20
TORTURE WAS putting it mildly. Even though Eoin found every possible excuse to stay away, every time he walked into that tent and saw her—or caught the faint whiff of whatever floral concoction she’d decided to wallow in that day—it was as if someone was punching a hole through his resolve. Pretty soon, there wasn’t going to be anything left but holes.
Two days ago, he’d made the mistake of returning to the tent after breaking his fast only to find her in the bath. Somehow she’d talked the lad who was serving as his squire of sorts into “borrowing” someone’s wooden tub. Unfortunately, it didn’t hide much of her, and the pink expanse of creamy skin that he’d glimpsed before turning on his heel and walking—all right, bolting—out had been haunting him ever since. Night and day.
He was having a hard time remembering why touching her was a bad idea. The little voice that kept telling him he could have her and still walk away was getting louder.
It was just lust. It didn’t need to be anything more. Emotion didn’t need to get in the way—not if he didn’t let it. After six years he’d earned it, hadn’t he?
But even if she’d welcome him into her—his—bed, which he wasn’t all that sure she would (she no longer looked at him as if he were a treat she couldn’t wait to devour, which he was sure he was grateful for, damn it!), he knew it would only complicate matters between them.
An annulment was no longer an option. He would not make his son a bastard. But that left him with the difficult prospect of seeking a divorce. It wouldn’t be easy to obtain—and might take years—but he didn’t have any other choice. Not if he wanted to be rid of her. Which he did, didn’t he? He’d thought of nothing else for six years.
But seeing her again . . .
It was harder than he thought it would be. Harder than it should be, damn it. And Eachann made it doubly so. He wanted to know his son. He couldn’t just walk away from him, but neither could he take him away from his mother.
Bloody hell.
By the time Bruce and the rest of the Guard arrived an excruciating three days after she’d moved into his tent, Eoin was at the end of his rope. His temper—which admittedly had veered toward “on edge” since Loch Ryan—was decidedly black. Foul might be a better description. Even Lamont had avoided him for the past few days.
Eoin was chomping at the bit to put his plan in motion. The sooner the siege was over, the sooner his son would be safe, and the sooner he could be rid of the woman who was driving him mad with temptation.
Despite Edward Bruce getting to his brother first, and the king’s fury upon learning that Margaret was in camp, Eoin was able to convince Bruce to let the Guard attempt to take the castle by subterfuge. After similar successes at Douglas, Linlithgow, and Perth castles, the king trusted the judgment of his elite warriors. Bruce had no love of investing castles, and he was almost as anxious as Eoin to see an end to the siege. Once Dumfries fell, the other castles in Galloway would follow, and the king was eager to turn his eye toward the biggest prizes: Stirling, Edinburgh, and Roxburgh castles. With those lost, the English grip on Scotland would be broken and the kingdom would be his.
But first was putting an end to the MacDowell hold on Galloway. Eoin’s plan was straightforward, and it didn’t take long for all the details to be worked out. Margaret had provided some additional information about the castle, but it was pretty much as he remembered it.
A short while later, the warriors left the king’s tent to get some food and rest before making their attempt later that night. In addition to nine of the ten remaining Guardsmen—MacLeod, MacSorley, Campbell, MacRuairi, MacKay, Sutherland, Lamont, Boyd, and Eoin—Douglas and Randolph would also take part in the raid.
Eoin was walking beside Douglas when he heard MacSorley let out a low whistle. “Damn, Striker, is that her?”
Eoin looked up and followed the direction of MacSorley’s gaze. He stiffened, seeing the familiar deep red tresses shimmering like gold and copper in the falling sunlight. But it wasn’t the absence of the veil that chilled his blood, it was the closeness of that head to another. His eyes narrowed on the dark-haired warrior beside her.
“Aye,” he snapped. “That’s her.”
For once the always-ready-with-a-quip seafarer wasn’t jesting. Actually, the glance MacSorley gave him was full of sympathy. “Looks can sure as hell be deceiving. Hard to believe she sent so many men to their death.”
