10
EOIN WAS WRONG. There was nothing fine about it. Even more than a week later, Margaret was still reeling from the aftereffects of their arrival back at the castle.
The dreamlike bliss of the cottage had been left decidedly behind the moment they’d ridden through the portcullis and been confronted by her brothers, who were preparing to ride out in search of her.
She didn’t know what had been worse, watching her brothers coming to physical blows with the man she loved, or later, seeing the cold rage of her father and his, as she and Eoin—blood still running down his nose from the brawl with her brothers—stood before them in the king’s solar and announced what they had done.
War between the two clans might have broken out right there had Eoin’s mother not intervened. While the men shouted, issued threats and ultimatums, and exchanged names of relatives, hoping to find a connection that would provide an impediment to annul the marriage, Rignach MacLean had calmly told them it was too late for that. Margaret could already be carrying a child, and her first grandchild would not be branded a bastard. They would have to make the best of an “unfortunate” situation.
Despite her intervention, however, Margaret did not delude herself that Eoin’s mother would be her champion. Lady Rignach could not hide her disdain as her gaze quickly swept over her—as if lingering too long might sully her. She looked at Margaret as if she were beneath her, as if she’d seduced her son, and forced him to do the only honorable thing.
Margaret wished she could say that once the initial shock and anger had passed it was better. But it wasn’t. Her family’s disappointment was just as bad—maybe even worse. No matter how far-fetched the idea of a betrothal with John Comyn might be, she felt as if she’d let her father down. She tried to make him understand, but he wouldn’t hear her explanations. Indeed, he barely said three words to her in the days leading up to her departure.
Even Duncan looked at her as if she were a traitor, marrying “the enemy.” But Eoin wouldn’t fight against them now . . . would he? It was the one thing she hadn’t fully considered in those dreamlike moments in the cottage, and the thought of being on opposite sides from her family were war to break out was too horrible to contemplate. She vowed to do whatever she could to convince him to fight with her clan and the Comyns if trouble came. The prospect of having her husband’s considerable talents on their side had been the one thing to ever-so-slightly mollify her family.
Eoin’s mother had thought it best that Margaret and Eoin remove themselves from court and return to Gylen Castle on the Isle of Kerrera as soon as possible to staunch the gossip. Margaret suspected it had more to do with his mother being unable to withstand the shame of Eoin marrying such a “backward,” “heathen” creature from the godforsaken corner of Scotland.
Even though Margaret agreed it would be best for her and Eoin to go, it didn’t make it any easier to say goodbye.
Only Brigid had tried to be happy for her. But something was wrong with her friend, and no matter how many times Margaret asked, she would not confide in her. She had a clue though when Brigid said she admired her for “following her heart” and “not letting anyone stand in the way when she loved someone.”
Had Brigid fallen in love without Margaret realizing it? She wanted to be there for her friend, but instead she was saying goodbye, knowing that it would be some time before they saw each other again.
If they saw each other again.
The heartache of losing her family and best friend in one blow, of being sent far away from anything she’d ever known, might have been easier to bear had Margaret been able to share it with Eoin.
But since that day in the cottage they’d spent little time together. He’d been locked away most days with his father—and the Earl of Carrick, she couldn’t help noticing. Nor did they share a bed at night. A private chamber at Stirling could not be arranged, and everyone—except apparently her—thought it better that they did not add to the “scandal.”
Margaret didn’t give a fig about the scandal. She just wanted to know that Eoin was all right, and that he did not regret marrying her after all.
Any hope that they would have time alone together on the journey west, however, vanished when she learned that his mother, sister, and foster brother would be accompanying them—along with half his father’s household men for protection.
By the end of the third day of traveling, when it was clear that once again she would be forced to share a tent with his mother and sister—and not her husband, who was apparently bedding down by the fire with some of the other men—she didn’t know whether to cry or strangle him. He was either the most uncaring of bridegrooms or the most obtuse. Whichever it was, she wasn’t going to let it continue. She’d never felt so lost in her life and needed to know this hadn’t been a horrible mistake.
Leaving his mother and sister to direct the servants with where to put their trunks in the canvas tent, which was bigger than the room she and Brigid had shared with a few of the other women in Stirling, Margaret excused herself to go in search of her husband.
Wrapping her cloak around her to ward off the autumnal chill in the air, she wound her way through the bustling clansmen as they made haste to set up camp in the falling light of dusk.
