18
PART 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.
“With you.”
In his tent? God’s blood! He almost shuddered. “That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
Because apparently six years hadn’t made his cock any smarter. “Camp is no place for a lady.”
“Perhaps not, but there must be some women?” She continued before he could object to the sort of women who were about camp, stepping close to him to make her case. Probably closer than she realized. Their bodies were practically touching, and every muscle in his body tightened. “Please, Eoin. I won’t be in the way. I swear I won’t embarrass you. I’ve changed.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Her eyes dropped from his as a delicate shade of pink rose to her cheeks. “I’m not the ignorant girl I was when we married. I’ll not say the wrong thing or do something foolish like move the pieces of a chess game around. I can read and write now. I’ll not challenge your friend to a race or see who can drink a mug of ale the quickest. I haven’t worn breeches in a long time. I am no longer the backward, irreverent creature you need to try to turn into a proper wife.”
Eoin stared at her in shock. Was that what she thought? “That isn’t what I . . .” Ah hell. It was what he’d wanted. But he’d never meant her to think he was ashamed of her. He’d just wanted her not to stand out so much. Not to be so outrageous. To not look at him as if she couldn’t wait to get to the bedchamber. He’d wanted her to show a little restraint and decorum. To be more like the other ladies.
But if he’d wanted someone like Lady Barbara, why had he married Margaret?
Because she’d been different. Because she’d been fresh and sweet, and yes, outrageous. Because she’d made him laugh. Because she’d teased and challenged him, and driven him crazy with lust. Because she’d breezed into a room like she owned it, with her unbound hair flowing wildly around her shoulders, and he knew there would never be another woman for him.
It was her he’d wanted. Why had he tried to turn her into someone else?
Guilt twisted in his gut. “You never embarrassed me,” he said gruffly.
She gave him a wry smile that said she didn’t believe him. “It was a long time ago, Eoin. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
She tried to turn her face, but without realizing what he was doing, he reached out and cupped her chin in his hand to force her gaze back to his.
It was a mistake. Her skin was every bit as warm and baby soft as he remembered. He wanted to run his thumb over the smooth curve of her cheek and the delicate point of her chin.
“It does matter. I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I thought it would be easier for you to fit in if you were—”
“Like everyone else?” she finished for him.
He nodded, embarrassed.
“You don’t need to apologize. Just please, take me with you. I can’t stay here not knowing what is happening. I need to be there, Eoin. I promise you won’t even know I’m there.”
As if that were bloody possible. He’d always been too damned aware of her. Even now when by all rights he should want nothing to do with her. But he understood her urgency. She was worried about the boy.
She must have sensed his hesitation. “I can be of help. I know the castle, and I know how my father thinks. I can help get Eachann back, I know I can.”
He shook his head. “You aren’t wanted, Margaret. Your presence would make things difficult.”
She misunderstood, her breath catching as if his words had stabbed. “You have made your feelings for me clear, Eoin. I know you don’t want me. I won’t interfere if . . .” She looked down, her cheeks pale. “If you already have a woman in your tent. I will sleep outside if you desire privacy.”
He knew he didn’t owe her any explanations. She was the one who’d been about to marry another man. He shouldn’t care what she thought. Hell, maybe it would even make it easier if he did have a woman in his tent.
But it hadn’t been himself he’d been talking about but the others in the Bruce camp. Too many people knew what she’d done. His brethren, the king, some of his men. She was Dugald MacDowell’s daughter and the enemy. He of all people shouldn’t need a reminder.
He hardened his jaw, refusing to let her sway him. “You will stay here for now. I will send word as soon as I have anything to report.”
“But—”
“It’s not a request, Margaret,” he said, cutting her off.
Her eyes blazed golden fire. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin in that defiant way he remembered. “Apparently all that extra muscle has turned you into a bully. You have no right to order me to do anything.”
“Don’t I?” he challenged. “I’m still your husband.” He paused significantly. “At least for now.”
She flushed angrily. “A fact you seem to have conveniently forgotten for six years.”