Eoin had to quash the impulse to defend her. He knew his friends wouldn’t understand. Hell, he wasn’t sure he understood.
“Who’s she with?” Boyd asked. “He looks familiar.”
Douglas drew tense beside him and answered, “Thom MacGowan.”
Boyd’s brow shot up. “The childhood companion your sister mentioned to my wife?”
There weren’t many men who would dare to shoot a withering glare toward the strongest man in Scotland, but James “the Black” Douglas did just that. “Aye, he’s the blacksmith’s son from our village. We were friends before I left to squire for Lamberton, but he is no ‘companion’ to me or my sister now.”
Douglas’s vehemence spoke more than he intended. Eoin suspected Douglas’s sister, Elizabeth, had something to do with his animosity toward the other man.
“A smith’s son?” Randolph asked. “How did he come to be a man-at-arms for Edward?”
“Thom has never known his damned place,” Douglas replied angrily. But after a pause, he answered the question. “His mother was the daughter of a knight. I believe she left him some silver when she died.”
Eoin didn’t care who the hell he was, he just wanted to know why MacGowan was with his wife again. And what was Margaret doing out of the tent? So much for her adherence to his rules. He’d warned her about moving about camp on her own. She was supposed to not be drawing attention to herself—as if that were bloody possible. His wife was always the center of attention, good or bad.
She must have sensed that black glare he was giving her. She glanced up. Their eyes met and held. Something passed between them. Something hot and penetrating, and dangerous.
She seemed to get the message. She winced—guiltily— said something to MacGowan, and dashed off in the direction of the tent that she wasn’t supposed to have vacated.
Eoin had been so caught up in his wife he hadn’t noticed that the king had moved up behind him. Bruce’s narrowed gaze expressed his anger. “What is she really doing here, Striker?”
Eoin heard the underlying question. But a reconciliation wasn’t what he wanted. “As I told you, she is concerned for the boy and wants to help if she can.”
Rarely did his kinsman vent his rage at the personal toll exacted on him by this war, but he did so now. Bruce’s eyes flashed hard as steel. “Just like she ‘helped’ kill my brothers?”
Eoin looked him right in the eye. “That was as much my fault as it was hers.”
Bruce didn’t disagree. At least right away. But after a moment, he seemed to collect himself. He was the king again and not the man who’d lost three brothers and countless friends to the executioner’s blade, and his wife, sister, and daughter to English captivity. “MacDowell was prepared and knew we were coming. Your wife’s information only confirmed it.” He paused for a moment, considering. “I’m willing to accept what you have told me that she did not intentionally betray us, but that doesn’t mean I trust her. Remember your vow and make sure she doesn’t learn anything that could jeopardize our mission here. She’s your responsibility, cousin.”
The reminder of their kinship Eoin took to be the king’s apology for showing the anger and resentment that Eoin knew lingered, in spite of everything Eoin had done in the years since. He would never atone for what he’d done.
He nodded, but wondered whether in Margaret he’d taken on more than he could handle.
Margaret had expected Eoin to come storming through the flap of the tent at any moment, so she was surprised when darkness fell and he had yet to return.
It had been obvious that he’d been furious to find her outside with Thom MacGowan, and she was ready with an explanation, but he hadn’t appeared for her to give it to him.
Not appearing seemed to be a common occurrence since she’d moved into the tent. Eoin darted in and out infrequently during the day, barely giving her time to question him about the progress of the siege. He’d moved his trunk out with his friend’s, so she assumed he dressed and washed elsewhere.
She would have thought that he slept elsewhere as well, but last night she’d feigned sleep and waited to see whether he would come in. He finally did at what must have been hours past midnight. He’d stood close enough to her bed for her to feel the brace of cold night air on his skin, and it had taken everything she had not to open her eyes, knowing that he was watching her. He’d stood there for a few minutes until she feared the stillness of her breath had given her away.