So far they’d endured long days in the saddle, rising just before dawn to be on the road as soon as the light broke and stopping shortly before dusk. The pace, however, was agonizingly slow—even slower than the journey from Garthland to Stirling. Dubh was going about as half-mad as she was, chomping at the bit to ride.
As carriages were rare and impractical on all but some of the old Roman roads, all the women were on horseback, but Eoin’s mother and sister traveled with far more carts that she and Brigid. Margaret’s two trunks seemed paltry to their four or five—each.
In addition to the trunks of linens and clothing, there were boxes for their jewelry, another for their veils and circlets, and another for their shoes. But it wasn’t just clothing. Margaret had been shocked by the amount of household plate and furniture that had accompanied them. No doubt by time she returned to the tent, it would look as comfortable as a room at Stirling, replete with beds, fine linens, chairs, tables—one used solely for Lady Rignach’s writing (Margaret had mistakenly asked if she traveled with a clerk, much to the amusement of Eoin’s sister, who informed her that only the villeins at Kerrera didn’t know how to read and write)—a huge bronze bath, and two braziers.
On the way to Stirling, Margaret and Brigid had slept on bedrolls and been content to eat with the men around the campfire. But even a night in the forest wasn’t an excuse to deviate from “civilized” living arrangements, according to Lady Rignach. Margaret was sure the word had been for her benefit.
But Lady Rignach didn’t need to remind her. Margaret was painfully aware of her inadequacies every time they took out a book to read or a piece of parchment upon which to write.
She just wished being civilized didn’t take so much time. At this pace they wouldn’t reach Oban, where they would ferry to Kerrera, for another week. In the Western Isles, travel by ship was usually much faster and far more efficient, but Lady Rignach did not like the sea.
She found Eoin on the opposite side of camp, gathered near the horses with a handful of his men—including Finlaeie MacFinnon. Eoin had his back to her, and the men seemed to be arguing about something.
Finlaeie glanced over and saw her first. She stiffened reflexively, but forced herself to smile. For Eoin’s sake she was making an effort to forget what had happened at Stirling and befriend his foster brother. But it wasn’t easy when Finlaeie looked at her as if she belonged in the lowest stews of London.
She would never forget what he’d said to her before the race, but she told herself she could try to forgive him. Of course, he had to want to be forgiven first, and thus far he’d given her no indication that he felt sorry for anything.
There seemed to be a coolness between the foster brothers though, and from the nasty-looking mottled bruise on Finlaeie’s jaw, she suspected it had something to do with that.
From the intensity of the conversation, she could tell it wasn’t a good time and would have backed away, but Finlaeie nudged Eoin, said something in a low voice, and nodded in her direction.
Eoin turned, saw her, and gave her a pleasant “my lady,” but he was too preoccupied to completely mask that her interruption was not a welcome one.
It was a look that a good wife would have read, made some excuse, and scurried away. Unfortunately for him, she was not a good wife—actually right now she didn’t feel like much of a wife at all—and the look only fueled her frustration, hurt, and anger.
She had left the only family she’d ever known behind three days ago, been “welcomed” into his with about as much enthusiasm as a leper, and he couldn’t spare her a few minutes?
“Is there something you need, Margaret?” Eoin asked.
“I should like to speak with you. Alone, if you will.”
“Can it wait? We were just about to ride out—”
“It’s important,” she said firmly, refusing to back down.
She had to find out why he was avoiding her, and that look she’d caught left her with no doubt that he was doing exactly that.
Eoin told his men he would be back in a few minutes and walked to his wife, ignoring the snide glance from Fin that said “I told you so.”
Just because she interrupted him didn’t make her demanding and needing attention, damn it.
Fin was lucky Eoin was talking to him at all, after what he’d said about their marriage.
“Why the hell did you marry her? The lass probably wasn’t even a virgin. I hope you checked for fresh cut marks when you saw the blood.”
Eoin had struck him as hard as he’d ever struck anyone in his life. He’d laid him flat with that one fist to the jaw and had his hands around his throat a minute later. “If you ever say anything like that again,” he’d sworn, “I’ll kill you.”
He meant it, too. Margaret was his wife, and Eoin wouldn’t allow any man to speak ill of her—even the man who was like a brother to him.
He just wished Fin hadn’t said what he’d said. Eoin hadn’t even thought about blood—or the absence of it. Damn Fin to hell. Just because there hadn’t been blood, it didn’t mean anything. It had been obvious that she’d been a maid.
Why was he even thinking about this?
Taking her arm, he led her through the trees to the edge of the river, where some of the lads were fetching buckets of fresh water for the camp.
