27
MARGARET’S EMOTIONS had swung from despair and heartbreak to elation and happiness in the matter of a few minutes. Were it not for the danger and the worry that accompanied the revelation, her happiness would have been complete.
For the first time since the early days of their marriage, she had hope for the future. The closeness beyond the bedchamber that she craved seemed possible. She and Eoin had turned an important corner. Her patience had been rewarded, and he had confided in her. Maybe not everything—she knew there was something bigger and more significant that he was not telling her—but it was an important first step.
He trusted her, and she vowed to be worthy of that trust.
Of course, she didn’t expect to have that vow put to the test less than twenty-four hours later.
She’d spent the morning with Lady Rignach and the steward, while Eachann worked with his new tutor. Margaret had been surprised to be included in the meeting, and even more surprised when Lady Rignach asked her opinion on a few purchases. Apparently, she’d learned how Margaret had repaid the nuns at the convent for teaching her to read and write.
Margaret didn’t think the proud lady would relinquish her role as chatelaine anytime soon, but the fact that she was willing to include Margaret at all showed a clear intention on her part to make Margaret feel more a part of the household. And maybe even some day, part of the family.
The person most resistant to that asked to see her after the midday meal. While Lady Rignach took Eachann to the stable to see a new foal, Marjory sat with Margaret in the garden to apologize.
Though Marjory was only a year older than Margaret’s five and twenty, the past years had taken their toll. Few vestiges of girlish prettiness remained behind the lines of disappointment and heartbreak. Whether it was her marriage or her inability to have a child thus far that was responsible, Margaret didn’t know. Perhaps it was both. But the proud, spoiled young beauty was a forlorn shadow.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Marjory said, her hands twisting in her lap. “I just wanted . . .” Her eyes filled with tears. “You to go away like before.”
“Was it so perfect for you when I was gone?”
Margaret spoke quietly, but Marjory’s eyes widened as if the words were an explosion. She stared at her almost in shock. The first tear slid down her cheek and her lower lip quivered when she shook her head. “Nay. It wasn’t perfect at all. Fin never loved me. I think he married me only to be closer to Eoin. When you left, he blamed me.”
Margaret pursed her mouth. “That’s ridiculous. You know why I left.”
It was a challenge, not a question.
Marjory nodded, the tears rolling full force now. “Aye, I saw everything—except that I didn’t want to believe it. I thought he loved me. I convinced myself that you had to have done something to make him kiss you. But in my heart I knew.”
Margaret sighed deeply, almost feeling sorry for her. “Then why did you marry him?”
The other woman shrugged, her chest heaving from her sobs, and wiped away some of the tears with the back of her hand. “I thought once you were gone, I could make him love me. I thought that when I gave him a son . . .” Her voice fell off. “Fin says I’m barren, but I know this baby was a sign and next time . . .”
Margaret’s heart went out to the other woman, but she feared Marjory was pinning all her hopes on the wrong thing. A baby wouldn’t make her husband love her. She wasn’t even sure Fin was capable of that kind of emotion. She wasn’t surprised that he’d put the blame for their lack of a child on his wife either.
Marjory looked up at her. “But then you came back, and he wants you again.”
Margaret shook her head. “He may have once, but that was a long time ago. I think he despises me more than anything else. He doesn’t look at me like that now.”
Now he looked at her as if he couldn’t wait to see her gone. There was something cold in his eyes . . . She gave an involuntary shudder, but she had no intention of letting him scare her away this time.
Marjory’s tear-streaked face stared back at her. “What if he’s just better at hiding it?”
Margaret shook her head. “I don’t think so.” But whether it was true or in Marjory’s imagination didn’t matter. It never had. “I love your brother, Marjory. I have always loved your brother. There was never anyone else for me from the first moment I saw him.”
The other woman looked into her eyes, perhaps seeing the truth for the first time: Margaret wasn’t a threat. If she wanted someone to blame for her unhappy marriage, she would have to look somewhere else.
Feeling as if she’d turned an important corner with her sister-in-law, Margaret left the garden with an even greater sense of optimism for the future.
But just when it looked like she was finally finding a way to fit into her new life, her old one came back threatening to destroy all the inroads she’d made.
She was on her way to the stables in the late afternoon when she noticed a monk walking toward her across the yard from the sea gate. He wore the brown robe of a friar, and though the skies were clear, a hood covered his head, hiding his face from view. But that wasn’t what drew her attention. It was the way he walked. Erect. Proud. Like a warrior, not a poor, humble churchman.
Curious, but also slightly uneasy, she looked around to make sure they weren’t alone. The yard wasn’t crowded, but a half dozen of the laird’s guardsmen were practicing a shout’s distance nearby.
