The Saint by Monica Mccarty Read Free Book Online Page B

narrow bridge of land that joined the castle to the mainland and started down the path on her right. The castle was one of the most dramatically situated that she’d ever seen. Perched on a small piece of land, surrounded by magnificent sheer cliffs that rose out of the sea over 150 feet, it was virtually impenetrable. Descending the cliffs even along the walking path was treacherous, as she discovered. More than once her foot slipped out from under her on the slippery rocks. She glanced down after one of these near mishaps and caught sight of something below.
    A young lad knelt on the beach with a big pile of furcradled in his lap. A dog, she realized, and she could tell by their position that something was wrong.
    Her pulse jumped. The dog must have slid off the cliff. Helen loved animals and her heart squeezed with trepidation. She hoped the poor thing wasn’t hurt too badly and hurried her step to see if there was something she could do.
    The lad—who was actually older than she’d initially thought, probably close to her brother Kenneth’s age of nine and ten—was facing in her direction but had yet to notice her. She was just thinking that she hadn’t seen him before—he was handsome enough to remember—when she saw a silvery flash above his head. Nay, not silver. The steel from a blade. Oh God, he was going to …
    “Nooooo!” she shouted, racing toward him.
    He glanced up, the dirk high in his hand, and the look of raw anguish on his face cut her to the quick. But by time she’d closed the remaining distance between them, the emotion was gone, hidden by a mask of control, but for the slight twitch below his eye. It was as if the sheer force of emotion he was trying to contain had found one small crack through which to escape.
    Her heart melted. The small vulnerability at an age when it seemed so important for men not to have any—let alone show any—touched her. Why being a man meant you couldn’t have any emotion, she didn’t know. But toughness seemed to be some prerequisite to Highland warriorhood. And from his size, breadth of shoulder, and clothing, she could tell he was a warrior.
    She came to a sudden stop before him and was relieved to see his hand come down.
    “You shouldn’t be down here, lass. The path is dangerous.”
    He spoke kindly, which, especially given the circumstances, impressed her. If she needed any proof of his words, all she had to do was look at the poor animal inhis lap whose soft, whinging cries tore at every string in her heart.
    She knelt down beside him, her eyes falling to the dog. It was a deerhound, and from the looks of him, one who’d been loved for many years. He had a large cut on his side, but it was his right rear leg that had provoked the dirk. It was bent at a hideous angle, the bone poking through the black and gray fur. A large pool of blood had gathered in the sand around it. But blood had never bothered her.
    She wanted to reach out and pet its head, but she knew better than to touch an animal in pain. Unlike the lad before her, it would lash out.
    “He fell?” she asked, gazing up at the young warrior.
    He nodded. “Go now, lass. There’s no help for him. He’s in pain, and you …” His voice caught. “You shouldn’t see this.”
    “You care for him?”
    He nodded again, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. After a long pause, he said, “I’ve had him since I was seven. My father gave him to me when I was sent away to foster.”
    The dog made another pained sound, and he flinched. She could see the fingers around his dirk tighten. She reached out, putting her hand on his wrist as if to stop him. But the solid muscle under her palm told her she would have little chance of that. “Please, I think I can help.”
    He shook his head. “Tail is beyond help.” Tail? What an odd name for a dog! “It’s too badly broken, lass. There’s nothing to be done but put him out of his misery.”
    But what about yours?
Helen wanted to ask. “Will