17
THE CHILL OF his words followed her hours later. He hadn’t meant it, Margaret told herself. Eoin was angry. He wouldn’t try to take her son away from her . . . would he?
Years ago, she would have said it was impossible. The man she’d married would not be so cruel—no matter how angry he was with her. But Eoin was no longer the man she married, and guessing what this cold, imposing stranger might do seemed a fool’s gambit. The serious young man she’d fallen in love with had become a grim, caustic stranger.
But maybe that had been the problem all along. She had never really known him—not really. It had all happened too quickly. Love, marriage, passion—and not even in that order. The physical closeness they’d shared had given an illusion of more. They hadn’t had time to learn to trust one another before war had separated them.
Looking back with the perspective of time and maturity, she could see that they’d never really had a chance. They’d been too young. Too passionate. Too unsure of one another. It had been all fiery emotion and attraction, with a few precious moments of something deeper. Something that might have blossomed if given the chance to grow. Maybe if the war hadn’t come, it would have been different. But the war had come, and the fragile bonds between them had been strained to the breaking point. Love like everything else needed nourishment. Without it, it had died.
In so many ways, their marriage had been a mistake. They’d been too different. He’d wanted her to be something she was not. But it had also been right. She’d never felt about another man the way she did about Eoin. She’d tried—God knows, she’d tried—but he’d made her feel things she’d never felt before. Passion she’d never felt before. When they’d been together, she’d been unbearably happy. Which made their separation almost harder to take.
Mistake or not, she regretted the way they’d parted the last time. She never should have sent him away like that—with ultimatums and demands—but he should have given her something.
Words and promises had not been enough. The fierce lovemaking had not been enough. She’d needed tenderness and love, not lust. She’d needed trust and faith, not doubt and suspicion. She’d needed to know that she was important to him. That she mattered. That she wasn’t merely a bedtime distraction for the war that had always defined him.
She couldn’t believe he was alive. But the initial jump of hope in her heart for what this might mean had been swiftly crushed by the knowledge that he’d returned for her father, not her. Of course, he wanted nothing to do with her. And she . . . she didn’t know what to think. She’d accepted Eoin’s death, and put her love for him behind her. But seeing him again had brought it all back.
They’d been riding hard for about three hours, slowing only when they were forced to veer from the road near one of the larger castles, or, like now, when they had to pause to determine which fork in the road her father had taken. Although it was clear her father was heading for the Cumbrian coast, there were many different roads to get him there.
Out of the corner of her eye, she took advantage of the rare pause in their chase to observe her husband, who’d ridden up ahead of her to speak with the handsome, if stoic-looking, warrior who appeared to be leading the tracking of her father.
Her husband might have changed—the overly muscled scary-looking brigand was not the young warrior she remembered—but he was still undeniably handsome. Maybe even more so, time and battle having put a few more hard edges on his fiercely wrought features.
But that had never been what had attracted her. It had been something deeper—something far more elemental. It was the razor-sharpness of his mind, the aura of strength around him, and the way he looked at her. All that brooding intensity that had been impossible to resist. She’d wanted it for herself. She’d wanted to know what he was thinking. She’d wanted to be what he was thinking. And like a moth to the flame she’d been drawn in until they’d both gone up in flames.
Him in that pyre, and her in the pits of hell that she’d trudged through in the days after. She’d cried for days, unable to sleep or eat. She’d blamed herself and wanted to die—thought she deserved to die. If it hadn’t been for the discovery of her pregnancy, she might have done just that.
Eachann had given her a reason to live, and she’d be damned if she’d let the husband that had let her think he was dead for six years take him from her.
No matter what she’d done.
She’d made a mistake—a horrible one—but it hadn’t been intentional. She hadn’t thought she’d had a choice. But he had. Eoin had chosen to let her think he was dead, and in doing so, had cost her son a father for five years. If Eoin did not know his son, it wasn’t because of her.
Almost as if he knew what she was thinking, his eyes shifted to hers. Their gazes held for a long heartbeat, before his expression darkened and he resumed the conversation—if the brusque exchange of words could be considered a conversation—with the other warrior at what seemed a harsher clip.