Muttering a curse, he’d left.
She’d wanted to call him back, but for once she didn’t want to press him. Her husband was struggling with his feelings toward her, and she knew one wrong move could push him over the edge. Which edge was the problem. Would he send her away or give in to the desire that she knew he was fighting?
Which did she want? Truth be told, Margaret didn’t know. She was struggling with her own feelings. Not two weeks ago she’d been getting ready to marry another man. A man whom even if she didn’t love, she’d cared for.
She was no longer certain that love was all that mattered. Years ago she’d loved Eoin with everything in her young girl’s heart and it hadn’t been enough. He’d never made her a part of his life. He’d never truly committed to her or to their marriage. He’d kept her in the dark and showed her in every way that mattered he did not trust her.
If he had, maybe what had happened would not have occurred. Had he taken her into his confidence and told her what was at stake, she would never have told Brigid. She would have let her friend think she’d been attacked rather than give any hint that Eoin was in the area.
She’d betrayed his confidence, and there was no doubt the consequences had been horrific, but she’d made the best decision she could with the information she had at the time.
It was an epiphany. Some of the blame and guilt that had haunted her for years lifted. It wasn’t all her fault. She’d betrayed him that day, but he’d betrayed her and their marriage every time he’d left without telling her anything. He’d betrayed her again by letting her think he was dead for six years.
She still loved him—she suspected she always would—but it wasn’t enough. At eighteen she hadn’t known any different, but now she did. Sir John had shown her what it could be like. He’d trusted her and shared his life with her. She wouldn’t settle for anything else.
But now that Eoin had even less cause to trust her was that even possible?
She didn’t know, but she intended to find out as soon as their son was free.
It was the thought of what was going on in that castle, and the boy’s possible suffering, that dominated her thoughts. Until Eachann was safe, her feelings for her husband would have to remain unsorted.
She hoped that Robert the Bruce’s arrival would bring them one step closer to seeing her son returned to her. Although she’d been focused on her husband earlier, she hadn’t missed the man who’d come up behind him. The former Earl of Carrick had aged in the years since he’d declared himself king, but she would know him anywhere.
It was hard to believe all this man had accomplished, but it hadn’t been without suffering. He’d lost three brothers and his wife, sisters, and daughter were in English hands—one of his sisters had even been hung in a cage.
Learning of Bruce’s arrival was worth the tongue lashing she was sure to receive for breaking one of his so-called “rules.” Anxious to learn what was happening, she was about to break it again and go search for him, when her husband finally deigned to gift her with his presence.
He stood just inside the flap staring at her, clearly trying to intimidate her with that brooding, heavy glare he’d perfected. He’d always been intense, but that intensity had taken on a harsh edge in the intervening years. She shivered. A scary edge.
As he was dressed head to toe in black leather and steel, and had what must be every deadly looking weapon known to man strapped to him, the glare wasn’t altogether ineffective. But suspecting that he’d taken so long to come to her because he knew how anxious she would be—exacting a punishment of sorts—she lifted her chin and glared right back at him.
His mouth tightened, and most of the impressive number of muscles in his body tightened. Good gracious! What must his chest and arms look like now?
She felt a flutter low in her belly and the familiar flood of heat. It was probably best not to think about that.
He took a few steps toward her. He was obviously ready for battle, and she had no intention of disappointing him.
“Whatever it is you feel you have to say, say it,” she said with an indifferent wave of her hand.
His eyes turned positively predatory. “Now what makes you say that, Margaret? Could it be that I specifically told you not to leave the tent, and yet I find you gallivanting around camp with MacGowan?”
The way he practically spat the other man’s name gave her an inkling of why he was so furious.
“I wasn’t gallivanting,” she clarified. “I was merely ensuring that Thom had recovered from his injuries after coming to my aid the other day. I hope you don’t mind, but I used some of the coin you left me to purchase a new blade for him.”
“You did what?”
She winced at the reverberation in her ears. “I will pay you back.”
