22
EOIN WOKE feeling more groggy than usual. He had to admit Helen’s medicine helped with the pain, but he hated the fuzziness that came along with it. Now that he was feeling better, he wasn’t going to let Margaret badger him into taking another drop. It didn’t only smell like dung, it tasted like it as well.
Stretching, he looked around the room and wondered where she’d gone off to. He’d grown surprisingly used to having his wife around fussing over him. He’d also grown surprisingly used to having her ignore his rule not to leave the tent.
He knew she didn’t go far, and the men knew who she was now, but he was still concerned when she didn’t reappear by the time Peter arrived with the bread, cheese, and fruit to break their fast.
“Have you seen Lady Margaret?” Eoin asked.
The boy looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Eoin felt his first prickle of alarm. “Not since last night.”
“Last night?”
He nodded. “She asked me to take her to the king.”
Eoin’s heart dropped. He swore and jumped out of bed, forgetting his knee. Wincing, he grabbed the wooden brace MacKay had made him and ordered the lad to help him dress.
With considerable effort, a couple of near stumbles as he tried to navigate the uneven terrain, and quite a bit of swearing, Eoin stormed into the king’s tent less than a quarter of an hour later.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
The men seated around the table—the largest piece of furniture in the king’s tent—didn’t look surprised to see him. They were the king’s closest advisors: Tor MacLeod, Neil Campbell, Edward Bruce, Douglas, and Randolph.
“Have care, Striker,” MacLeod warned, presumably for his tone.
But Eoin didn’t bloody care whom he was talking to: he just wanted his wife. His wife who never did what she was supposed to do, damn it. What about his rule not to interfere?
“I assume you are referring to your wife?” Bruce asked.
“Aye.”
“She’s in the castle.”
Hearing what he’d suspected confirmed didn’t make it any easier to bear—or make him any less furious. Eoin forgot about his injury, about formality, and about royal deference. He leaned over the table and stared at the man who’d been his cousin far longer than he’d been king—even if Bruce didn’t always like to be reminded of it. “Why the fuck is she in there?”
Bruce didn’t flinch, putting his hand up to stop the others from objecting. “Leave us,” he said. His guard dogs didn’t look happy about it, but they complied with the king’s order.
When they were gone, Bruce answered his question. “Because she asked me to give her a chance to end the siege by negotiating her father’s surrender.”
Eoin’s blood was boiling—literally. It felt like his head was about to blow off. “And you just let her walk in there without any protection?”
“I wasn’t aware she needed protection. MacDowell is her father.”
He seethed, the air moving tight and heavy through his lungs. “MacDowell is a cornered dog. You know as well as I do that there is nothing that bastard is not capable of, and that sure as hell includes using his daughter and my son if he thinks it will help his bloody cause.”
The air of certainty in the king’s demeanor lessened. “She was very insistent. She thought that her father would listen to her. She said she wanted to help—to atone for what had happened before.”
“And will her being hurt or starving to death do that? Damn it, Rob.” The old nickname slipped out. “She didn’t know what would happen. She no more sought Thomas and Alexander’s deaths than I did. You knew her. She was just a young girl—a little wild and a little reckless maybe, but not capable of intentionally sending all those men to their deaths.”
The king held his gaze. “And yet that is what you thought.”
Eoin took the shot—which was warranted. “I was wrong.”
He’d been out of his mind with jealousy, hurt by her leaving, and afterward gutted by the slaughter at Loch Ryan. He hadn’t been rational. He’d been angry and bitter, and so tied up in his own guilt he couldn’t see beyond it.
His leg finally gave out. He collapsed in one of the chairs and put his head in his hands. God’s blood, what the hell had he done?
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Bruce said after a minute.
Eoin lifted his head. “I hope to hell you’re right.” He gave his kinsman’s words back to him. “I’ll hold you responsible if anything happens to her.”
“I thought you didn’t care what happened to her.”
“I didn’t think so either.”
It was a declaration of sorts, although of what Eoin didn’t know. But the thought of what could be going on in that castle made him feel like he was crawling the walls.
Two days later he was half-crazed with the possibilities.
By the third evening, when the gate finally opened and he saw her walking out, he was completely unhinged.
Margaret knew Eoin was going to be angry, but this . . . this went far beyond her expectations.