Eoin hadn’t spoken to her since they left the church, and it appeared he was doing his best to pretend she didn’t exist. He should be good at it, with six years of practice. Now that the shock of his survival had waned, Margaret felt herself growing angry. How could he have done this?
Her anger only grew worse as the chase resumed. Despite the grueling pace, her father was eluding them. Margaret didn’t know whether to be sad or glad. Even with her father’s increased bitterness over the past few years, she still loved him and didn’t want to see him captured. After the slaughter at Loch Ryan and the execution of Bruce’s two brothers in the aftermath, she didn’t want to think about what kind of vengeance the king would take from the man responsible. Although “the Bruce,” as the people called him, had been remarkably conciliatory toward some of the men who’d stood against him—including the Earl of Ross, who’d violated sanctuary to capture his wife, daughter, sister, and the formidable Countess of Buchan—would he do the same for the man who’d turned over his two brothers to King Edward for certain execution?
He might. Which was one more sin her husband could lay at her feet. The Bruce had lived up to Eoin’s faith in him; the king and his “lost cause” had been good for Scotland. Margaret should have had more faith in her husband. But it had seemed so hopeless, and she’d been terrified of what would happen to him if King Edward caught up with them.
It wasn’t unlike the fear she felt now. Her fear for her father warred with her fear for her son. The boy must be terrified and exhausted—her father must be holding him up in the saddle by now.
As the sky grew dark, her fear worsened. Where were they? Surely they should have caught up to them by now? If they continued like this through the darkness someone would get hurt.
The next time they paused for one of their painfully short breaks to water the horses, Margaret could hold her tongue no longer. She found Eoin, talking to that same warrior again. Both men fell silent as she drew near. She looked back and forth between them, thinking that there was something similar about them. They were both tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a couple of King Edward’s siege engines, but it was something more than that. It was the way they held themselves, the aura of invincibility, and the granite stillness of their expressions.
If she’d hoped to find sympathy from one of these men, however, it would not be from the tracker. The hostility in Eoin’s dark-blue eyes was only marginally less in the tracker’s.
From their continued silence, it seemed the other man also shared her husband’s gruffness of manners and propensity for silence. They must be grand friends.
She pursed her lips and tipped her head to the unknown warrior. “My lord. I assume you know who I am. But as ‘Lazarus’ here has decided to dispense with the pleasantries, I’m afraid I don’t know whom I am addressing.”
He arched a brow and shot a look to Eoin before turning back to her. “Ewen Lamont, my lady.”
She smiled as if to say, Now that wasn’t too hard, was it?
Eoin must have objected to the smile because he bit out, “What do you want, Margaret?”
Aside from this scintillating conversation? Aside from an explanation of where in Hades he’d been for almost six years? She gritted her teeth so the bitter words wouldn’t fly out and forced moderation to her tone. “We have to stop.”
“There are plenty of castles in the area. If you are too tired to go on, I’m sure they will open their gates to Dugald MacDowell’s daughter.”
She was tempted to point out they might not welcome Eoin MacLean’s wife. “I’m not too tired. But it’s getting dark. If you keep pushing like this someone will get hurt—Eachann could get hurt.”
He stiffened, and the other man—Ewen Lamont—turned to look at him. “Eachann?”
“My son,” she explained. “Our son.”
Lamont muttered what she thought was a rather strong curse, and his gaze went to Eoin’s for confirmation.
Eoin’s mouth tightened. “She claims the lad with MacDowell is my son.”
Lamont gave a long, low whistle and shook his head, his expression seemingly one of sympathy for Eoin.
Margaret had to bite her tongue to keep from arguing about “claims.” “I know you want to catch my father, but if you keep pushing like this, my father will keep pushing, and Eachann is the one who will suffer. Have you thought of what this pace must be like for him?”
