23
BY MIDDAY Dumfries Castle belonged to Bruce, her father had swallowed his pride long enough to voice the words submitting to “King” Robert’s authority, and Margaret had said her farewells to him under the blistering glare of her husband, who despite her pleas, made no effort to make his feelings toward the man who’d struck her less apparent.
With Dugald MacDowell vanquished, the king and his men were celebrating the victory over the last of the Scottish resistance with a feast in the Great Hall of the castle that would be slighted on the morrow. Dumfries—like all the other strongholds Bruce had taken back from the English—would be destroyed to prevent the enemy from garrisoning it again.
Given the circumstances, Margaret did not feel like celebrating and decided to stay in the room that had been set aside for her and Eachann.
Although the day could be counted a great success for Bruce and had proceeded as well as could be expected, it had been a difficult day for her. Not only had her father’s virulent antagonism upon hearing that she intended to stay with her husband been difficult to bear, there was also Eachann’s reaction.
A reaction that hadn’t shown any signs of waning. Even after a hearty meal of his favorites—including mutton from the king’s own stores and sugared plums procured by Eoin as if by magic—and a warm bath, the boy was still close to tears and, as she tucked him into bed, still asking the questions he’d been asking since he’d walked out of the castle with her father.
“But why must we go with him? Why can’t we go with Grandfather to the Isle of Man or back to England with Sir John? I thought you wanted to marry him?”
“I did,” she tried to explain, fearing she was doing no better than she’d done in the note she’d written to Sir John. She hoped he’d understood. “But that was when I thought your father had died. He is my husband, Eachann, and even were I to wish it—which I don’t—I cannot marry anyone else.”
The little face that was so much like Eoin’s screwed up angrily. “I wish he was dead. He’s a traitorous bastard, and I hate him!”
Apparently he’d learned how to pronounce the word correctly. Margaret didn’t want to be harsh with her son after all that he’d been through, but she knew she could not allow these feelings to fester. Her expression hardened, imparting the seriousness of what she was about to say. “I know you are confused and upset, but wishing someone’s death is a grave matter. Your grandfather was wrong to speak of your father like that, and I was wrong to allow him to. Your father has never been a traitor. He has always fought for what he believed in, even if your grandfather doesn’t agree with it. It shames me to think that you would condemn a man without giving him a chance.”
The face that looked up at her was as pale as the pillow behind him. He blinked, his rounded dark-blue eyes filling with tears. “But why does he want me now, when he didn’t before?”
Margaret gasped in horror. “Who told you that?” As if she needed to ask. Her mouth fell in a flat line. “Your grandfather was wrong. Your father wants you very much. He stayed away because he was angry with me—for something I did.” His eyes widened. “Your father trusted me with something, and I betrayed him by telling someone I shouldn’t have. Many men died and your father was nearly killed because of it. He didn’t know about you. Had he, nothing would have kept him from you.”
He seemed to accept what she said, but as always he understood more than she intended. His expression turned grave. “If you did that, why does he want you back?”
She wasn’t sure he did, but the boy was confused enough. “Because your father is a fair man, Eachann, and he’s giving me another chance. I hope you will do the same for him.”
He considered her for a moment and nodded. Margaret heaved a sigh of relief, smiling at the small victory, and bent over to press a kiss on his forehead.
Before she could wish him a good night, however, he asked, “What’s a whore?”
The smile fell from her face. “Where did you hear that word?”
He flushed uncomfortably, seeming to realize he’d said something he shouldn’t. “One of Grandfather’s men.”
“What did he say?”
He looked down at his feet under the bed coverings. “Nothing.”
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You will not hurt my feelings.”
“He said you were no more loyal than a halfpenny whore.” He paused. “It’s not a very nice word, is it?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not. But he is wrong, Eachann. I love your grandfather and will always be his daughter, but my loyalty belongs to your father and has since I married him, just as yours now belongs to him.” Divided loyalties had interfered in her marriage before; she would not let them again. “Do you understand?”
He nodded solemnly.
She smiled. “Good, then try to get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”
She pressed another kiss on his forehead and closed the door to the small ambry attached to her bedchamber behind her.
