The Striker (35 page)

Angered by the unmistakable hitch in his chest, his response came out harsher than he intended. “What would be the point of that? You seem to have found England much more to your liking than you ever did Kerrera.”

The slight flush to her cheeks and pursing of her mouth were the only signs that she'd heard the none-too-subtle criticism. But she'd always known how to strike back. “Aye, Sir John ensured I always felt welcome and did everything to see to my happiness. He wanted to share his life with me—
all
of it.”

The dagger slid right between his ribs and twisted. The sharpness of the pain almost made him flinch. Damn it, it shouldn't hurt so much. After all these years, nothing she could say or do should be able to get to him. “I'm sure he did.”

He tried to walk away, but she caught his arm. The shock of her touch did make him flinch this time. “I know I wasn't the kind of wife you wanted, Eoin. But if you wanted someone like Lady Barbara, why didn't you just marry her? It would have been much easier on us both.”

“Aye, it would have.”

It was the truth, although he hadn't intended to strike so hard. From the look in her eyes, there was no doubt he'd done just that.

He didn't want to do this anymore—any of it. The more they were together, the more they would hurt each other.

He looked down into the beautiful features bathed in moonlight of the woman who'd haunted his dreams for too long. “I think it will be best for us both if you and I part ways permanently when this is over.”

She drew herself up stiffly with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes scanned his face, as if looking for an opening. “If that is what you want.”

Right now what he wanted was to pull her up against him and kiss her until he could no longer feel her pounding through his blood, invading his bones, and haunting his dreams. Instead he answered with a nod and walked away.

P
ART WAYS PERMANENTLY . . .

After all this time, it shouldn't hurt so horribly. Of course he wanted nothing to do with her. But hearing him speak so unequivocally of ending their marriage—God knows how he intended to do so without making their son a bastard—hurt very horribly indeed.

Through the long, sleepless night in the cold (sleeping outside wasn't nearly as comfortable without Eoin beside her), and the even longer ride north to Scotland, Margaret asked herself how she could have thought even for a moment that Eoin would want anything more to do with her. He hated her—as she'd known he would if he lived. What had she expected? Forgiveness?

Some mistakes were unforgivable. She'd left him, told him never to come back, and betrayed his trust, leading to the deaths of so many men. Even if she'd thought she hadn't had choices, she had. Looking back, given the consequences, it might not seem as if she'd made the right decisions, but she'd done what she thought best at the time. Obviously, Eoin didn't agree, and given the consequences how could she blame him?

But as she tossed and turned on the hard ground shivering and miserable, on what was to have been her wedding night to a man she'd come to care for—a good man who'd been nothing but kind to her and her son—she found her bitterness toward Eoin growing. She might have deserved this, but Sir John didn't—and neither did Eachann. For Eoin to let her think he was dead for
six
years, mourning for him, suffering, blaming herself, raising
their
child alone, only to suddenly appear on her wedding day when she'd finally let herself try to be happy was just as unforgivable.

She could have been happy, too—or at least she would have tried, blast it. Poor Sir John. She felt horrible about how quickly she'd had to leave him. She'd barely had a chance to mumble a hasty apology before she'd hopped on the horse to try to catch up to Eoin, who was already riding away.

She would write Sir John at the earliest opportunity and tell him . . . what? That she was sorry she couldn't marry him now because the husband she'd mourned for six years, the husband who despised her, had decided to return and throw her life in disarray? Make her miserable? Divorce her?

Her chest squeezed. But even if he did dissolve their marriage, Margaret knew there was no going back to Sir John. It wouldn't be fair to him. If Eoin had truly died that horrible day, they would have had a chance. But while her husband lived . . . how could she contemplate a life with someone else?

Blast him!

Aye, it was a miserable night filled with anger, frustration, disappointment, and heartache.

She would have liked to say she found some solace when she woke and learned they were heading to Dumfries. But she suspected it wasn't Eoin trusting her as much as him reaching the same conclusion on his own.

By time they arrived late the following evening, Margaret was exhausted. She barely raised an objection when Eoin left her with the Benedictine nuns at the Abbey of Lincluden for the night, while he and the other men rode to a location he would not share with her to rendezvous with more of Bruce's men.

At the first opportunity she'd written her note to Sir John. It had been more difficult than she'd anticipated, and she'd been grateful for the solitude to try to find the words to express her regret and disappointment, yet still make it clear that their relationship must end.

But with her task complete, she'd begun to fear the solitude would be permanent, and Eoin would not return. Finally on the third morning, the prioress came to the small chamber she'd been given to announce that she had a visitor.

Eoin was waiting for her in the cloister garden. She tried to quell the sudden quickening of her pulse. Like her, he'd bathed and changed his clothes. He no longer wore the mail shirt of an English soldier, but a black leather
cotun
studded with bits of mail. His chausses were also made of the darkened leather. Illogically, he seemed even more imposing without the heavy armor.