Eoin answered with a flex of his jaw that made a muscle start to tic. “What do you suggest we do? Let your father escape? If he makes it to the coast and a ship, we won’t have a chance of catching them before he reaches whatever heavily fortified castle he decides to hole up in. They can’t be more than mile or two ahead of us. We would have caught them by now had we not needed to avoid the parties of English soldiers your father sent after us. But there is no bloody way in hell I’ll stop now.”
Margaret couldn’t believe this brutal, uncompromising man was her husband. He was more like . . .
She grimaced. He was more like her father. “So you would put your son’s life at risk to prevent my father slipping through your fingers?”
Eoin kept a tight rein on his temper. He didn’t need to defend himself to her. “It isn’t me who has put his life at risk. It’s your father.” He looked to Lamont. “Come on. We’ve rested long enough.”
Eoin walked away. But just before Ewen Lamont went after him, she thought he glanced at her with a glimmer of sympathy.
“Your son, Striker? Christ, why didn’t you tell me? I thought you took her with us for information.”
Eoin mounted his horse. “I did, and there wasn’t time.”
Lamont shot him a look as if he knew the explanation was shite—which it was. But finding out that he had a son—a five-year-old son—had thrown him in such a state of shock and confusion the only thing he’d been able to concentrate on had been the mission. Find MacDowell and then he’d try to come to terms with the knowledge of a son. He sure as hell hadn’t been ready to talk about it. He still wasn’t.
“The lass is right,” his partner said. “This could be dangerous for the lad. If he is yours—”
“He’s mine,” Eoin said, cutting him off angrily.
Lamont lifted a brow. “You didn’t sound so certain a few minutes ago.”
Eoin grunted a nonanswer.
“More than one way to exact retribution, is that it?”
Eoin glared at him. “Do you blame me? You know as well as I what she did.”
His partner acknowledged the truth with a grim nod. “Aye. Although . . .”
Eoin’s gaze narrowed. “Although what?”
Lamont shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s just not what I expected.”
“She hides the snakes beneath the veil.”
Lamont ignored the sarcasm. “She can’t be much older than three and twenty.”
“She turned five and twenty last June.”
“She appears to genuinely care about the lad. And I saw her face when she saw you at the church. She didn’t look like someone who had sent you happily to your death.”
Eoin’s mouth drew in a hard line. “Yet that is exactly what she did.”
Lamont eyed him carefully. “You also didn’t mention that she is rather . . . attractive.”
Eoin felt his muscles tense in a way they hadn’t in a long time. His wife had always drawn attention—masculine attention. Maybe more so now than she did at eighteen. How had Fin put it? Ripe as a peach? She was even riper. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It doesn’t. But it was still a surprise. I didn’t think anyone could rival MacLeod’s wife.”
Eoin shot him a glare. “How about your own?”
Lamont lifted a sly brow, and Eoin swore, realizing his partner had tricked him into admitting more than he wanted. Eoin didn’t care about her anymore, how the hell could he still be jealous?
“If you’re finished, I want to get back on the trail before we lose it again,” Eoin said sharply.
MacDowell was a tricky bastard. He was also good at minimizing his tracks. But Lamont was the best tracker in Scotland. If there was a trail, Hunter would find it. Even in the dark.
But as they raced across the countryside, plunging deeper into the moonlight-shrouded forest, Eoin couldn’t help but think how easy it would be for a horse to miss its footing. For a fall that could send a rider and the young boy with him sailing through the air to the hard ground. How easy it would be to snap a slim neck. Why were there so many branches sticking out? This was a damned “road.” One of those branches could pluck out an eye or . . .
He stopped. Bloody hell, she’d gotten to him. She’d filled his head with a parade of horribles to make him do her bidding. They couldn’t stop, damn it. MacDowell would get away—with his son. A siege could take months. Besides, there was no guarantee even if they did stop that MacDowell would follow suit. His son could still be in danger even if Eoin did call a halt to the chase.
But the decision was taken from his hands a short while later. They’d slowed for Lamont to check the prints, when he swore and called for a torch.
“What’s the matter?” Eoin asked.
Lamont shook his head. “I think they split up.”