She startled at the shadowy figure looming in the bedchamber, relaxing when she recognized Eoin. But good gracious would she ever get used to his size? In a low voice so that Eachann wouldn’t hear, she asked, “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.” His fists clenched. “I should have killed the bastard. How could he tell my son I didn’t want him?”
Margaret didn’t know; nor would she make any excuses for him. “Eachann knows the truth now. That’s what’s important.”
But Eoin would not be so easily pacified. “Your father has poisoned him against me. God knows what other lies he’s told him!”
Margaret didn’t want to contemplate. “Eachann will see they are lies. Just give him some time.”
“I’ve lost too much time as it is.” She could hear the emotion in his voice as he raked his fingers through his hair. “He’s five, Maggie. Five.”
Margaret looked at the devastation on his face and knew she had to do something. “He cried horribly when he was a babe—and always in the middle of the night. I didn’t sleep for almost a year. He would screech until my ears were ringing, and I thought I’d go mad.”
Eoin frowned, clearly taken aback. “He did?”
She nodded. “Aye, it was horrible. But not as bad as all those dirty cloths.”
The frown turned to befuddlement. “Cloths?”
“Aye.” She shivered. “It was amazing such a foul smell could come from one tiny creature.”
His mouth twisted with amusement. “That’s disgusting.”
“Not half as disgusting as cleaning up when his nursemaid wasn’t around, I assure you.”
He held her gaze, a wry smile curving his mouth. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”
Her mouth quirked. “Maybe a little. But I’m just pointing out that not everything was coos and goos, and cute little baby faces. There were plenty of days I felt like pulling out my hair. And I’m sure there will be plenty more for you to look forward to.”
“Thanks—I think.”
She laughed, and then asked, “Was there something you wanted? From the sounds below, the celebrating is just getting started.”
“It is, but I wanted to make sure you both had everything you needed.”
She smiled. “We’re fine, Eoin. You don’t need to check up on us. Enjoy your celebration. I know you must have been waiting for this for a long time.”
Given what had happened years ago, she would not begrudge him his victory, even if it was at the expense of her father and clansmen.
But what would become of the once proud and ancient clan of MacDowell? Eoin had her undivided loyalty, but that didn’t mean she stopped loving her family.
He stepped closer to her, and she couldn’t prevent the resulting quickening of her heartbeat—or of her breath.
The passion they’d shared last night only heightened her body’s reaction to him. Every nerve ending seemed to flush with awareness and not a small amount of anticipation.
She’d forgotten everything. Forgotten how good it was between them. Forgotten how it felt to experience the kind of all-consuming pleasure that grabbed you deep down and wouldn’t let go. Forgotten how it felt to have his weight on top of her, how it felt to have him inside her—filling her. And most of all, she’d forgotten how it felt to shatter into a million tiny pieces of bliss.
Six years of abstinence would not be sated by one night. First Tristan, and then when he’d tired of waiting for her mourning to be over, Sir John, had tried to make their relationship intimate, but it had felt wrong—disloyal somehow even to a husband she thought dead.
Ironic, given that . . .
She tried to push the thought away that had lodged in her head the night before, when she realized the difference in her husband’s lovemaking. He made love like a man—an experienced man. With all the confidence and finesse of someone who knew exactly how to bring a woman pleasure.
Her chest squeezed. She had no right to expect six years of abstinence from him, but being confronted with the proof otherwise hurt.
He stared down at her. “I have been waiting for this day for a long time, but strangely I don’t feel much like celebrating.” He smiled a little deviously for someone usually so serious. “At least not with the men below.”
The gaze that swept over her body and lingered left her no doubt of what he meant. But Margaret was determined not to fall into the trap of passion again. She wanted to be close to him—not just physically—and she sensed there was something about the warriors he was with all the time that was important.
She took a step back. “Tell me about them.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“The men you are always with. Ewen Lamont, Magnus MacKay . . .” She was about to say the good-looking man MacKay was always with, but then realized that wasn’t exactly descriptive, as she would have had to be blind not to notice his friends were all rather uncommonly attractive. “The dark-haired warrior he’s always with, Robbie Boyd, and the three scary-looking Islesmen.” There may have been one or two others, but they were the ones she could remember.