Reassured by their presence, she started to greet the newcomer, who was now only a few feet away. “Welcome, Father, might I help . . .” Her voice trailed off as the face beneath the hood came into view.
Her breath jammed in her chest.
“Brother,” her brother Duncan corrected under his breath, taking her hands in his as if in blessing. “Not Father.”
Margaret was too stunned to react. She’d frozen in place.
“Christ, Maggie Beag. Do you want me thrown in the pit? Pretend like you are giving me directions to the kirk.”
He released her hands, and she recovered enough to realize he’d pressed a note into her palm. Slipping it into her skirts with one hand, she pointed out the gate with the other. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
But he was already heading toward the gate. “Rescuing you,” he said in parting. “Be ready.”
Margaret’s heart was still fluttering wildly as she carefully unfolded the parchment in her chamber a few minutes later. The hastily scratched letters in black ink jumbled in her head. She had to read it a few times to realize that her brother and his men would be at the anchorage on the other side of the island tomorrow just after dusk to “rescue” her and Eachann and take them to the Isle of Man, where they could be reunited with their family.
Apparently, her brothers had surrendered Buittle Castle to Bruce as well and joined her father in exile. Duncan was obviously under the impression that she and Eachann had been coerced into going with Eoin.
Margaret cursed her father, knowing he was responsible for that. She wondered if Dugald MacDowell realized what danger he’d put his son in by giving him that impression—and by the problems he’d created for her. Though Margaret was moved by the risk her brother had taken to come to her aid, his showing up like this was going to make things difficult
Now, Eoin wasn’t the only one with secrets.
A few hours before dawn Eoin made his way up the sea-gate stairs. His knee screamed in agony with every step, but he didn’t mind. He was damned lucky to be alive, and he knew it.
Still, he was furious. He’d barely exchanged one word with Campbell the entire way back. But he could sense the other man’s question—a question Eoin didn’t want to hear.
It wasn’t her, damn it!
But how had it gone so wrong? Not only had Eoin’s perfect plan to trap Lorn’s men been foiled, they’d been the ones nearly caught in a net.
Eoin and Campbell, along with a team of Campbell’s best warriors—about fifteen men in total—had been in position on the western ridge of the Glen Stockdale overlooking Loch Linnhe and the fort of Stalker by dusk after leaving Gylen. From there they could see Lorn’s men land on the Appin shore and then be ready for a surprise attack when the MacDougalls made their way inland to their tenants at Glenamuckrach.
Eoin and the team of warriors had lain in wait the first night to no avail. Taking advantage of some nearby caves to rest during the day, they’d emerged at nightfall to take position for the second night.
The MacDougalls were waiting for them. A hail of arrows had rained down on them from behind. The men on watch had been looking to the west, but the MacDougalls had taken a circuitous route from the east, approaching Appin overland rather than by sea. Almost as if they knew someone was waiting for them.
Five of Campbell’s men had been killed in the first few minutes. Campbell had taken an arrow in the back, but the thick leather and providentially located steel studs of his cotun had prevented it from sinking into his flesh. Eoin had been lucky to be wearing a steel helm and mail coif, or the arrow that struck him just below the ear would have killed him.
Despite their small fighting force being cut by over a third those first few minutes, they’d rallied and fought off the attackers, who outnumbered them by at least two-to-one. The MacDougalls had eventually fallen back, but with three more of Campbell’s men dead and another four wounded, giving chase was not an option.
Not all MacDougalls, a voice reminded him. He wished that voice would shut the hell up. He didn’t need reminding to recall seeing Margaret’s brother Duncan and at least a dozen MacDowells fighting alongside their distant kinsmen.
It didn’t mean anything. It could hardly be considered a surprise that the MacDowells had joined the MacDougalls. They’d all known the MacDowell submission wouldn’t last.
He and Campbell had gathered their men and sailed back to Gylen, if not in defeat then in something coming damned close to it.
How the hell had it gone so wrong? Had someone warned them? But that wasn’t possible. No one had known their plan. Except for . . .
Eoin knew what Campbell was thinking—because he’d thought the same thing, damn it—but Margaret couldn’t have betrayed them. Even if he thought her capable—which he didn’t—unless she’d sprouted wings and learned how to fly, there hadn’t been time for her to tell anyone.
There had to be another explanation. He would find it. As much for Campbell as for his own piece of mind.
His father must have had his men watching for him, as the locked gate was opened by the time Eoin reached the top of the stairs. He would have gone straight to the kitchens to rid himself of all the grime and blood of battle, but his father was waiting for him in his solar. He wasn’t alone—Fin was with him.
His father’s gaze swept over him, taking in every detail of Eoin’s appearance. “Are you hurt?”
Eoin shook his head. Pain in the knee was to be expected, and it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He’d fought with much worse. “The blood isn’t mine.”