Eoin felt the fury rise inside him. “Why?”
“There don’t seem to be as many prints.” He dismounted to walk up and down the path, counting off the horses in what seemed to be a jumbled mass of hoof marks. After seven and a half years as partners, Eoin had picked up enough tracking to know that Lamont could identify each horse by some defining mark—no matter how seemingly trivial—in its hoofprint. He counted off four. MacDowell and his sons had set off on five horses.
“There’s one missing,” Eoin filled in, swearing when Lamont nodded.
“Where?”
Lamont shook his head. “Probably at the last crossing. Damn it, I can’t believe I missed it.”
“It isn’t your fault.” It was Eoin’s. With his quarry in sight, he’d pushed them too hard. He’d been the one to hurry Lamont at the last crossing near Cockermouth. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll catch them.”
But they didn’t. They backtracked to the previous crossing and rode for only a mile or two before coming to a large village where MacDowell had switched horses. By the time they tracked the new horse it was too late. The Cumbrian coast at Wyrkinton was only a handful of miles away—as was the heavily garrisoned peel tower of Sir Gilbert de Curwen. They wouldn’t be able to evade the English soldiers and catch up to MacDowell in time. They’d lost them.
“What now?” Lamont asked.
“We’ll find them in Galloway.”
“I can think of at least six castles he might take refuge in. It could take weeks to find him.”
Eoin didn’t realize Margaret had come up beside them. “He’ll go to Dumfries,” she said. “It’s the strongest, and easiest to access from the river.”
“You sound so certain,” Eoin said.
“As certain as I can be. It’s where I think he was planning to go after the—” She stopped. “When he returned from England.”
After the wedding. Eoin felt his teeth gritting again. “And I’m just supposed to take your word for it? He could just as easily go to Buittle. It is also easily accessed by the river and heavily defended.”
“Aye, he could, but I think he’ll go to Dumfries. It’s his favorite castle, and the keeper is one of his most trusted men.”
“Who?”
Even in the mist-shrouded moonlight he could see the pink flush rise to her cheeks. “Tristan MacCan.” Eoin felt every muscle in his body tighten, but he didn’t say anything, and she continued. “I don’t expect you to trust me—you never have before—but I thought you wanted my advice.”
“I do. And I did trust you once.”
Their eyes held, and he could see the guilt the darkness couldn’t quite hide. She looked like she wanted to say something, but after a glance at Lamont and the other men who were pretending not to listen, she took a deep breath instead. “I have no reason to lie, Eoin. I told you I would do whatever it takes to get my son back. I want him as badly as you want my father. This is why you brought me, isn’t it? But if you think you know my father better than I, by all means, do what you want. But I’m going to Dumfries.”
Some things hadn’t changed. Outwardly she might look like the proper lady—he’d been surprised by the difference in her appearance and reserved manner—but the lass who’d strolled into the Great Hall of Stirling Castle like a pirate taking over a ship and had been too confident and bold for her own good was still there. She’d never shied from a challenge before, and she certainly wasn’t doing so now. He’d known she would be trouble from the first; he’d just never guessed how much.
He turned to Lamont. “Tell the men to get a few hours of rest. We’ll ride for the border at dawn.”
“We’re sleeping here?” Margaret asked him as his partner walked away.
“Rustic sleeping arrangements didn’t used to bother you.”
She didn’t miss the pointed reminder of those nights they’d shared by the campfire all those years ago—why the hell was he acting like he remembered?—and lifted her chin. “I was referring to the fact that we are a few miles away from Wyrkinton.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “The English lack the courage to attack Bruce’s men at night in the forest. They’ll not stray from the safety of the castle walls until dawn. You need not fear for your safety.” He paused. “Although you might be cold in that fine gown, so I’d stay close to the fire.”
She flushed angrily at the sarcasm he couldn’t quite hide. She’d been about to get married, damn it. It shouldn’t bother him.
“I wouldn’t be wearing a wedding gown if I’d known I still had a husband. How could you, Eoin? You promised you would come back to me, if it was in your power. How could you let me think you were dead all these years? Did you not think I had a right to know that my husband lived?”