“I don’t want your damned money! And from what I hear, he can bloody well make his own blades. You shouldn’t be buying things for Thom or any other man.”
She lifted her brow, fighting the smile at the way he’d said Thom. “Why not?”
“It isn’t right, damn it.”
She couldn’t resist tweaking him just a little. He had made her wait for hours. “You have no cause to be jealous of him.”
She didn’t think it possible that blue eyes could turn so black. “I’m not jealous of him!” he snarled.
“You aren’t? Oh that’s good. Although it would be understandable it you were. He really is quite handsome. That dark hair with those blue eyes really is a stunning combination.” She appeared to ponder that while he struggled not to explode. “I’ve always liked tall men.” She raised her hand an inch or two over his head as if gauging. “He must be at least four inches over six feet, don’t you think?”
When he made a low growl in his throat and took another step toward her, Margaret decided she’d pressed him far enough. He looked like he was contemplating strangling her or tossing her back onto that bed. No matter how much she wanted the latter—and the thrill racing along her skin told her she wanted it very much—she wasn’t ready for it. Passion had a way of confusing things. She’d learned that the first time around.
“Did Bruce agree to your plan?” she asked, clearly surprising him by the swift change of subject. “Is that why you are dressed for battle?”
The suddenly blank look on his face answered her question even if he did not. Though she could not expect him to trust her, her heart still twisted.
She scanned his hardened features for any sign of an opening. “Just tell me, is it dangerous?’
Still he didn’t say anything, and her heart twisted again.
“Of course it’s dangerous,” she said, answering her own question. “How can it not be?” She was torn: wanting her son free but not wanting Eoin to be hurt in the process. She renewed her plea. “Won’t you let me at least try first—”
“Nay. We’ve been through this before. I’ll not risk you and the lad. This is what I do, Margaret. Let me do my job.”
She looked up at him and felt a yearning so strong it stole her breath. Tears welled in her eyes. She wasn’t sure what they were for. Fear? Longing? The life they’d lost or the love that they’d once shared?
He seemed to want to say something, but instead bowed his head and turned to leave.
“Wait,” she said, running after him. She reached him as he pulled aside the flap.
“What is it?”
“This.” And without hesitating, she stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. It was chaste and brief, but long enough to stir memories. She’d forgotten the surprising softness, the subtle taste of spice, and the way her heart jumped at the contact. The way her whole body jumped.
It took everything she had to draw back. But when she did, she could see that she’d surprised him.
“Stay alive this time,” she said, breaking the silence. “And by the way, that was not me throwing myself at you.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. He shook his head. “Thanks for the clarification, and I’ll do my best.”
“See that you do.”
He nodded, and a moment later he disappeared into the blackness of the night. She didn’t know how long she stood staring after him.
Best if we go our separate ways . . .
How was she going to let him go again?
Robert the Bruce didn’t have trebuchets with intimidating names like Warwolf—he had something better. The warriors of the Highland Guard were every bit as destructive as England’s powerful siege engines, but they were far more nimble, and they didn’t require dozens of carts to move them or months of digging in and waiting.
After seven and a half years of fighting side by side in the worst trenches of this cesspit of a war, the Guard operated like a finely tuned instrument of war. They communicated silently and anticipated each other’s movements. But they were always prepared for the unexpected. Unlike the legends that proclaimed them supermen or phantoms, they were not indestructible (the death of William “Templar” Gordon had reminded them of that), nor were they infallible (the failure to take Berwick Castle last year still grated).
But this night everything was proceeding according to Eoin’s plan.
The stone keep of Dumfries Castle sat upon a high motte. The steep sides of the hill itself were a form of defense, preventing attackers from being able to approach quickly. The wooden palisade that surrounded the keep and bailey had been replaced and fortified by the English with a stone wall, after the Highland Guard rescued MacLeod’s wife seven years ago, starting the chain of events that would lead to Bruce’s bid for the throne. Additional defense was provided by the deep wet ditch that abutted the wall.