Had she not been watching him closely, she would have missed the surprise that crossed his gaze before the blank mask dropped over his face. He’s hiding something.
“What do you wish to know?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, you seem unusually close, that’s all. It’s odd to see men of different clans fighting together rather than with their own.” She frowned; most of the men in Robert Bruce’s retinue were well known—Douglas, Randolph, Edward Bruce, James the Steward, Robert Keith, Neil Campbell, Alexander Lindsay, David Barclay, and Hugh of Ross. “Are you part of the king’s retinue?”
“Not exactly, although I often fight with them.” He closed the distance between them, not un-coincidentally she suspected, backing her to the most dominant piece of furniture in the small chamber: the bed. “Why are you so curious about them, Maggie?” His voice was husky as he brushed the back of his finger over the curve of her cheek. When he dropped it down her throat, over her pulse to the curve of her breasts, and leaned down closer, her breath quickened. “Do I have cause to be jealous?”
Heat roared up her cheeks. “Of course not!”
“Good. They’re all happily married anyway.”
“I wasn’t—”
He cut off her protest with a kiss. A long, slow, thoroughly distracting kiss.
Though she suspected it was intentional, she decided to let him get away with it. She had to be patient. She wanted to know about him—about what he did—but sharing and trust would not come overnight. And in the meantime . . .
He was awfully good at distracting.
The muscles in the back of his neck tensed with the sound of laughter. Eoin had to force himself not to turn around again. He knew what he would see.
Bloody hell, he thought with not an insignificant amount of irritation. Maybe they should have ridden to Kerrera after all. When Hawk had offered to sail them to Gylen on his way to Spoon Island to see his own family, Eoin had jumped at the chance to avoid the drudgery of overland travel and long days in the saddle—especially with his sore knee. By ship, the journey that could take weeks depending on the roads would be only a matter of days. Although the sea roads between Dumfries and the Argyll coast could be dangerous—and Eoin would not have chanced it on his own—with the best seafarer in a kingdom of seafarers at the helm, Eoin was confident that they would be able to outrun any trouble.
MacSorley had saved their hides more times than he could count, and Eoin trusted the brash West Highland chieftain with not only his life, but his wife and son’s. But why the hell did he have to be so damned likable?
MacSorley was wickedly funny, could charm the habit off a nun, and never took anything too seriously. In short, he was everything Eoin wasn’t. Which was why watching his son—the son who’d barely said three words to him—hanging on his friend’s every word, spellbound by the big Gall-Gaedhil (who looked more Viking than Gael), grated. Margaret wasn’t helping matters any; she was laughing at Hawk’s jests just as hard as the lad, damn it.
Why was he surprised? Hawk and Margaret were two sides of the same coin. He frowned. At least they used to be. When he’d first met Hawk, Eoin had been struck by their similar personalities. But Margaret had changed, he realized. She no longer walked into the room with the brash, swaggering confidence of a pirate taking over a ship; she didn’t say outrageous things or make irreverent jokes; and she dressed as fine as any English noblewoman, with her bold, dramatic locks tucked neatly and modestly behind a veil—although she was having a devil of a time with the wind. He smiled, watching her struggle to tame the red strands from whipping wildly around her head.
She was far more quiet and reserved, and although her beauty would always set her apart, she no longer stuck out like a peacock in a flock of wrens. She was the type of decorous noblewoman who would make any man proud. Which was exactly what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?
Turning around, he caught sight of her face twinkling with laughter, and it clobbered him in the chest with the force of a taber. He was a bloody fool. He’d been drawn to her precisely because she was so different—because she was so special. She’d brought out a side of him no one ever had before. He’d felt lighter when he was with her. Happier. The world hadn’t seemed quite so grave and not everything so dire. His life had felt broader than the narrow field of battle.
No wonder she’d been so unhappy at Kerrera. He’d forced her into a mold of conventionality and made her feel as if she wasn’t good enough for him the way she was. But she’d been perfect.
