The Striker (55 page)

“How is Marjory?”

Eoin shrugged. “In shock, which is to be expected. But I think it is something of a relief. She understood the depths of Fin's resentment and bitterness better than we did. She lived with it every day and wasn't surprised that it manifested in violence. I still thought of him as the friend I fostered with, but the war, time, and disappointments had shaped him into a different person.”

“I can't believe he hated me that much.” She repressed a shiver, and then frowned, recalling what he'd said to her. “What did he mean, I robbed him of a son?”

“I think he must have put some of the blame for his failure to have a child on your knee.”

“Yet he told Marjory she was barren.” She bit her lip. “Do you think it's true?”

“I suspect it was more in his head than in reality. I think you were an easy target for his rage.”

“He blamed me for coming between you.”

He acknowledged the truth with a nod. “Which was wrong, as we would have grown apart anyway.”

She gave him a long look, arching a brow. “Because of the Phantoms?”

Eoin's mouth twisted. “You heard that, did you?”

“Is that why you never told me what you were doing? Are you really part of Bruce's infamous Phantoms?”

He heaved a heavy sigh. “I made a vow of silence. It wasn't just me I was protecting but the others as well. But I was planning to tell you after I spoke to Bruce.”

It was the piece of the puzzle that finally made everything fit together. This was the big secret he'd been keeping from her. No wonder.

“The men at camp. The ones I asked you about.” He didn't confirm or deny, but she'd already guessed. “I knew there was something strange about all of you! But I never imagined you—” She stopped, staring at him accusingly. “I should have known you would sign up for the most dangerous job. No doubt you've been right in the forefront of everything. You could have been killed. I should be furious with you. But . . .” She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly filling with emotion.

He tipped her chin with the back of his finger, tilting her face to his. “But?”

“But I'm very proud of you.”

He smiled broadly—and a little too smugly. “You are?”

She shoved his chest. “You don't need to look so pleased with yourself. I didn't say I forgive you.”

He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressing her fingertips to his lips in a timeless romantic gesture. “But will you?” He held her gaze to his. “I'm sorry, Maggie. I should have known that no matter how bad it looked, you wouldn't betray my confidence. I did know, but it just took me a little while to realize it.”

She nodded. “I think I can see now why you felt you had to keep me in the dark. It is dangerous.” She thought about it a minute. “I guess I'll just have to trust you to talk about what you can with me. It was never about the details. It was about being a part of your life and feeling like I mattered.”

He looked floored. “Of course you mattered. You were all I thought about, you were what I was fighting to get home to, you were what kept me from sinking into the darkness of war. Without you nothing else mattered.” She must have shown her skepticism because he laughed. “If you don't believe me, ask Lamont. He can attest to my less-than-sunny disposition the past six years. Without you”—he paused—“the world was darker. You were my light.”

She smiled. “That's sweet.”

He looked appalled and glanced around, as if worried someone might have overheard. “God, Maggie, don't say things like that—especially around Hawk.”

“Who?”

He didn't hesitate. “MacSorley.”

She understood. “War names! Do you have one, too?”

“Striker.”

She recalled the words on his arm.
Just something some friends and I
 . . . “The tattoo?”

He nodded and changed the subject. “What made you decide to come back?”

Her mouth quirked. “I think Eachann has come to like it here. He didn't want to go, and I realized when I thought about it that neither did I.” She paused. “I didn't want to keep making the same mistakes, and I intended to come back here and knock some sense into that supposedly brilliant mind of yours.”

“Not always. Remember, I told you once when it came to you I wasn't smart at all.”

Their eyes met, remembering that day long ago when they'd fallen in love, married, and consummated that love (not necessarily in that order) all in one rainy afternoon. She smiled up at him through watery eyes. “I wish it hadn't taken seven and a half years to figure it all out.”

He drew her into his arms. “Me, too. But we have a lifetime to make up for it.” He grinned. “Starting right now.”

She smiled, letting him carry her to the bed. “Maybe you're pretty smart after all.”

Garthland Castle, Galloway, February 15, 1315

E
OIN DIDN
'
T WANT
to be here. The memories were too sharp, the pain too fresh, the ghosts too vivid. Eight years wasn't long enough to forget. Hell, a lifetime wouldn't be long enough to forget. But he knew how important it was to Maggie to come home, so he'd agreed to return to the place of so much death and despair.

He gazed down at the fiery-haired bundle in his arms and felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. He was damned lucky, and all he had to do was look at the faces of his family to remind him. Margaret's, his now seven-year-old son's, or the fifteen-month-old redheaded cherub's in his arms who, if her toddlerhood was anything to judge by, just might be the death of him in a few years.

“Here you are,” Margaret said, coming into the room behind him. “I should have guessed.” She bent over, her own fiery locks tumbling over her shoulder. She'd dispensed with the veil and was much more the unabashed, take-no-prisoners young girl he remembered. “She looks so sweet when she's sleeping, doesn't she?” she whispered softly. Their eyes met, and she grinned. “Almost makes you forget what she's like the rest of the time.”