The castle had two gates: an inner gate over the wet ditch surrounding the motte that guarded the stairs leading up to the castle, and a much stronger gate with bridge and portcullis that protected the main entrance into the bailey. To take the keep, attackers would need to go through both the outer gate and the inner gate.
The Highland Guard bypassed both. Under the cover of night, Eoin and his brethren approached the keep from the back side of the motte. With the wet ditch, the steep hill, and the imposing wall that surrounded the keep, this side of the castle was the most impenetrable and unlikely point of access—which is exactly why they were there. Impenetrable meant lightly guarded.
An army would never be able to launch a surprise attack on the castle from here. But a small force of men could. As they’d done when rescuing Christina MacLeod, the Guardsmen swam across the filth-laden wet ditch and slithered up the hill on their bellies. The high stone wall, however, required something more than ropes. Fortunately, Douglas had recently developed an ingenious contraption that enabled them to scale walls even higher than the twenty-foot barricade around Dumfries. The rope ladders fitted with footboards and grappling hooks had been put to good use at both Berwick and Perth castles. A barking dog had foiled the attack at Berwick, but the ladders had been used successfully a few weeks ago at Perth.
Once all the men were safely over the wall, they broke off into groups. Eoin and MacRuairi would go in search of the boy, Lamont, MacSorley, MacGregor’s brother John, Boyd, MacLeod, and Douglas would keep watch and provide defense if needed, and the others would open the inner and outer gates to let in the rest of Bruce’s army, which was hiding in the forest to take the castle.
Eoin’s mission was to get his son out of harm’s way before the cry was raised and the chaos of battle ensued. Stealth and surprise were paramount—which is why MacRuairi was with him. The coldhearted bastard hadn’t just earned his war name of Viper from his disposition: like a snake he could get in an out of anywhere without a trace.
Having neutralized the soldiers guarding the keep with relative ease, Eoin persuaded one—at the end of his dirk—to show them where the boy was being held. Having experience with MacDowells, Eoin wasn’t surprised when the man tried to lead them into a room full of sleeping warriors. After a few encouraging pokes, however, the man headed up the stairs.
Eoin could feel his chest pounding with anticipation. His son was near, and soon he would be safe.
Exiting the stairwell on the third floor, they passed through a small antechamber before their reluctant guide stopped before a door and nodded, indicating this was it. Eoin knocked him out with a swift blow to the back of the head. With a look to MacRuairi to be ready in case this was another surprise, he took a deep breath and opened the door.
The room was pitch-black, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. A flicker of torchlight from the corridor spilled into the room, enabling him to make out a small form huddled on a bed beneath a thick fur coverlet. The shape shifted, and a small head popped up.
Eoin reacted like lightning, lurching forward and putting his hand over the boy’s mouth to muffle the scream that had been about to tear from his lungs.
Their eyes met in the semidarkness, and he saw the recognition in the boy’s gaze that was no doubt mirrored in his own.
Christ, he looks just like me.
There could be no doubt that this was his son.
Eoin felt stunned—rocked—as if someone had just hit him with a taber across the chest. Being told that he had a son was a hell of a lot different from being confronted with the living proof. The five-year-old living proof.
Regret and about a hundred other complicated emotions squeezed his throat.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked in a low voice.
The boy nodded, but then opened his eyes wider and tried to scream again.
Eoin looked over his shoulder angrily. “Christ, Viper, you scared him,” he said in a harsh whisper.
MacRuairi looked like the bogeyman with his eerie green eyes glowing beneath the darkened metal of the nasal helm. His face seemed to disappear in the blackness.
“Your reunion will have to wait,” MacRuairi said. “We need to get out of here. Make sure he stays quiet.”