Dear God, who was this man? Was this grim, fierce-looking fortress of war really the serious but still capable of smiling young warrior she'd married? Her husband might be alive, but he was not the man she remembered. He was a stranger, and the pain of that burned in her chest.

His gaze slid over her as she approached, and she didn't miss the slight lift of his brow at her attire. “I see you are being well tended.”

How easy it was for him to poke old wounds. “The nuns were kind enough to lend me another gown. I know you think a harlot's yellow hood is more appropriate, but I'm afraid a black habit was all they had.”

He frowned, clearly taken aback. “I never thought that.”

“Didn't you?” She laughed harshly, remembering the accusations of that night, even if he didn't want to. “I didn't bleed, don't you remember questioning whether I was a virgin? What about all those trips I took to Oban? And I tried to seduce your friend—I'm sure your sister told you all about it.”

For the first time since he'd reappeared in her life, the impenetrable facade of hatred dropped. He appeared genuinely discomfited. “I was out of my mind with jealousy that night, Margaret. I wasn't thinking rationally. All I could see was the woman who'd left me in another man's arms. I never doubted your innocence—not really. Nor did I think you were unfaithful to me. I owe you an apology. I should have believed you about Fin, I just didn't want to think my oldest friend could . . .” He drew himself up and looked her in the eye. “He admitted to kissing you in the barn. He said he was drunk and never meant to scare you. I'm sorry that happened to you. You were my wife, and I should have protected you.”

Margaret felt the heat in her throat burning in her eyes. They were the words she'd desperately wanted to hear, six years too late. She looked away. “You were gone. There was nothing you could have done.”

He took her arm and forced her to look at him. His fingers seemed to burn through the cloth to imprint on her skin. Even now, after all these years, her heart still did a tiny flip when he touched her and her skin flushed with a blast of heat.

“I could have listened to you when you first voiced your problems with Fin. I could have made sure my mother was aware of the situation. I could have tried to stop him from marrying my sister.”

She saw the rage and self-recrimination in his eyes and instinctively wanted to soothe it. She of all people could understand. Like her, he'd trusted a friend. “It was a long time ago, Eoin. I'm sure there are things we would have both done differently had we known what would happen. You were right: there is no use trying to go back.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he let go of her arm and stepped back. “Aye, well, you defended yourself well. Your knee did some damage. From what I hear he was in bed for days.” He gave a slight shudder as if the thought of it caused him pain. “Remind me to not make you angry.”

Though she didn't like to think of anyone suffering, in the case of Fin she would make an exception. Her mouth twisted in a smile. “I will.”

He smiled back at her for a moment, and then seemed to remember himself and shook off the moment of connection. “I came to tell you that you were right. Your father has taken refuge in Dumfries Castle.”

“And Eachann?” she asked anxiously. “He is all right?”

“A boy was with your father. That is all we know. Your brothers have taken refuge at Buittle.”

She nodded, not surprised that they'd separated. “Have you attempted to communicate with my father?”

Eoin nodded. “He has refused to release the boy.”

Though she suspected the answer, Margaret's heart squeezed. “He won't hurt him, Eoin.”

He didn't respond. Clearly, he was not inclined to trust her judgment. She didn't blame him, but she meant it. Her father loved Eachann. He would not hurt him . . . intentionally.

Her heart squeezed with fear. “What happens next?” she asked.

His mouth fell in a grim line. “Edward Bruce is laying siege on the castle.”

The blood slid from her face as panic jumped in her pulse. “No! You can't let them do that. Our son will suffer along with them.”

She could see the fear in his eyes that matched her own—and something else: anger. “There is nothing I can do.” He'd obviously tried. “Now that we've cornered your father, he will not be allowed to escape. The siege at Perth is over, the castle has fallen, and the king is on his way here.”

She would have blanched if there was any blood left in her face. “Bruce is coming here?”

He nodded. “Galloway's castles are next.” The former Balliol and MacDowell strongholds of Dumfries, Buittle, Dalswinton, and Caerlaverock.

One by one Robert the Bruce was taking back Scotland's castles from English control and destroying them so that they might not be used against him again.

“But Eachann . . .” She shuddered, thinking what a long siege could do to him. “Let me talk to my father. He will listen to me.”

Eoin shook his head. “Carrick won't allow it,” he said, using the title (along with Lord of Galloway) that Robert Bruce had given his younger brother, Edward. He tried to console her. “Try not to worry. It won't last long. The castle hasn't been properly provisioned in months. Your father will agree to parley soon.”

She shook her head. “You don't know my father. He will never surrender to Bruce. He'll starve first.”

He didn't say anything, and from the grim look on his face she suspected he did know her father and agreed. “I should go,” he said. “I just wanted to keep you informed. I will try to send word every few days or so.”

“You can't expect me to stay here!”

That was exactly what he expected her to do. Eoin stared down at the outraged woman who could be wearing a sackcloth and still manage to stir his blood. The proof was pounding against his stomach. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Where do you expect to go?” he asked impatiently.