“Right?” Six years of pent-up anger, six years of festering on a wound that hadn’t healed, six years of pretending it didn’t matter that his wife had betrayed him, couldn’t stay buried another moment. He’d promised, aye, but that was before she tried to put him in the grave.
He took a threatening step toward her, practically baring his teeth. “After what you did, you lost the ‘right’ to know anything. As I recall you made a number of promises as well. I don’t owe you a damned thing, Maggie.”
“What about Eachann? What did you owe him?”
He stilled. “I didn’t know about him.”
“Whose fault is that?” She spoke softly but the challenge hit hard.
He fisted his hands at his side so he wouldn’t touch her. What the hell was it about this woman that made him want to drag her into his arms and kiss that defiance right from her mouth?
But her anger fell as quickly as it had risen. She looked sad and defeated, and somehow that unsettled him even more. “Maybe you don’t owe me anything, but don’t think that I haven’t blamed myself for what happened to you—or what I thought happened to you—every day since. I never meant to betray you, Eoin. I loved you.”
Loved him so much she’d left him. Loved him so much she’d been discussing dissolving their marriage with her girlhood sweetheart right before he’d kissed her. Loved him so much she’d sent him away and told him to never come back. “So it was all a big mistake, is that it? Did your brother lie then? Did you not tell someone of my presence that night?”
She shook her head, her eyes stark. “No, it wasn’t a mistake. I did tell someone, but I was trying to protect you.”
“By betraying me?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Brigid found me in the forest after you left and threatened to tell my father I’d been raped if I didn’t tell her what happened. I made a mistake in trusting someone who’d been like a sister to me, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice.”
“How about the choice to keep your mouth shut?” He stepped toward her, anger pounding through him. “How much more clear did I need to be? Was ‘no one,’ ‘under any circumstances,’ and ‘my life’ subject to interpretation? I trusted you, damn it. I told you how important it was that you not tell anyone I was there. I let down every one of those men on that beach because I believed my wife—the girl I loved more than anyone else in the world—would know to keep her damned mouth shut. Your intentions don’t make a damned bit of difference to all those men on that beach.”
She looked stricken. Her eyes filled with tears as she tried to explain. “I’m sorry. I had no idea what you planned. I didn’t want to risk having my father’s men chasing after you. I thought by telling her that I was protecting you. I never imagined she would go to my brother with the information.”
His mouth fell in a hard line. He supposed he should be glad she hadn’t gone to her father herself. Glad it hadn’t been some petty form of revenge for all his perceived wrongs. But six years of hatred had formed a thick layer of steel around his thinking where his wife was concerned that was not easily penetrated. She’d told someone. Did it matter why?
And the result hadn’t changed.
Still, he was surprised to learn of her friend’s part in it. “Why did she?” he asked.
“She was in love with Dougal and thought it would ingratiate her enough to my father to permit a marriage between them. Ironically, Dougal did receive a bride for what happened, it just wasn’t Brigid.”
A flicker of pain crossed her face, and he found himself asking, “What happened?”
Margaret gazed at him unflinchingly. “Brigid threw herself off the cliffs at Dunskey Castle, not long after Dougal’s marriage. She never forgave herself for what happened that night. All those men . . .” She shuddered, and then looked up at him. “She didn’t realize what would happen, and neither did I.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “I don’t expect you to forgive me. You trusted me to keep your secret, and I didn’t. I should have let Brigid tell them I’d been attacked and maybe . . .” She stopped and straightened. “I made a mistake, but it was in trusting a friend when I shouldn’t have. I tried to help when I realized what Brigid had done, but I was too late.”
“What do you mean, you tried to help?”
“My father locked me in my chamber, but I climbed out of the tower and lit the old beacon near Kirkcolm. But your ships had already reached the beach.”
He was silent, taken aback by what she’d revealed. She’d lit the beacon? He’d always wondered about their mysterious helper. “It wasn’t too late for all the ships,” he admitted. “Two were able to escape in time.”