He wanted the girl he’d married back. He wanted her to be happy again. He wanted her naughty and a little outrageous. He wanted to see her hair flowing down her back and her head bent over a horse as she tore uninhibited across the countryside. He wanted her to look at him as if she couldn’t wait to swive him senseless.
The way she was laughing right now made him think that it might not be too late.
But as soon as their eyes met, she seemed to catch herself. The girlish smile fell from her face and her laugh seemed suddenly more restrained.
Guilt stabbed, and he swore he would do what he could to make it up to her. “Get your family in order,” the king had said before he left. Eoin intended to do just that.
But it would be a hell of a lot easier if he could confide in her about his role in Bruce’s army. He hated keeping her in the dark, and if her questions about the Guard were any indication, her perceptiveness was going to make it difficult.
As the coast of Galloway disappeared into the morning mist, he took his turn at the oars, focusing on the steady rhythm of the blade cutting through the waves, rather than the goings-on at the back of the ship. But he could hear them.
“I have a son about your age,” MacSorley’s deep voice rang out.
“You do?” Eachann asked. “How old is he?”
“He’ll be five just after midsummer.”
“I’m already five,” Eachann said proudly. “My birthday was on All Saints’ Day.”
Eoin’s gut stabbed; he hadn’t even known that.
“I should have guessed,” MacSorley said, laughter in his voice. “You are much bigger than Duncan.”
“I am?” Eachann couldn’t hide his surprise. “My grandfather said I had to eat more or I would never grow big and strong enough to be a warrior.”
“You can be whatever you want, Eachann,” Margaret interjected firmly. “You don’t have to be as tall as the captain to be a warrior—if that is what you want to be.”
From the way that Margaret hastened to respond, Eoin sensed the lad’s size was a tender spot. Was he small? Eoin didn’t have much experience with boys his age, but supposed he could be. Eachann was built like his brother Donald. Donald was two years older than Eoin, but Eoin had been a head taller than him by the time they were thirteen. Donald was lean and wiry, as opposed to muscular like Eoin and their eldest brother, Neil. It had bothered Donald, too, until he’d found his strength. Like MacSorley, his brother excelled at seafaring.
MacSorley must have picked up on the sore spot as well. “Your mother is right, lad. In fact, I even know a lass who can flip me on my backside. And she has . . . more than once,” he grumbled.
“She must have been a big lass,” Eachann said, clearly not sure whether to believe him.
MacSorley laughed. “I’m afraid not. She’s about Peter’s size.” He pointed to the youth, who was only a few inches over five feet and probably seven stone soaking wet.
“Now I know you’re jesting,” Eachann said.
“Her name is Cate and she’s betrothed to a friend of mine.” He paused. “At least they were betrothed until . . .” He waved it off. “No matter. She also happens to be the king’s daughter.”
“But the king’s daughter is in an English convent,” Eachann said.
“I think he means the king’s natural daughter,” Margaret said.
“You mean she’s a bastard?” Eachann asked.
Eoin’s mouth tightened. He didn’t need to turn to feel the boy’s gaze land on his back. Damn Dugald MacDowell to Hades!
“Eachann . . .” Margaret started.
But MacSorley only laughed. “Aye, I suppose she is. But I wouldn’t call her that if I were you, or she might put you on your backside.”
Eoin had heard about how Gregor MacGregor’s intended had been trained in warfare and had managed to flip the big, always-ready-with-a-jest Viking while practicing. The other Guardsmen had been needling MacSorley about it ever since. Eoin would have given a month’s wages to have seen it.
Tired of watching from afar while Hawk entertained his son, Eoin moved off the oars. He was going to see if Eachann wanted to help him with the navigation, when he heard MacSorley ask, “Would you like to hold the ropes for a while?”
“Me? Really? You mean it?”
Eoin quickly sat back down at the excitement in his son’s voice. Rough maps of the shoreline and a sun compass could hardly compete with holding the riggings.
He didn’t realize he was frowning until Margaret sat down beside him. “Your friend is amusing. He reminds me of someone, although I can’t think who.”