Eoin didn’t waste time arguing. MacRuairi was right. Still holding his hand around his mouth, Eoin pulled the little boy from bed as if he weighed nothing—which wasn’t that far off the mark—and carried him from the chamber. Although Eachann wasn’t resisting, Eoin didn’t want to take any chances until they were outside of the keep. Only then did he put him down and look him right in the eye. “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth, but if you make a sound, I’ll have to put a gag on you. Do you understand?”
The lad—his lad—nodded.
Eoin studied him intently, seeing something in the little boy’s eyes. “Do I have your promise?”
His son nodded again, this time with far less enthusiasm, and Eoin tried not to smile. It wasn’t hard to imagine what he was thinking. But the fact that Eachann didn’t like being forced to promise gave Eoin enough reason to think he would keep it, and he released his hold over his mouth.
The lad took a few deep breaths of air as he eyed Eoin—who’d bent down on one knee—warily.
Eoin took a skin from around his shoulder and handed it to him. “Would you like some water?”
Eachann didn’t hesitate, taking the offering with an eager nod.
Eoin swore as the little boy gulped down the water as if he hadn’t had a drink in God knows how long. The situation was obviously more dire in here than they’d thought, and the thought of his son suffering . . .
Dugald MacDowell was glad he wasn’t standing here right now.
MacRuairi nudged him to hurry, but Eoin waved him off. “He’s thirsty, damn it.” And probably hungry. He dug in his sporran and pulled out a piece of dried beef. “Take this. I should have brought more, but as soon as we are back at camp you can have whatever you want.”
The boy’s eyes widened at his words, and Eoin felt as if he’d just offered him a kingdom. The lad chewed on the beef with relish, each bite making Eoin feel angrier and angrier.
He looked sharply at Lamont and MacSorley as they came up beside them.
“Any problems?” he asked his partner.
Lamont shook his head. “It’s quiet. About fifty men in the keep.”
“Good, less than we thought. Let’s go.”
They were about to continue down the motte when the others came rushing up the stairs toward them. Eachann recoiled instinctively in terror at his side, and Eoin put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “It’s all right, they’re friends.”
The boy seemed to take offense and stiffened. “I’m not scared,” he said proudly. “MacDowells don’t get scared.”
Eoin’s jaw clenched, and he would have corrected him—the boy was a MacLean—but he saw Douglas’s expression.
“There’s a problem,” the big warrior said. Aside from Eoin, who hadn’t wanted to scare the boy, Douglas was the only one not wearing a nasal helm. Douglas didn’t care if everyone knew the “Black Douglas” was about. “We can’t open the gate.”
“Why not?” MacRuairi demanded impatiently.
To Eoin’s surprise, his son answered. “The guard doesn’t have the keys. My grandfather has them.”
MacLeod looked at the boy, and then turned back to Eoin. “It doesn’t matter. We can swim across the ditch for now to open the main gate. Ice can get one of his bags of powder ready for this gate.”
Everyone started to move toward the stairs except for Eoin. He was still staring at his son. There was something . . .
Damn.
“The outer gate won’t work either, will it?” he said.
Eachann didn’t say anything, but one corner of his mouth lifted.
“Are those keys missing, too?”
Eachann nodded. “And the ropes for the portcullis.”
The others had stopped, too, and like Eoin were staring at his son.
“Who told your grandfather to do that?” Eoin asked, already guessing the answer.
Eachann didn’t say anything, but the quirk of his mouth gave him away.
Lamont gave a sharp laugh and said to Eoin, “He’s your son, all right.”
I’ll be damned. Eoin couldn’t take his eyes from the boy. The swell of pride that rose inside him threatened to burst his chest.
For a moment, Eachann seemed to swell up, too, and he started to give him a tentative smile. But then he seemed to remember something and jerked away from him as if scalded. His little face contorted in rage. “I’m not your son,” he said angrily. “I’m a MacDowell, and you’re a traitorous baserd! I hate you and wish you’d never come back!”
Eoin jerked back as if the boy had just struck him.
The shock gave Eachann his opening. Before anyone could stop him, he darted toward the keep. And obviously thinking better of his promise, he did so yelling.