His father nodded, his face turning grim. “From your expression, I’m assuming your trip was unsuccessful?”
Eoin frowned, with a glance toward Fin. “It was.”
His father’s grimace deepened. Understanding Eoin’s silent communication, he explained, “Fin is here for a reason. He has some . . . distressing information.”
Eoin turned to his foster brother for an explanation.
“You aren’t going to like it,” Fin said bluntly. “Maybe there’s an explanation.”
Sleeping a few hours in a cave, being ambushed, and nearly killed weren’t exactly conducive to patience. “Whatever it is you have to say, Fin, just say it.”
“Your wife was seen talking to a monk yesterday.”
Christ, what the hell was Fin getting at? “And?”
“There was something odd about the man. I followed him into the village kirk, but he hit me from behind. By the time I woke, he was gone.” From the way Fin and his father were looking at him, Eoin knew he wasn’t going to like what Fin said next. He didn’t. “I caught a glimpse of him before he hit me. It was Duncan MacDowell.”
Eoin’s expression gave no hint of the blow Fin had just dealt him, but inside he felt as if every bone had shattered, splintering into a million pieces. He remained standing by sheer force of will, but they could have toppled him with a nudge.
It didn’t mean anything.
Unless it did.
Margaret woke to the warmth of the sun streaming through the shutters. She stretched lazily, feeling a little bit like a well-satisfied cat, and opened her eyes.
She gave a sudden start at the man sitting in the corner watching her, but then smiled when she realized who it was. Relief swept over her. “Eoin! You’re back!” She frowned, peering at him in the shadows. “Why are you sitting there like that? You startled me.”
He remained perfectly still, not reacting to her words. “Watching you sleep. You look like an angel.”
There was something strange—almost accusatory—in his voice that made her skin prickle.
He stood and walked toward the bed.
She gasped at his appearance and sat up quickly. Blood and dirt were splattered and streaked all over his face and clothing. He looked like a man who’d just climbed from the pits of hell. “My God, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
She attempted to reach for him, but he took her wrist and brought her hand firmly back down to the side. “I’m fine.”
Her heart jumped. For despite his words, she knew by the intensity of his gaze that something was wrong—very wrong. Margaret was used to being caught in the hold of those dark, piercing blue eyes, but this was different. She felt like a bug under a magnifying lens, as if every move was being scrutinized. “What happened?”
“That’s exactly what I want to know.”
“Did you find the MacDougalls?”
“You might say that. And what of you, Margaret?” He changed the subject. “What did you do while I was gone?”
There seemed to be a purpose to his question that she didn’t understand. She answered tentatively—everything about him made her tentative. He was drawn as tight as a bow—the muscles in his arms and shoulders taut and straining.
“Your mother asked for my help with the steward yesterday, while Eachann worked with his new tutor. I think he was in heaven.” She laughed, but he was oddly silent.
“Anything else?”
The question seemed innocuous, but she knew it wasn’t. She tried not to think of the note that had been reduced to embers in her brazier. “I spoke with Marjory. She apologized. I think she is truly sorry for what she did.”
Again, no reaction except he continued to watch—scrutinize—with unsettling intensity. Her heart started to beat faster. Did he know something or was guilt making her imagine it?
Blast her father for putting her in this position! Duty and loyalty to her husband warred with that to her brother. She wanted to tell Eoin about Duncan, but she didn’t want to put her brother at risk.
Could she trust Eoin to do nothing with the information that Duncan was in the area?
She knew the answer. If she told Eoin he would be in the same position as her: caught between divided loyalties. If he used the knowledge he would betray her, but if he didn’t, and Duncan did something against Bruce, he would feel as if he’d let down the king.
Margaret wouldn’t put him in that position of having to choose between two loyalties. She would tell him, but only once Duncan had gone.
“Nothing else?”
Whether it was his persistence or his tone, she didn’t know, but every instinct flared. Still, she didn’t heed the warning and shook her head.
His eyes never left her face. “We were set upon by Lorn’s men last night.”
“Oh, Eoin!” She moved to her knees, wanting to throw her arms around him in relief that he’d not been injured or worse, but he pulled back stiffly.
“I think they were warned.”
Her eyes widened. “But how? I thought you said no one knew your plans.”
“No one did.”
It was then that she understood his cold greeting. She pulled back, looking at him in horror. “You don’t think I said something?” But it was clear that was exactly what he thought. A wave of hurt crashed down on her, threatening to drag her under, but she forced herself to stay calm. “It wasn’t me, Eoin. I know the danger—I would never betray your confidence.”
His eyes scanned hers. “I want to believe that.”
She lifted her chin. “Then do. It’s the truth.”
“And what about your brother’s visit yesterday? The visit you failed to mention. What’s the truth about that, Margaret?”