Eoin hid a smile, wondering how long it would take her to figure out it was herself.
She lowered her voice. “Eachann is scared. He isn’t deliberately trying to hurt you. He just doesn’t know what to say. Your friend MacSorley is easier—there is nothing at stake with him.”
Christ. Was he that easy to read? He didn’t bother denying it. “I tried talking to him this morning before we left, but he couldn’t seem to get away quickly enough.”
“What did you talk about?”
He shrugged. “Nothing in particular. I asked if he had a favorite weapon he liked to practice with and mentioned that I was looking forward to his training when we arrived at Kerrera.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She bit her lip as if debating something. After a minute, she reached a decision. Her gaze held a hint of challenge when she said, “I don’t think Eachann is very interested in warfare.”
Her words took him aback. “I thought every little boy was interested in warfare.” He hadn’t thought of anything else.
Her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “Not Eachann.”
He sensed a slight defensiveness and guessed that like the boy’s size, the subject was a sensitive one. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why. Dugald MacDowell only raised warriors. But frankly, given that was all Eoin thought about—at least until he’d met Margaret—he’d assumed he would as well.
He thought for a moment. “What is he interested in?”
“Books. He reads everything he can get his hands on. He likes to build things.” She gestured toward the compass. “He’d probably be interested in that. He likes to know how things work.”
The beginnings of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Perhaps his son was like him in other ways. “The lad is clever?”
Her mouth twitched. “You could say that. He’s already beating me at chess.”
“Well, that’s not exactly saying much.”
“Eoin!” she shoved his shoulder. “That isn’t very nice.”
He laughed. “Maybe not, but it’s true. Patience has never been your forte, but you do have other . . . uh, talents.”
The meaningful look he gave her sent a blush roaring up her cheeks, but she drew up primly. “Aye, well you’ve never been very patient either when it comes to certain things.”
He laughed again. She was right. He still wasn’t patient when it came to her. They had six years of catching up to do, and he couldn’t wait to get her back to Kerrera to start.
Their laughter had caught the attention of their son. As soon as Eoin’s gaze met his, the little boy turned away. Eoin sighed, realizing he was going to need quite a bit of patience when it came to his son.
Margaret was sad to have to say goodbye to the strapping seafarer. It wasn’t just that she liked Erik MacSorley—which she did (she hadn’t laughed like that in years)—it also meant that they’d arrived at their destination.
As the flat, green hillsides and dark, rocky seashores of the Isle of Kerrera came into view, she had to admit she’d felt more than one pang of apprehension and doubt. But any worries that she was doing the right thing had faded when she remembered seeing those two dark-blond heads bent together for the first time. Her throat still grew tight just thinking about it.
As they’d left the small island off the shore of Ireland where they’d spent the night, Eoin had taken her advice and asked Eachann if he wanted to learn how to navigate the ship. Though hesitant, their too curious son had been unable to resist the temptation of the flat piece of wood with curved marks drawn from the sun’s shadow on a vertical pointer. He’d asked dozens of questions, which Margaret quickly lost interest in, but which Eoin didn’t seem to mind. She had to admit it was nice to have someone else to answer Eachann’s never-ending questions, with increasing focus on the minutest details, that sometimes taxed Margaret’s motherly patience.
She could almost see the boy’s mind working as he tried to figure out a way to improve the accuracy of the crude instrument. Eachann liked to build things. Not forts and castles out of mud and sticks like the other boys, but useful things. Things that made tasks easier for people. She’d never forget when he read about the great horologe at Canterbury Cathedral that sounded the time with bells. It used weights rather than water, and before her failed wedding the boy had been experimenting with building his own cloc, the Gaelic word for bell. He’d been so excited, he’d talked nonstop about it for days.
He was that way now. The difference this time was that he had an equally intrigued audience. Her mouth twisted with a smile. Maybe not an audience but an enthusiastic cohort.
Eoin had been surprised to hear that his son didn’t seem to have much interest in being a warrior, but he’d recovered faster than she expected. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem disappointed. Actually, as the conversation intensified, Eoin’s pride in the boy became readily apparent.
