19
THE SOUNDS OF a disturbance outside interrupted their meeting. “What in Hades is going on out there?” Edward Bruce asked his squire. “Find out.”
The lad ran out and Eoin tried to get the king’s brother back on track. Of Bruce’s four brothers, Edward was the only who still lived and the only one whom Eoin had never liked. His dislike had only grown after fighting beside him for the better part of five years.
When the king had sent his brother as his lieutenant to try to wrestle the troublesome south and Borders into submission, in addition to Sir James Douglas and Sir Thomas Randolph, four members of the Highland Guard had gone with him: Eoin, Lamont, Boyd, and—until he’d defected to the enemy—Seton. Though they were sometimes called elsewhere for various missions, and at times the rest of the Guard would join them, Eoin had spent most of his time since their return to Scotland in the south with Edward.
At his best, Edward Bruce was an arrogant prig, impetuous, and mercurial. He was both fiercely loyal to his brother and deeply jealous of him. The love that “the Bruce” inspired in his men was conspicuously missing toward his brother. It wasn’t hard to see why. Edward was not half the leader his brother was. He didn’t like taking advice or letting anyone else get the credit, which often put him at direct odds with the members of the Highland Guard—like now.
“We can get in there,” Eoin said with forced evenness. “What harm is there in at least letting us try?”
“The harm is having you killed. What do you think my brother would say if I ordered a mission that had some of his prized warriors killed? Nay. We’ll proceed with the siege. MacDowell won’t be able to hold out for long. You and your brethren have seen to that. There hasn’t been a shipment of provisions that has made its way through in months.”
Eoin’s patience was running out fast. This wasn’t about them getting killed, it was about Edward getting credit for bringing down MacDowell. He’d barely been able to hide his glee when Eoin had returned from England without him.
But there was more to this than getting MacDowell now. “My son is in there,” Eoin said.
Edward’s gaze sharpened, hearing the warning—or threat—in Eoin’s voice. “That is unfortunate. But I’m sure the boy will not be harmed. He’s MacDowell’s grandson, after all.”
The sneer was unmistakable. Edward would never let Eoin forget that it was his wife and her family who’d been responsible for the death of two of his brothers. Eoin had never blamed him for the sentiment, but something pricked now. He was saved from what would probably have been an ugly exchange of words with his kinsman by the return of the squire. “It’s a fight, my lord,” the lad said. “Between the captain and one of your men-at-arms over a lass.”
“A lass?” Edward asked.
The boy nodded. “Aye, a beautiful one with red hair.”
Eoin’s blood went cold. It couldn’t be. There were a lot of beautiful lasses with red hair. But he couldn’t convince himself that it wasn’t her. He’d half-expected Margaret to defy him. Hell, he was more surprised it had taken her three days to do so.
Trouble.
He left the tent without a word. As soon as he stopped outside he could hear them. But it was what he saw that made his heart drop like a rock at his feet. It was Margaret all right, smack dab in the middle of a brawl. Fury rose inside him. What the hell was she doing? She was going to get herself killed!
Eoin saw the man’s fist fly back, but he was too far away to stop it. All he could do was roar as a primal rage tore through him. He watched in agonizing helplessness as Margaret’s head snapped back, and she flew to the ground with the force of the fist that pummeled into her jaw.
She didn’t move.
Eoin crossed the distance of fifty or so yards in seconds flat. He couldn’t think. A red cloud swarmed in front of his eyes. Like his Viking ancestors before him, he went berserk. He slammed his fist into the captain again and again. He would have killed him had Boyd, Lamont, and Douglas not pulled him off.
It took all three of them.
“What the hell is going on here, MacGowan?” Douglas addressed the tall, dark-haired warrior a few moments later. From his biting tone, it was clear Douglas didn’t like the man.
Slowly the red haze started to dissipate; Eoin’s head cleared. Vaguely he realized that MacGowan had been fighting the captain until Eoin had intervened. Now, however, Eoin was patently aware that this MacGowan had gone over to help Margaret and was carefully easing her up. Suddenly, he could sympathize with Douglas’s animosity.
But Margaret wasn’t looking at the young warrior. She was looking at Eoin. Their eyes met and he could see her fear, her worry, and her concern. For him. “I’m fine,” she whispered.
Eoin’s mouth clamped shut. She wasn’t fine, damn it. She was hurt. Even now he could see the bruise forming on her jaw. God, she could have been killed.