He pointed to a low rock for her to sit on, but she shook her head and turned to face him.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“It’s nothing for you to be concerned about. One of the scouts discovered that a bridge has been washed out ahead of us. We are riding out to see what will be the best route for the carts.”
“That isn’t what I meant.” He hadn’t thought so but had hoped. “Are you upset with me for some reason?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not avoiding you.” But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. He had been avoiding her. Unconsciously maybe, but that wasn’t an excuse. The promise he’d made to Bruce didn’t sit well with him, and he regretted it. Even if it had been the only way to salvage the opportunity his kinsman was giving him.
The reaction from his family had been worse than he’d anticipated. The negotiations for a betrothal agreement with the Keiths had been much further along than Eoin realized, and his actions had impugned the clan’s honor and pride. His father had been humiliated and forced to apologize and make amends. But Eoin had ruined any chance he had of working with the great Marischal of Scotland and would probably do best to avoid crossing paths with Robert Keith in the future.
Eoin suspected that his father’s disappointment was worse because Eoin’s actions had been so unexpected. Unlike his two elder brothers, Eoin never did anything rash or unwise. He was calculated. Thoughtful. Smart.
But not this time. His father couldn’t believe he’d thrown away a bright future for a tumble with a lass. “She’ll hold you back,” he’d said, his words an eerie echo of Fin’s.
The words had seemed all too prophetic when his father told him Bruce was refusing now to consider Eoin for the secret guard. The earl wouldn’t risk a man so closely tied to the enemy—especially Dugald MacDowell. Losing the chance with Keith was bad enough, but the thought of missing out on a place in Bruce’s secret guard was unthinkable.
It had taken days of discussion—pleading—but eventually Bruce had relented. Only, however, after he’d exacted a promise from Eoin to tell Margaret nothing about what he was doing, where he was going, or what he was a part of. She would be kept completely in the dark about that part of his life.
He would have to lie to her.
And maybe that was why he was avoiding her. It was almost as if he knew that the more time he spent with her, and the closer they became, the more of a betrayal it would be when she learned the truth. Although he would keep his vow to Bruce, Eoin had no doubt that if this progressed as they expected, one day she would find out.
His beautiful young wife, however, looked none to happy with him right now. She glared up at him through narrowed eyes. “Are we married or not?”
The question took him aback. “What are you talking about? Of course we’re married.”
“I wasn’t sure, as I seem to be sharing a bed with everyone but you!”
Her voice had risen in her anger, and he pulled her away from a few of his men, who from their shocked expressions had heard what she’d said.
Still, his mouth quirked. “I don’t think you meant it like that.”
She thought for a moment, and then blushed. “Of course I didn’t mean that. I simply meant that I just wanted . . . I just hoped . . .” Her eyes caught his, and he felt his chest squeeze. “I miss you,” she said softly.
Eoin swore and pulled her into his arms. He was a thoughtless arse. He’d been so caught up in his own guilt about the promise he’d given Bruce that he hadn’t considered what his avoidance was doing to her. She felt abandoned—understandably so.
And it would only get worse. But he pushed that troubling thought aside for now.
God knows the past week and a half had probably been just as hideous for her as it had been for him. None of this was her fault, but he was acting as if he blamed her. He didn’t. He just cared for her too much and feared the toll joining his cousin’s secret army was going to take on them.
But what Bruce offered him was the dream of a lifetime and a challenge he couldn’t resist. It would give him a chance to test himself and operate at the highest, most elite level. He couldn’t walk away from that. He’d been working toward this moment his whole life. And he was fighting for something he believed in—deeply. His cousin was the rightful king and Scotland’s best—only—chance of seeing and end to Edward’s overlordship. He couldn’t walk away from that. Even for the wife he loved.
It wouldn’t be easy, but he was determined to have both Margaret and a place in the Guard.
“I’m sorry, a leanbh. I’ve been . . . preoccupied.”
It had been ten days since that day in the cottage, and his body was reacting to her closeness. She was soft and sweet and smelled like she’d just alighted from a steamy bath of wildflowers. He was probably responsible for the steam—his body heat had shot up about a hundred degrees just holding her—but how the hell her hair still smelled like flowers after a long day in he saddle, he had no idea.
She let her cheek rest against his dusty, leather-clad chest for a moment before pushing back to look up at him. “So you have not changed your mind?”
“About what?”
“Having a wife.”
What in Hades? “Of course not.”
She scanned his face, as if looking for any hesitation. “Then why are we not sharing a bed?”