She was doing the right thing. Her son needed this. A father who was proud of him—who understood him—no matter what he chose to do was worth any risk to her heart.
Buoyed by the first signs of softening in her son’s attitude toward his father, Margaret bid farewell to the handsome seafarer with the devilish grin, who was eager to return to his wife and children, and held Eachann’s hand tightly as they followed Eoin up the sea-gate stairs to the square stone keep of Gylen Castle, which sat perched on the cliff overlooking the sea. She needed all of that encouragement as she gazed up and saw the couple waiting to greet them. Her heartbeat quickened, and a familiar dread draped over her like a soggy plaid, the uncomfortable weight of it dragging her down.
Margaret knew Eoin had sent a missive to his parents, apprising them of Eachann’s existence, but there hadn’t been time to inform them of their arrival. She harbored no illusions on her own account—Eoin’s parents were hardly likely to welcome her with open arms—but for Eachann’s sake, she hoped they would hide their disdain.
The thought that her son might think less of her was something she couldn’t bear.
Eoin was a few steps ahead of them, presumably to give his parents a quick warning, but it proved unnecessary. Lady Rignach’s gaze seemed to find hers instantly. Beneath the surprise, Margaret would have sworn she saw what looked like relief before the other woman’s eyes shifted down to the side. Her face lost every trace of color, and she might have slid to the ground had her husband not caught her by the arm.
The proud chief looked almost as shaken when he realized why his wife had almost swooned.
Eachann was not a timid boy, but when the two imposing figures stared at him as if he were a strange creature from a menagerie, he drew in tight against her.
Lady Rignach’s fingers went to her lips. The dark eyes that turned back to Eoin were shimmering with tears. “My God, he looks just like you. I’d feared . . .”
Her voice dropped off.
Margaret stiffened, realizing what she’d feared: that the boy wasn’t his.
But a few moments later, she wondered if she’d been mistaken. The gaze that met hers now wasn’t filled with derision or animosity but with gratitude. “Thank you for bringing him here. After what happened, I feared nothing could make you come back.”
Margaret would have thought Lady Rignach would consider that a good thing, if she hadn’t been looking at her with such obvious relief.
Feeling as if she’d just stepped into some kind of faerie hole, Margaret didn’t know what to say. But with her hand losing feeling from being squeezed so tight and the small body pressing against her side in danger of giving her bruises, she shook off the disquiet. “Eachann.” She drew the boy forward. “These are your grandparents, Lady Rignach and Laird Gillemore, Chief of MacLean.”
Eachann, looking very serious, gave them a short, formal bow, murmuring that he was glad to meet them.
Lady Rignach looked at the boy with such longing Margaret thought she might try to pull him into her arms.
Apparently, Eoin thought so as well. To save the boy from being more overwhelmed than he already was, Eoin stepped in front of him. “Should we go inside? It has been a long journey, and we are all tired.”
“Of course,” the laird said. “Your mother will have some rooms prepared.”
“Room,” Eoin said firmly. “My wife and I will share my chamber, and my son will sleep in the antechamber.” If there was any doubt about her place, there wasn’t any longer. Even Margaret was surprised by the leave-no-room-for-objection tone.
She quirked a brow, but his only reply was a forbidding frown, which she assumed was his way of telling her to behave.
Trying not to laugh, she followed Eoin and his parents into the Great Hall. Not much had changed in the years since she’d been here last. The room could have rivaled one at any royal palace. Fine tapestries hung on the freshly limed walls, colorful cloths covered the rows of trestle tables, and the table on the raised dais was adorned with heavily embossed silver candelabrum and other rich plate.
As it was late afternoon and the midday meal had already been completed, the Hall was relatively quiet. They hadn’t been expected, so a feast had not been prepared, but Lady Rignach promised that would be rectified on the morrow. The clansmen would be eager to meet the laird’s grandson. His first grandchild, Margaret realized. Apparently, Marjory had yet to have a child. Sensing the subject was a painful one, she did not ask any more questions.