His fists clenched. He must have looked like he was going to finish the job because she added insistently, “It was a misunderstanding, Eoin.”
“Someone better tell me what is going on here,” Edward Bruce demanded. “Who is this woman?”
“My wife,” Eoin said without hesitation, although he knew what the response would provoke.
Edward Bruce’s face turned livid. His gaze slid over Margaret with unrepressed hatred before turning back to Eoin. “What is she doing here? How the hell could you bring a spy into camp?”
Margaret wobbled as she stood, and Eoin would have lurched for her, but MacGowan steadied her. “I’m not a spy,” she said. “I’m here to help free my son.”
Edward ignored her. He turned on Eoin with fury raging in his eyes. “Get the bitch out of here. She is responsible for the deaths of my brothers. She’s a fucking MacDowell.”
Edward Bruce wasn’t saying anything that Eoin hadn’t thought a hundred times in the past six years. But hearing the words from someone else—especially from Edward—grated on every nerve ending in his body. It was wrong, and Eoin couldn’t let it stand.
He took a threatening step toward Bruce’s second-in-command. “She is also my wife, cousin, and as long as she remains so, you will give her the respect that position deserves. What happened was not Margaret’s fault. She made a mistake but didn’t intend to betray us. If you want someone to blame, blame me.”
It was clear from the look on his face that Edward did. But he’d seen Eoin fight and was wise enough to hold his tongue—or Douglas held it for him by steering the conversation away from Margaret.
“So what happened?” Douglas was looking at MacGowan again with barely contained animosity. “You do know that you can be punished for hitting a superior? Perhaps Carrick should send you home?”
“Stay out of it, Jamie,” MacGowan clipped back at him. Eoin had never heard anyone call Douglas Jamie before. “Besides, I thought you were happy to see me gone from Douglas.”
Douglas clenched his fists and looked like he might strike the other man when Edward intervened. “I’ve told you before to stop interfering, Douglas. MacGowan is my man, and a good soldier. I don’t care about your past—leave it there.” He turned to MacGowan. “But in this case, I’m going to have to agree with him. You better have a damned good excuse.”
“He does,” Margaret said. “He was protecting me.”
Eoin didn’t like the sound of that at all. Douglas wasn’t the only one clenching his fists. “From what?” he demanded.
Margaret bit her lip and a soft blush rose to her cheeks. A different kind of swelling rose inside him. “These men mistook me for someone else. MacGowan corrected them, and the captain took offense. When MacGowan wouldn’t defend himself,” she turned to Edward, “I assume because he was following protocol not to fight with a commander, I tried to stop it and got in the way. It wasn’t until after I was struck that he fought back. I hope he will not be punished for my mistake.”
They all understood for whom she’d been mistaken. Eoin would have been furious, if he wasn’t too busy being proud. After the way Edward had verbally attacked her minutes before—not to mention having to admit to being mistaken for a camp follower—Eoin couldn’t help but admire how confidently and matter-of-factly she faced her detractor. It was a glimpse of the girl he’d fallen in love with. The devil-may-care girl who knew her own worth and didn’t care whether those around her agreed.
Even Edward appeared taken aback. He wasn’t wholly unlike his brother, and he, too, had been steeped in chivalry for most of his life. It reappeared now. “I would not punish a man for defending a woman’s honor—any woman’s,” he added.
Margaret didn’t seem to mind, even if Eoin did. She brightened. “Then I think it’s best if we forget all about this.”
She must have sensed Eoin’s gaze on her. She turned and their eyes met. When she bit her lip again, he knew she’d gotten the message: there was no way in hell he was going to forget about this.
Margaret tried to tell herself it didn’t mean anything. But how could she ignore what Eoin had done? He’d come to her defense. Not only had he practically killed that vile captain for striking her (she decided it prudent not to mention how the captain had groped her—the brute had paid enough in broken bones and bruises), Eoin had also told Edward Bruce that it wasn’t her fault.
Had he meant it?
Unfortunately, she knew there was going to be hell to pay before she could find out. She did not mistake the calmness with which he led her to his tent. A storm was brewing inside him, and she was right in the center of it. Why that gave her a thrill, she didn’t know.
By all rights she should be terrified. But big and scary, or brooding and serious, it didn’t matter. She knew he would never hurt her.
Barely had the flap fallen behind them when he turned on her. “What the hell did you think you were doing coming here alone?”