He’d give her that, but his steely expression told her that was all he would concede. Whatever her intentions, she had betrayed his trust by telling her friend.
“I’m glad,” she said softly.
He believed her. Not that it changed anything. Too much had happened between them. Too many years had passed.
For a man known for seeing everything on a battlefield, ironically he’d never seen her coming.
Margaret had made him feel something he hadn’t felt before or since. The passion had been incomparable. But it was more than physical. Far more. For so long his life had revolved around war—being the best warrior not just physically but also mentally. He loved the challenge of outthinking and outwitting the enemy ever since he was a lad. It was all he’d ever thought about—cared about—until he’d met her. For a short while, she’d made the world a little bigger than the battlefield. He’d cared about something else.
And it had cost him. He’d done stupid things to see her. Taken chances where he shouldn’t have.
Maybe that was the real problem. As much as he blamed her for what happened, he blamed himself even more. He should never have confronted her that night. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything, but it had still been a mistake. He shouldn’t have trusted her with something so important. Bruce knew that, and he knew that. He couldn’t fault his kinsman for questioning his judgment. When it came to Margaret MacDowell, Eoin had never seemed to have any.
Even now just looking at her was enough to get him hard. The memories flooded him. He could recall every inch of creamy skin beneath that blasted gown that he wanted to rip to shreds. He remembered burying his face between the generous breasts displayed to such tempting perfection in the layers of formfitting silk. He remembered the scent of her skin, the silken honey of her pleasure, and the sound of her moans as he’d made her shatter. He remembered the way her hips would lift up to meet him as he’d thrust, taking him deeper, harder, faster.
Christ.
He stepped back. The sooner this was over the better. The quick dissolution of their marriage had been complicated by the discovery of a son, but it hadn’t changed his desire to put an end to it. The end of the war was drawing near, and Bruce had already hinted at the lands, which would be his reward. Lands and a bride, if Eoin wanted one. Surprisingly, he did. Seeing his brethren with their wives made him realize what he was missing. He’d been alone for too long.
Hell, even Lachlan MacRuairi was bloody happy. Like Eoin, the Guardsman with the disposition of the viper that had given him his war name made a disastrous first marriage to a woman who had betrayed him. But he’d found happiness in his second, and Eoin took some hope from that.
Almost as if she knew what he was thinking, she asked, “What happens now, Eoin?”
He gave her a hard stare. “What do you think? We sure as hell can’t go back.”
“We could try to go forward.”
Angered by the unmistakable hitch in his chest, his response came out harsher than he intended. “What would be the point of that? You seem to have found England much more to your liking than you ever did Kerrera.”
The slight flush to her cheeks and pursing of her mouth were the only signs that she’d heard the none-too-subtle criticism. But she’d always known how to strike back. “Aye, Sir John ensured I always felt welcome and did everything to see to my happiness. He wanted to share his life with me—all of it.”
The dagger slid right between his ribs and twisted. The sharpness of the pain almost made him flinch. Damn it, it shouldn’t hurt so much. After all these years, nothing she could say or do should be able to get to him. “I’m sure he did.”
He tried to walk away, but she caught his arm. The shock of her touch did make him flinch this time. “I know I wasn’t the kind of wife you wanted, Eoin. But if you wanted someone like Lady Barbara, why didn’t you just marry her? It would have been much easier on us both.”
“Aye, it would have.”
It was the truth, although he hadn’t intended to strike so hard. From the look in her eyes, there was no doubt he’d done just that.
He didn’t want to do this anymore—any of it. The more they were together, the more they would hurt each other.
He looked down into the beautiful features bathed in moonlight of the woman who’d haunted his dreams for too long. “I think it will be best for us both if you and I part ways permanently when this is over.”
She drew herself up stiffly with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes scanned his face, as if looking for an opening. “If that is what you want.”
Right now what he wanted was to pull her up against him and kiss her until he could no longer feel her pounding through his blood, invading his bones, and haunting his dreams. Instead he answered with a nod and walked away.