more feasts. Are you sure it is wise to leave so soon?”
The Bruce waved at the wine attendant to refill his goblet, and then motioned to hers to do the same. After handing her the wine, he leaned back in his chair. “We’ve been here nearly a month. I’ve many stops to make before the Games next month.” He smiled. “I thought you pronounced me healed?”
She frowned. “I said you appeared in good health. But that does not mean—”
He stopped her with a wave of his hand and a laugh. “I heard your instructions the first time or two.”
Helen quirked a brow and glanced to his plate. “Yet I do not see any of the kale I asked the cook to prepare on your trencher.”
The king made a face. “There are certain things I will not eat even for the sake of health. I did have your beets.”
Helen lifted her brow again.
He laughed. “Well, a bite of them anyway. They taste like dirt no matter how much sauce you put on them.”
Helen shook her head. The king could be as obstinate as a five-year-old when it came to eating something he didn’t like.
“What am I going to do when you are not there to watch over me?” he said with an exaggerated sigh.