God have mercy, the things that came out of her mouth! “Christ, Maggie, it’s not like there’s a lot of privacy.” He let her go, thinking that the heat must be getting too much for him. His face even felt hot. He couldn’t be blushing, damn it. Jerking off his helm, he dragged his fingers through his hair and tried not to stammer. “I’m not going to kick my mother and sister out of their tent.”
She studied him until he felt like a bug under a rock. “I’m not suggesting that. But there is no reason you can’t sleep in the tent with us.”
His face no longer felt hot. Actually it felt as if every drop of blood had drained right out of it as he stared at her in mute horror.
She held a straight face for as long as she could, and then burst into laughter. “I was only jesting. Good gracious, I wish you could have seen your face.”
She shook her head and giggled a few more times, while he scowled forbiddingly at her. To no effect, he noticed. Handful.
“I know there isn’t much privacy on the road,” she explained, “but your mother’s tiring woman sleeps near the fire with her husband—and a few of the married servants as well. We don’t have to . . .” She didn’t need to finish, the pink in her cheeks said exactly what she was thinking. She bit her lip a few times and looked up at him again. “It will be enough to sleep beside you.”
The soft plea ate at him. “I was only thinking of your comfort.”
She smiled. “Well, the tent is certainly that. I can’t imagine there is much furniture left in your castle with all that is in those carts. But I don’t need all that. I shall be perfectly comfortable beside you.”
At least one of them would be. He couldn’t think of anything more excruciatingly uncomfortable than sleeping next to her night after night and not being able to touch her—or touch her in the way he wanted.
But she had a point about his mother. “I wish my mother and sister thought as you, it would make this trip a hell of a lot faster.”
“It is rather slow, isn’t it?” she said in exaggerated understatement. “But perhaps we can use the time to get to know one another better?” Anticipating an objection he hadn’t been about to make, she added, “I know you are busy, but I thought when you were done for the day, or had a little bit of time, you could do what you promised.”
His brow furrowed. Had he made her a promise he’d forgotten about?
Seeing his expression, she grinned. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.” She pulled something out of the purse tied to her girdle and placed it in his hand. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t carry the full set. But the way this one was scowling reminded me of you.”
He was too shocked to object to the scowling comment. He stared at the finely carved ivory knight incredulously. “You stole one of the chess pieces from the set at Stirling?”
Christ, it had probably belonged to King William the Lion!
She grinned up at him unrepentantly. “Stole is rather a harsh word for a child’s game piece, isn’t it? I simply wanted a remembrance of the first time we met. There was another one in this color, so I assumed it would be all right.”
He didn’t have the heart to correct her; she would find out soon enough. But Eoin had to smile thinking of the way his kinsman would be swearing the next time he sat down to play.
Eoin was still smiling when he rejoined his men and rode out in search of an alternate path through the forested hills of Callander. He was also—surprisingly, given the discomfort it was bound to cause him—looking forward to the coming night.
For the first time since the announcement of their marriage, he felt some of the hope for the future that he’d had in the cottage. It would be all right. What he and Margaret had was worth all the challenges they would face.
If only that first challenge wasn’t coming so soon.
“Check . . .”
In disbelief, Margaret stared down at the makeshift board and finished for him, “Mate”—to which she then added a very crude oath.
Tempted to flip the entire table, she managed to exercise some restraint and glared at the handsome blighter instead.
Eoin just grinned. “Oh come on, Maggie, it’s just a ‘child’s game.’ You aren’t upset are you?”
Her eyes narrowed. If he wasn’t so infuriatingly big, she’d flip him instead. “It’s the devil’s game, that’s what it is!” She shook her head, looking at him accusingly. “You let me think I had you this time.”
He was wise not to say anything and merely shrugged—proving that even if they hadn’t been able to make love, six nights of sleeping beside him by the campfire wasn’t completely without effect in making him a proper husband.
But she would make him pay for that shrug. Tonight.
It hadn’t taken her long to realize that her closeness at night was causing her husband a bit of distress. He wanted her. And if the size of the erection pressed against her bottom was any indication, he wanted her quite a lot. She couldn’t resist teasing him. Lud, remembering how he’d blush with embarrassment at the word “privacy” still made her laugh. As had the muffled curse the first time she’d pressed back against that hardness.
But Eoin lived up to his brilliant tactician reputation. If the past week of chess lessons hadn’t shown her that he had a devious mind, the torture he’d exacted on her body certainly had.