The blood slid from her face. He had known. Oh God, she should have told him. He must be thinking the worst. How could she make him understand? “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.”
He made a sharp sound. “You must be jesting. You can’t seriously claim to have lied to me for ‘my own good’?”
Margaret bristled at his tone. “I didn’t lie to you. I was going to tell you when my brother left the area. But he’s my brother, Eoin. I don’t want to see him hurt any more than I do you. I did what I thought best under the circumstances. What would you have done had I told you? Would you have betrayed my confidence and gone after him or would you have ignored your duty to Bruce and let him go?”
His mouth fell in a flat line—clearly he didn’t like her question or being put on the spot. “It isn’t that simple. Nor is this about what I’ve done.” Taking her by the elbow, he drew her off the bed to stand before him. “What did you tell Duncan, Margaret?”
“Nothing.” She met his gaze square on. “I told him nothing.” Her eyes beseeched him to believe her, but his expression was set like stone and just as impenetrable.
“So it’s just a coincidence that your brother shows up here one day and that very night the MacDougalls not only avoid the trap we have for them, but turn it against us? A trap, I might add, that no one knew about but you.”
She lifted her chin. “Someone else must have known about it, because I didn’t tell him. My brother’s purpose here was not to spy on you or gather information. He was here to offer Eachann and me a way to leave. He was under the impression we were not here of our own volition and might be in need of rescue.”
His eyes sharpened to hard blue points. “And what did you tell him?”
“I didn’t have a chance to tell him anything. We barely exchanged two words. But I would have told him that we were quite happy here and in no need of rescue.” Now she wasn’t so sure. “I certainly didn’t share anything about where you were going or what you were planning. Why would I do that? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? I’ve been trying to figure it out myself. Did you let it slip out accidentally? Did he threaten you or Eachann?”
“I told you that I didn’t say anything. Is that so hard to believe?”
He didn’t respond, but just stared at her coldly—harshly.
Margaret felt her own temper spike. She thought they’d gotten past this. But maybe they would never be able to get past it. The newfound trust she’d been so excited by had crumbled at the first test. “So is this how it’s to be then? Am I to be the first one suspected whenever anything goes wrong no matter what I say? What about all those things you told me, Eoin—do they mean nothing? I thought you trusted me.”
“I did—or I never would have told you my plans.”
“And now?”
His mouth drew down in anger. “Now I wish to hell I’d kept my mouth shut.”
She flinched, her cheeks stinging as if he’d slapped her. “So not only am I suspected, but found guilty and condemned as well?”
He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Damn it, Maggie, look at the facts. What am I supposed to think?”
“I guess it’s too much to think that I might be telling the truth.”
His silence was answer enough.
“I won’t do this, Eoin. Not again. I made a mistake six years ago, but I wasn’t the only one to blame. You didn’t share enough with me for me to make the right decision. Had I known what you were involved in and had any sense of the danger, I never would have admitted to Brigid that you were there. For our marriage to work, there can’t be secrets between us. I won’t be half a wife. I love you, but I’m not going to live my life under suspicion. I need you to trust me. Right here, right now. Even when all the ‘facts’ tell you otherwise.”
“Or what?” he said furiously. “Are you still issuing ultimatums? Is it blind faith or nothing? That’s not the way it works, Margaret. You’re my wife, not my priest.”
A knock on the door startled them both. Eoin answered it, took the missive from the man who’d brought it—one of his father’s guardsmen—and read it quickly before turning back to her. She knew what he was going to say before he spoke. “I have to go,” he said grimly. “We’ll have to finish this discussion later.”
Later. It was always later with him. He never put her first. I have to go. Just be patient, Margaret. Stay here, Margaret. Don’t ask questions, Margaret. Be a good girl, and I’ll make it up to you in bed.
Well, she couldn’t do that anymore. “Of course,” she said tonelessly. “No doubt it’s important.”
He frowned, perhaps hearing something in her voice. “I won’t be long.”
“And if I asked where you were going?”
His mouth fell in a hard line. The answer was obvious. He wouldn’t tell her.
“Don’t worry,” she said, not letting on that he was tearing her heart to shreds—again. “I won’t ask.”
She turned away, feeling an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. She loved him, but it wasn’t enough. Hurt and disappointment stabbed; there was nothing more she could do. Maybe in another six years, he would realize she was telling the truth, but she wasn’t going to wait around hoping that day would come.
Once again, passion had deluded her into believing things had changed. But it was no different than it had been before. He would share his bed with her, but nothing else.
She’d done everything she could to try to regain his trust, but it would never be good enough. She would never be good enough. She was a wicked MacDowell. The enemy and an outsider.
She was done trying to prove herself to anyone. To hell with him. To hell with all of them.