From the little Eoin had told her about his sister and foster brother, Fin had made his peace with Bruce and was now serving as the laird’s henchman. He and Marjory would live in a new tower being added to the castle, but for now were residing in a house in the village.
Margaret admitted she’d wanted to turn back when Eoin had told her of his presence on the isle that first night of their journey, but pride had prevented her. She would not let Fin drive her away. She might not be as convinced as Eoin that Fin had changed, but she was willing to try to put the past in the past.
Though she was just grateful not to have to do so right now. There were only a few clansmen gathered in the Hall, and Fin was not among them.
Without thinking, Margaret almost took a seat at the table just below the hie burde—the high table—where she’d so often sat with Tilda (who had married and moved away a few years ago). But Eoin drew her forward to the place where his mother was waiting at the dais. She sat between Eoin and Eachann as they took their seats on the end of the long bench. Lady Rignach looked like she was contemplating squeezing in beside them, but the laird steered her to the middle of the table.
Eoin and his father filled most of the conversation, as they enjoyed a light meal of roasted fowl and mutton, cheese, and bread. Eachann was very subdued, although he did revive a bit when a few pies and cakes were brought out for him to sample.
Margaret was laughing to herself as she noticed how he and Eoin chose the exact same plum pie and spiced cake, when she looked up and caught her mother-in-law’s teary but also amused gaze. Clearly, she’d noticed it as well, and for the first time the two women who couldn’t have been more different shared a moment of understanding.
Margaret didn’t know what to think. She’d expected politeness from Eoin’s proud mother, but this seemed to be something more. Was she perhaps not the only one trying to put the past in the past?
It seemed so. Before they retired to their chamber, Lady Rignach pulled Margaret aside.
“I owe you an apology,” the older woman said. Though over six years had passed since Margaret had seen her, Lady Rignach had not changed much. She was still an attractive woman, though she must be a few years past fifty.
Margaret was too taken aback to respond.
“You were my son’s wife, and I should have made you feel welcome. I should have made you feel as if you could come to me with whatever problems you were having with Finlaeie.” Her face hardened with distaste. “I knew something was wrong. I should have never let Marjory marry him, but she was so sure he loved her.” She gave a shake as if she’d said too much and met Margaret’s gaze again. “My deepest regret is that you felt your only choice was to leave. I . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I was a fool and listened to gossip. You were right, I should have trusted my son’s judgment.” Her gaze drifted over to where Eachann stood with Eoin and the longing there was almost palpable. “It nearly cost me my son and my grandson.”
Apparently Eoin had held his mother partially responsible for Margaret’s leaving.
Seeing the proud lady humbled might have once been satisfying, but Eoin’s mother wasn’t the only one haunted by regret. Margaret, too, had made her share of mistakes. She hadn’t known how to relate to the great lady any better than Lady Rignach had known how to relate to the wild, backward girl she’d been. Margaret had stormed in here paying no heed to rules or customs. She’d done what she wanted without any thought for how that would reflect on her husband or his family.
She doubted they could ever be friends, but perhaps they could learn to accept one another. Besides, they had two important people in common: Eoin and Eachann.
“That was a long time ago,” Margaret said. “We both did things we regret, but as we cannot change them, perhaps we could try to start anew?”
“I should like that,” Lady Rignach said solemnly.
“Mother,” Eoin said with an unmistakable note of warning in his voice. “Is there a problem?”
Margaret hadn’t realized he’d come up behind her. For such a large man, he moved like a cat. It was a little disconcerting.
Before Lady Rignach could reply, Margaret put her hand on his arm reassuringly. “Everything is fine.” She did not need him to rescue her, although she appreciated the effort. “I was just going to ask your mother if she would like to go with me and Eachann to Oban on Monday. I should like him to meet the nuns at the convent.”
“I could take you,” Eoin said, perhaps anticipating his mother’s objection.
But Lady Rignach was not about to object; she jumped at the opportunity to be with her grandson. “I should be honored to accompany you.”
Margaret nodded. They had a long way to go, but it was a start.
She turned to her husband and felt her heart squeeze with longing. A start. Right now that was all she could ask for.