When she wiggled her hips against him teasingly the next night, he moved the hand that had been circled loosely around her waist up to her breast, where his finger circled her nipple ever so lightly—frustratingly lightly. The moment she made a sound, he stopped.
“Privacy,” he whispered.
It had taken them both a long time to get to sleep that night. But waking up the next morning tucked in his embrace, feeling warm and safe and unbelievably happy, had made the frustration worth it.
The next night, however, when he didn’t pull her into his arms as he had the night before, but turned the other way, she decided a little requital was in order. She’d slid her arm around his waist from behind and slipped her hand under the edge of his tunic, where she’d skimmed light swirls over the rigid bands of his stomach. Bands that she couldn’t help noticing grew tighter and tighter the lower her hand dropped. When her thumb accidentally brushed the thick hood of his manhood and he made a sharp hissing sound, she stopped.
“Privacy,” she’d reminded him smugly.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t counted on how the rigid, aroused feel of his body against hers would affect her. Her heart had been beating just as fast as his. It had taken her even longer to get to sleep that night. But again, waking in his arms made it all worth it.
She wasn’t as sure later that night, however, when the moment he slipped under the plaid behind her, his fingers slid between her legs. He stroked her until she’d been half-crazed with desire, stopping when she’d been unable to prevent herself from making a sound. She’d almost cried out anyway—in frustration.
It had been a long, restless night.
The following night he’d come to bed late—the coward—but she was ready. The moment he drew the plaid down on top of him, she found him with her hand, circling the rigid column of velvety steel with her hand the way she’d seen him holding himself that day in the cottage. He’d fisted his hand around hers and silently shown her how to stroke him.
She’d held his gaze in the darkness as she’d brought him to the very peak of pleasure. He was holding himself so taut she thought he might win the sensual battle that had sprung up between them. But he sucked in his breath—making a sound—and she’d stopped.
After nearly a week of stroking and touching, she was in as much torment as he. She couldn’t wait until they could make love again. Tomorrow night, thank goodness! Eoin said they would reach the ferry at Oban late afternoon the following day. As less than a half mile separated Gylen Castle from the mainland just south of Oban, the quick boat ride would bring her to her new home well before nightfall.
Despite the promise of pleasure awaiting her, the tormenting nights, the plodding pace of travel, and spate of rainy weather that had hit them the past few days, part of her was sad to see the journey come to an end.
She was nervous about the new life that awaited her at Kerrera. She didn’t know what to expect, how she would fit in, or what would be expected of her. Gylen Castle was the unknown; on the road she could pretend things would be the same.
She was also enjoying getting to know her husband. Since she’d confronted him a week ago, Eoin had made an effort to spend more time with her—and not just at night. He rode beside her when he could, and every evening after they finished eating, he brought out the thin piece of wood that he’d etched lines in with a knife and the piles of different colored stones to teach her to play chess.
She’d picked up the rules of the game quickly enough, it was losing—rather handily—that was the difficult part to accept.
“Who would have thought a child’s game could exact such a blow to the pride?” she said. “Believe it or not, until I met you, I used to think of myself as relatively clever.”
He grinned. “I think your pride is strong enough to weather the blow, and it isn’t cleverness standing in your way.”
She lifted her brow. “Then what is it?”
“You’re too impatient for the game to end. You go on attack too soon. You need to bide your time.”
She lifted her brow, surprised by the insight. He was right. She was impatient and grew bored easily. Nor was she the lie-in-wait type; she liked the straightforward challenge. She suspected a two-day-long battle over a chessboard would never be in her future.
“Is that what you do?” she asked.
He shrugged. For a man who talked about battle so much with everyone else, he completely avoided the subject with her. She hoped there wasn’t a reason. She’d yet to broach the subject of the war, but maybe now was the time.
She glanced around, seeing that as in previous nights, the others were giving them space. “What will you do if war breaks out again?” she asked in a low voice.
It might have been a trick of the torchlight, but she swore he stiffened defensively. “What do you mean?”
“My father wants you to fight with him. He said your abilities would be valued by those loyal to King John.”
This time she was not mistaken: his expression went rigid. There was a steely glint in his eye she’d never seen before. “My duty is to my father.”
“And his is to his overlord, Alexander MacDougall, the Lord of Argyll, and to his king. Not to his kinsman,” she added, referring to Bruce.
She waited for a reaction, but there was none. His expression betrayed not a hint of his thoughts. He wore the same serious, intense expression on his face that he always did when he was with everyone else. But not usually her.
“My father knows well where his duty lies, Margaret.”