He hadn’t forgotten. That was the problem. And being around her was making him weak. He couldn’t soften toward her, damn it. He hated her, didn’t he?
He’d thought so, but maybe “the why” had mattered more than he wanted it to. He’d thought of her as a traitorous bitch for six years, but he couldn’t think of her that way now—not after hearing her explanation. It wasn’t as black and white as he’d thought. She hadn’t intentionally betrayed him. She hadn’t been trying to get back at him by revealing his presence in the area to her father. She hadn’t purposefully sought to see him captured or killed. And that knowledge had taken the bite out of his anger and hatred.
Aye, what he was feeling right now was definitely not hate. It was hot and fiery, surged through his blood, set his nerves on edge, and made him want to lash out, not with anger but with something else. Six years or sixty years, he didn’t think it would make a difference: he would still want her.
Fuck. The oath was painfully appropriate.
He gave her a hard look to hide the emotions teeming inside him. “Aye, well I wasn’t the first one to forget. Perhaps this time you can remember that you are married and stay where I leave you.”
Not wanting to hear what he was sure would be her furious response, he turned on his heel and left.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Aware of the number of eyes following her, Margaret drew the cloak more firmly around her. She wished she had a hood. The long unbound waves of red streaming down her back beneath the gossamer-thin, silky golden veil suddenly felt conspicuous.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have changed gowns and veils? The nun’s habit would have certainly discouraged the blatant staring. But when the package arrived yesterday at the convent, Margaret assumed the gown and veil were a gift from her husband—an apology for his high-handed attitude at the convent a few days ago.
All right, she didn’t really believe the gown was an apology (Eoin had been far too assured in his “lord and master” role), but it was as good as an excuse as any to come find him.
Goodness knows how he’d been able to procure something so fine in such a short time. She would have thought the mossy green velvet gown trimmed in gold embroidery and matching gold silk veil had been made for her, were it not a smidgen too small in the bodice and hips.
In any event, she thought it the least she could do to wear the gift, given that he wasn’t going to be pleased to find her here. But if he thought she would meekly stand aside and do his bidding . . .
She fisted her hands at her sides and tightened her mouth, recalling his imperious order to stay put. She hadn’t changed that much.
Still, she hadn’t thought it would be so difficult to find him—the camp was much larger than she’d realized. Hundreds of men had gathered for the siege, turning the grassy moorlands of the countryside around Dumfries Castle into a makeshift village of tents, carts, stalls, kitchens, and pens for the livestock and horses.
She was forced to walk a gauntlet of men—rather big men, she couldn’t help noticing—as she wound her way through the bustling camp.
Though her impulse was to bite her lip, look down, and try not to make eye contact with the rough-looking bunch of warriors sitting outside the tents, Margaret knew better than to show weakness. Instead, she met the bold stares and tried to pretend she didn’t hear the suggestive comments that followed her. As Eoin had warned her, it was clear from the “invitations” being hurled in her direction what type of woman typically frequented an army’s camp.
Bruce’s men had a reputation for being brigands, and she must admit they looked the part. Most of them appeared not to have seen a razor or a bath in months and looked far more familiar with a barber’s cauterizing iron than his scissors. Fierce, scarred visages, and hard, unsmiling mouths were half-hidden behind scruffy beards and long, unkempt hair. They were big, imposing men made even bigger and more imposing by the abundance of armor and weaponry surrounding them. Most wore leather cotuns, some of which were studded with mail, and she seemed to have arrived at weapon preparing time, as many men were sitting outside their tents sharpening or otherwise tending to their various swords, axes, pikes, and hammers.
Too bad she couldn’t have arrived at nap time instead.
Truth be told, they didn’t look all that different from her father’s Gallovidian warriors; the difference being that her father’s men all knew who she was and wouldn’t look at her so rudely—or crudely for that matter.