“I assumed you had changed your mind.”
“You assumed what?”
She winced at the sound of his raised voice. “You didn’t used to bellow so much.”
From the white lines forming around his mouth she sensed he was quickly running out of patience. “I’d say you didn’t used to be so much trouble, but that wouldn’t be true, would it?”
She couldn’t help smiling. “Probably not. Although I will state—just to be clear—that I am not usually trouble anymore.”
He made a sharp sound of disbelief. “What in Hades made you think I changed my mind?”
She pushed back the edges of the cloak to hold out the dress and beamed. “Why this beautiful dress, of course. I assumed it was your way of apologizing for being such an ars—” She stopped, as if the word had been a slip, which they both knew it wasn’t. She smiled. “Such a bully.”
He didn’t seem to appreciate the amended word any better than the first. “You know very well it wasn’t an apology.”
“It wasn’t?” She quirked a brow in mock surprise. “Well, it should have been.” She gave him a long look. “Is everything all right? You seem to be a little tense.”
His eyes flared, and she almost regretted baiting him. But she hadn’t had this much fun in . . .
Her heart squeezed. Almost seven and a half years. Since those first days of their marriage.
“I should have let you stay dressed as a nun. Maybe you wouldn’t have every man within a hundred yards panting after you.”
She shrugged indifferently. “Maybe.” There was only one man she’d ever wanted that kind of attention from. But he no longer wanted her.
Or did he?
Glancing over his hard-wrought control and tautly held body, she wondered.
“I’m taking you back to the convent.”
She shook her head. “I’ll just keep coming back. You’ll have to have them lock me in.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he snapped.
Margaret had taken a quick glance around the wood-framed canvas tent, scared of what she might see. She drew a deep breath and forced herself to take closer inspection and was more relieved than she wanted to admit to see no signs of a female presence.
Simple was an understatement. On opposite sides of the room there were two basic wood-framed beds, she assumed tied with ropes for a mattress, with a few wool plaids and animal skins on top for warmth and comfort. In one corner, which she assumed belonged to Eoin, was a desk laden with rolls of parchment. Aside from two trunks, another table, a couple of stools, a handful of stone cresset oil lamps, and a brazier, there was little else in terms of comfort or decoration.
His mother would be appalled.
“You aren’t sharing your tent with a woman, are you?”
She didn’t think he was going to answer, but eventually his mouth fell in a hard line, and he shook his head. “With Lamont.”
She brightened. “Please let me stay, Eoin. I promise I won’t be in the way. I can help, if you let me.”
She didn’t realize she was touching him, until his eyes looked down at the hand that had fallen on his arm. “How?”
Did she imagine the huskiness in his voice? Something had made her skin prickle. “Let me talk to my father. I know I can convince him to let Eachann go.”
“Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous.”
She drew back. “My father wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Your father is desperate. There is nothing I would put past him.”
Maybe it was too soon to press him, but the opportunity was too tempting. “I wouldn’t think you would care if something happened to me. It would make it easier for you to be rid of me.”
The tic jumped in his jaw, his reaction visceral, even if a moment later he hid it. “It’s the added danger to the boy that I’m worried about.”
She held his gaze for a moment and nodded. “Of course.” But she didn’t believe him. He did care about her—at least a little—even if he didn’t want to.
For more reasons than one, she had to stay. “Please, Eoin, you can’t send me back to the convent.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, but just studied her carefully. “If I were smart that’s exactly what I would do.”
Her hope soared. “But . . .”
He finished for her as she hoped he would. “But God knows what kind of trouble you will get in if I don’t keep an eye on you.”
Without thinking what she was doing, Margaret threw her arms around him. “Oh Eoin, thank you!”
The moment her body pressed against his, Eoin knew he’d made a mistake. How the hell was he going to share a tent with her for God knows how many days without touching her, without kissing her, without making love to her, when every bone in his body was clamoring to do exactly that?
God, she felt good. He’d forgotten how good. Warm and soft, her body molded against his like a tight glove.
He cursed inwardly. It was the wrong thing to be thinking about when his cock was pressed up against another tight glove.
But he’d been down this path before. His desire for her had clouded his reason. He wouldn’t let it happen again. No matter how much he wanted her.
Very purposefully, he set her away. “There are going to be a few rules.”
She blinked up at him, apparently still suffering from the delusion that he’d been moments away from kissing her. “Rules?”