Hope sprang in her chest. “Does that mean you will—?”
He stood. “It means this is a pointless conversation. When the time comes—if the time comes—he will do what he must. As will I.”
He started to walk away, but she stood and stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Wait, why won’t you talk about this with me?”
“There is nothing to discuss, and it has nothing to do with you.”
“I’m your wife! Of course it has something to do with me.”
He held her gaze, saying nothing but challenging all the same. She didn’t understand. Why was he doing this? Why was he shutting her out? Did he not value her opinion? She might not be as smart as he was, or know how to read and write, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t understand.
“I have to go,” he said impatiently.
She let her hand drop, not knowing or understanding how the conversation could have gone so wrong. “Where?”
“It’s my night to be on guard duty.” He paused. “I won’t be to bed until midmorning. Perhaps it would be best if you slept in the tent the last night?”
She was stricken. “Why are you acting like this?”
His expression changed, and once again he was the man she loved. He drew her into his arms. “Ah hell, I’m sorry. But it is your fault.” She looked up at him questioningly. “You have pushed me to the edge of madness. I can’t take another night of it.”
He was teasing her, but only partially. Suddenly, she scowled. “You volunteered for guard duty, didn’t you?”
He winced, not bothering to lie. “It’s only one more night.”
Or so he thought. But the next night, after they’d finally retired to the private chamber that had been arranged for them (his mother had insisted on showing her every room of the beautifully decorated tower house), Margaret had a surprise for him.
“Your what?”
“Shhh,” she said. “Do you want the whole castle to hear? My flux. It will only be a few days.”
She thought he’d find the timing amusingly ironic, but apparently he didn’t. He was strangely quiet, his expression almost pained.
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t exactly have much control over these things, Eoin.” She grinned wickedly and slid up against him, covering him with her hand. “Besides, there is plenty of privacy here, and no reason for you to be quiet.”
He jerked her hand away. “Damn it, Margaret. Stop it. You don’t understand.”
More than a little hurt by the rejection, she moved back a few steps to look at him. “Then why don’t you explain it to me,” she said softly.
A strange sense of doom settled around her like a thick gray mist.
He moved to the glazed window, staring out for a few minutes before turning to answer her.
“I’m leaving.”
For a moment she didn’t think she heard him correctly. Her heart was beating too loudly in her ears. “You are what?”
“There is something I have to do. I must leave by Saturday.”
Margaret just stared at him, dumbfounded. Saturday was in two days. “When will you be back?” she managed chokingly, a ball of hot emotion seeming to have stuck in her throat.
“I don’t know.”
She flinched as if struck. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t know’? A few days? Weeks?” He didn’t say anything. “Christmas?” she could barely breathe.
“I hope so.”
He hoped so? There were still almost two weeks until All Saints’ Day! Christmas was more than two months away. This wasn’t happening. Please let someone tell her this wasn’t happening. The room seemed to be swaying as if they were still on the ferry. “Where are you going?”
“I . . .” He dragged his fingers through his hair, the way he did when he was anxious or uncomfortable. “I can’t explain. It’s just something I have to do, all right?”
“Of course it’s not all right. How could it be all right? We have been married barely over a fortnight, have not yet shared a roof, let alone a bedchamber for the night, and you are leaving me in two days, telling me nothing about where you are going, what you are doing, and how long you will be gone, and it’s supposed to be ‘all right’?” Hearing the rising hysteria in her voice, she forced herself to try to calm. But how could she be calm? How could he do this to her? “How long have you known about this?”
He had the shame to look away. “Since the day before we left Stirling.”
Her chest stabbed. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I intended to, damn it, just not like this.”
“Then when? After you’d made love to me, until I was too exhausted to argue?” She gasped, her eyes widening at his guilty expression. “Good God, that’s exactly what you intended, wasn’t it?”
“Ah hell, Maggie, I know I should have said something earlier. But I knew you’d be upset, and . . .”
She straightened her spine, her anger the only thing that kept her from collapsing into a ball and sobbing. “And you thought it would be easier this way.”
“Nay, that isn’t what I was going to say. You were so happy. I didn’t want to do anything to ruin that.”
“And you thought this would be better?” He didn’t say anything. She stared at him. “Please don’t do this. Don’t go.”
“I have to.”
“Then wait a few more days. At least give me that.”
“I can’t. I’m late already.”
He reached for her, and for the first time, she flinched from him. Also for the first time, she didn’t want him to touch her. “Then go, Eoin. Just go.”
And to her utter despair and misery, two days later he did exactly that.