Licentious stares were nothing she hadn’t had to deal with before—if on a smaller, less intimidating scale. Still, she was looking rather anxiously for the leaders’ tents. Eoin might have been a regular man-at-arms for his father when she’d met him all those years ago, but it was clear he’d made his way up through the ranks in the intervening years. She couldn’t say she was surprised. Even her father had been aware of his promise. This was always what had been important to him—maybe it was all that had been important to him.
Catching sight of larger tents on the ridge, she started to walk in that direction when an arm snaked around her waist from behind, and her breath jammed as she was jerked against a hard, mail-clad body. She got a quick glance of the grizzled face of a thickset, dark-haired warrior, and a not so quick whiff of pungent days’ old male sweat. The stench was overwhelming, and instinctively she tried to break free.
His hot, ale-laden breath rang in her ear. “Not so fast, lass. Damn, you’re a fine-looking piece.” Good lord, he was drunk. She could feel his hand moving toward her breast and tried to twist to evade the touch, but he managed to get in a good squeeze anyway. “Malcolm and I could use a little company. Isn’t that right, Malcolm?”
A taller, leaner soldier stepped in front of her. He was no less grizzled in appearance, and was missing a few teeth, but he seemed to smell marginally better. Or maybe it was that the first warrior smelled so terribly, he drowned out everything else. Her stomach was rolling, and she was in danger of losing its contents if she didn’t breathe fresh air soon.
“Aye,” Malcolm said appraisingly. “Been a long time since I’ve had company like you. Christ,” he said with a glance down her chest, which was no longer hidden behind her cloak thanks to the first warrior’s groping. The new gown with its too-tight bodice displayed her breasts rather . . . prominently. “Would you look at the size of those tits!” He frowned. “That’s a fine gown for a whore.”
“That’s because I’m not a whore,” Margaret said angrily, trying to use her elbow to wrench away from the brute. But it was like trying to dent steel. “Let go of me,” she said.
“What’s going on here?” a deep voice said. “I think the lass isn’t interested, Captain.”
“Stay out of this, MacGowan. It’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.” The man came into view, stepping between Malcolm and the man he’d identified as a captain. Margaret had seen her fair share of handsome men, but her breath still sputtered a little. If she weren’t partial to dark-blond hair, midnight-blue eyes, and mysterious, this man might have persuaded her to consider dark—almost black—hair, steely-blue eyes, and dangerous. Good lord, he was a handsome devil, possessing the dark good looks that conjured up all kinds of wickedness. Perhaps a couple of inches taller than Eoin with a heavily muscled build, this man could no doubt hold his own on the battlefield. “Let her go, Captain.”
“You forget who you are talking to, MacGowan. I give you the orders, not the other way around. Get out of here, before I see you tossed in the stocks or flogged for insubordination.”
The man’s eyes met hers. “Are you willing, lass?”
“Most assuredly not,” she said.
No doubt hearing the refined tones of her speech, which in their drunken lust the other two had apparently missed, MacGowan frowned. “What is your name, my lady?”
She almost proudly belted out that she was Margaret MacDowell, daughter to the MacDowell chief. Realizing this might not be the best audience for that information, she quickly changed her response. “The wife of Eoin MacLean.”
The captain let her go so quickly she almost stumbled.
“MacLean isn’t married.”
MacGowan must have heard the same uncertainty in his voice that she had and responded to the captain, “You better hope he isn’t.”
Malcolm’s face had taken on a decidedly ashen hue. “We meant no offense, my lady. It was a misunderstanding.”
Margaret would have been inclined to let it go, if the captain hadn’t decided to take his foiled plans out on her rescuer. Without warning, the captain’s fist plowed into MacGowan’s jaw. A second landed in his ribs. And then a third. In between shots, the captain was mumbling about “knowing his place,” and “peasant get.”
As it was clear, MacGowan wasn’t going to fight back, Margaret tried to put a stop to it herself. Unfortunately, the captain was too angry, too belligerent, and perhaps too drunk to notice that his next punch was headed toward her face and not the young warrior’s shoulder.
She cried out as her head was slammed back with the force of the punch and pain exploded in her head. The last thing she heard before she fell back was a great roar.