“Aye. You won’t interfere, you won’t snoop, you’ll do everything that I ask you, and you won’t throw yourself at me. I told you I wasn’t interested in redheads anymore.”
Her eyes flared. “I wasn’t throwing myself at you!” Her gaze narrowed and moved down his body with familiarity that belied a six-year separation, lingering for a moment on the place that proved him a liar. “And you didn’t seem all that uninterested.”
His mouth flattened. “I hear the nuns calling, Margaret.”
She looked like she wanted to hurl something at him. But for once, discretion prevailed. Her smile was far too pleasant for his liking. “I promise I won’t ‘throw’ myself at you, interfere, or snoop. I’ll be the perfectly biddable wife and do whatever you ask.”
He didn’t believe her for an instant, but smiled, knowing how much that must have cost her. He smiled. Hell, how long had it been since he’d done that? “Then welcome to your new lodging. I shall send for your things from the convent.”
“Don’t bother. I will not wear that dress again, and I had nothing else that belonged to me.”
He didn’t comment on the dress, but just thinking about it made his back teeth grind. “Make a list of anything you need, and I’ll send a lad to town and see what can be procured.”
“I don’t have much coin with me. Only what I was carrying in my purse for the church offerings.”
He waved her off. “I will see to it.”
“Thank you. I will pay you back.”
Like hell she would.
She looked around the tent. “Where shall I sleep?”
He pointed to his bed on the right. He would sleep in Lamont’s. He wasn’t going to analyze why he didn’t want her in his partner’s bed.
She frowned. “What about your friend?”
“He will bed down in one of the other tents.”
She bit her lip contritely. “I didn’t mean to force him from his bed.”
“Lamont won’t mind,” he assured her. “I do the same when his wife is with him.”
“He is married?”
“You sound surprised.”
She shrugged. “He doesn’t say much.”
Eoin couldn’t help smiling, thinking of Lamont’s wife, Janet of Mar. The lass hadn’t met a word she didn’t like. “His wife makes up for it. When you meet her—”
He stopped, suddenly realizing that was very unlikely. Part ways permanently. That’s exactly what he wanted.
An awkward pause followed. Eoin didn’t miss the flash of hurt in Margaret’s eyes, before she broke the silence by asking, “Is there any word on Eachann?”
Grateful for the change of subject, Eoin shook his head. “Nay.”
“How do you plan to get him back?”
He was surprised by the question. “Why do you think I have a plan?”
She rolled her eyes. “I might not be able to keep up with it all the time, but I know the way your mind works. You always have a plan.”
“Aye, well little good it will do me this time.” He couldn’t hide his bitterness. “Carrick has refused to consider it.”
“What did it involve?”
He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t going to tell her the details. Not just because he didn’t trust her—which he didn’t—but also because the less he said about the Highland Guard the better. MacGregor’s recent unmasking and the abduction of his betrothed by the English was a reminder to them all about the importance of keeping their identities secret.
He didn’t want her asking too many questions, which she was bound to do if he spoke of a small highly-trained group of warriors who would attempt a sneak attack on an entire garrison. Word of their exploits had spread too wide.
It would be even more difficult when Bruce and the rest of the Guard arrived. The rest, that is, with the exception of MacGregor. The expert marksman—and the man known as the most handsome in Scotland—was apparently having some difficulty with his betrothed. Used to seeing women throw themselves at the famed archer, Eoin was looking forward to meeting the lass who had trapped the untrappable.
But the imminent arrival of his brethren was the one thing Eoin hadn’t considered when he’d agreed to let her stay here. Margaret was too observant. This was bound to get complicated—as if it wasn’t already.
“I’d rather not say,” he answered finally. “But I will have a better chance when the king arrives.”
She blinked. He hoped to hell that wasn’t dampness in her eyes, but he found his chest growing a little heavier.
“I understand,” she said softly. “When do you expect him?”
“Soon.”
She nodded and turned away. She looked so dejected that he reached for her before he caught himself and had to pull his hand back sharply to his side.
Bloody hell. What was it about her that made him act like an idiot even when he knew better? Where the hell was all that hate and bitterness when he needed it? Without it he was weak.
He could never forget what had happened. Loch Ryan would always be between them. She might not be the treacherous bitch that he’d thought for years, but her mistake—his mistake—had cost too much.
But he had better find some damned self-control or the next few days—weeks—were going to be torture.