He grimaced. “Almost. The little tyrant threw one of the chess pieces out the tower window again this morning.”

Margaret attempted to hide her grin—unsuccessfully. “Let me guess? The bishop again? She shows an appalling lack of respect for your game.”

“And for churchmen,” Eoin said dryly. “Wonder where she gets it?”

Margaret put her hand on her swelling stomach. Their third child would be born in the summer. If it was a boy, Margaret was threatening to name him after Viper, whom for some God-only-knew reason she'd taken a liking to. “Perhaps you will be luckier with the next, and Eachann will find some new competition.”

He gave her a hard glare. “He only beat me one time. I told you it was an aberration.”

Their eyes met and they both started to laugh. It hadn't been an aberration. Eachann was almost eerily bright. A problem solver, Eoin called him. He was convinced the lad would invent something great one day. “It's a boring child's game anyway,” he said. “Or so I've been told.”

She laughed, took their daughter from his arms, and set her back down on the box bed that had been provided for her. “Come,” she said. “Marsaili will watch over her.”

“Like she watched over you?” Eoin lifted his eyes. “God help me.”

He rubbed his upper arm when a fist socked him. “Ouch!” he said. “That hurt.”

“Good,” she replied primly. “But as one of Bruce's fabled warriors, I would think you would be a little tougher.”

“Didn't you hear? The war is over. Now I'm just the keeper of a royal castle at Sael.”

She made a sharp scoffing sound. “And
tánaiste
of the MacLeans.” His father had made it official a few months ago. Eoin knew how unusual it was for a third son to be named as heir and had been honored. “Besides,” she added shrewdly. “I saw you huddled with Erik and Lachlan earlier. You don't fool me. I know you're up to something. And I'll have it out of you later.”

He lifted a very intrigued brow. “And how do you intend to do that?”

“I have my ways,” she said smugly.

She sure as hell did, and he couldn't wait till tonight when she inevitably brought him to his knees. So many things had changed between them, but the passion burned just as hot as it had all those years ago. Hell, thinking about how he'd woken to the feeling of her bottom pressing against him insistently this morning, maybe even hotter.

He followed her down the stairs, through the Hall, and out into the courtyard.

“I thought we could walk,” she said.

He nodded, and they started toward the gate. He looked over his shoulder, and she must have sensed his thoughts.

“They'll be fine,” she said. “Duncan will take good care of them while we are gone.” He must have made a face, and she shook her head. “Don't forget, we are all one big happy family now.”

Although Margaret's brother had made his peace with Bruce after the end of the war and been made keeper of Garthland Castle in return, Eoin being the guest of his former enemy still took some getting used to. But he knew how important it was to Margaret to be here, especially after the death of her eldest brother in battle last year. Her father still stubbornly refused to accept Bruce and was fighting in Ireland.

“How can I forget? You've reminded me every day for the past six months to try to get me to agree to come here.”

She squeezed his hand, suddenly serious. “Thank you. I know this hasn't been easy for you, but I wanted to do something.”

A short while later when they arrived at the loch he discovered what she meant. He turned to her in surprise. “You did all this?”

She nodded, her eyes roaming his face uncertainly as she tried to gauge his reaction. He was stunned, and then incredibly moved by what she'd put together.

His brethren stood along the edge of the water, flanking two men in the center. The first wore a crown, and the second a bishop's mitre: King Robert the Bruce and the most important churchman in the country (and Bruce's longtime ally), William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews. Behind them, the calm waters of the loch were filled not with the red that he'd seen last time he'd been here, but tiny white flowers. Snowdrops, or as they were known due to their use at Candlemas, Our Lady's Bells.

“There must be thousands of them,” he said aloud.

Margaret shook her head. “Seven hundred eighty-four. I counted every one.”

Their eyes locked in shared understanding. His throat tightened at the significance. Each flower represented a man who'd died as a result of the failed mission at Loch Ryan eight years ago today.

“It's time, Eoin,” she pleaded. “It's time to let them rest in peace.”

He nodded. She was right. It was time to say a prayer for the men who'd died here, and let go of the ghosts of the past—all of them. He would never forget what had happened here, but he'd forgiven Maggie, maybe now it was time to try to forgive himself.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice tight. He squeezed her hand, fighting back emotion. “I love you.”

She gave him one of those smiles that rivaled the sun. “And don't you forget it.”

He never would. With a nod, Eoin let his wife take his hand and lead him forward where his friends waited to help him bury the past forever.

T
HE CHARACTER OF
Eoin is loosely based on John Dubh MacLean, who was the third son of either Gilliemore or Malcolm MacLean and the grandson (or great-grandson) of the famous Gillian of the Battle Axe, who is considered the first chief of Clan MacLean.

John Dubh (Black John) fought with his father and two brothers for Bruce. His mother, Rignach, was said to be a relation of Bruce's. One theory—and the one that made the most sense to me—was that she was a daughter of Neil of Carrick, and thus a half sister to Bruce's mother, Marjory.