She felt her husband’s gaze on her the moment she crossed the bridge beyond the portcullis. Hot, penetrating, practically radiating anger, his eyes took in every detail of her appearance.
Heat fired her cheeks. Blast her father and his temper! The bruise marring her jaw was going to make things much more . . . difficult.
She’d half-expected Eoin to be the first one of Bruce’s men to meet her, as she made her way into camp. That he didn’t come striding forward, but rather held his position on the periphery of the crowd of men waiting for her was mildly disconcerting.
Perhaps that was an understatement. The coiled snake approach was outright anxiety provoking—nerve-wracking in the extreme.
Refusing to be intimidated, she thrust up her chin and met his glare defiantly. She’d done what she’d set out to do. Eachann would be safe.
Her defiance didn’t last long. Barely had their eyes met for one pulse-pounding moment than she startled and quickly dropped her gaze.
Good lord! She knew what a mouse felt like. A fat, juicy mouse in the predatory sight of a hungry hawk.
Eek.
Margaret wasn’t accustomed to backing down, but there was something in Eoin’s eyes that told her now was probably not the time for challenges. Something that said he was of no mind to be rational about this. Something that made her pulse race, her skin prickle, and her breath quicken. Something that frankly made her want to run the other way.
Which is why she was relieved when she was led immediately into the king’s tent to give her report.
She tried to ignore her husband, but suspected her hands weren’t shaking and her palms weren’t growing warm from having to face the king.
She felt Bruce’s gaze sweep over her jaw. “You are all right, my lady?”
Margaret straightened. “It is nothing, sire. An unfortunate reaction to the messenger, I’m afraid, but I’m fine.”
She wasn’t sure whether it was a sound or a movement out of the corner of her eye that made her heart freeze. But the cold, murderous rage in her husband’s eyes sent ice shooting through her veins. Were it not for Lamont on one side and a man she didn’t recognize, but who looked to be in charge, on the other, she suspected her husband’s unusual restraint might have been at an end. As chains went, however, the two men by his side seemed more than equipped for the job.
The king flickered a warning glance at Eoin before turning back to her. “What happened?”
“It was as you suspected. The garrison was very low on provisions. They were surviving on bits of grain, meat from dogs and cats, and the last of the ale. The men were—are—suffering, my lord.”
She refrained from glancing meaningfully at Eoin. He had vastly underplayed the condition of the castle. Eachann might not have been suffering as badly as the others, but it was only a matter of time. Days. Her heart squeezed at the memory of seeing his pale face for the first time. She hadn’t wanted to leave her son, but she knew it must be she to bring back her father’s message.
“My father was not inclined to listen to me at first. But eventually I was able to convince him that there as no way out this time. He could either watch his men die or he could submit and see them live.”
“So he agreed?”
Hearing the disbelief in the king’s voice, she nodded. “Aye. You can send in your men to work out the terms of surrender tonight, and he will hand over the castle to you in the morning, and submit to your authority as king. But as you and I discussed, he and his men will be permitted to go into exile.”
Bruce was probably relieved that he would have her father’s submission without having to try to welcome his brothers’ killer back into the fold. She’d expected relief, and perhaps a little exuberance. But the tent stuffed with about fifteen men—most of whom were as tall and powerfully built as her husband—was oddly quiet. The king voiced what must be the collective concern. “How can we be sure this isn’t a trick?”
“You can’t.” She lifted her chin. “But I believe my father was in earnest, my lord. I would not have left my son in there otherwise. If you wish, I will lead your men in there myself.”
The king’s mouth twisted wryly. “That won’t be necessary. I do not mean to sound ungrateful, indeed I am very appreciative of everything you have done.”
Margaret nodded. Suddenly, the exhaustion of the past few days overwhelmed her. “If we are finished, I should like to return to my tent. I’m afraid I haven’t had much sleep the past few nights.”
There was definitely a sound this time. A sharp, harsh sound of outrage that made her heart pulse erratically and her breath hitch shallowly. She didn’t look in his direction this time, perhaps a little scared of what she might see.
The king nodded, and it took everything she had to maintain her dignity and not run out of the tent.
He would have caught her anyway.
She could feel his presence behind her as she wound her way through the camp. She was practically running, but his footsteps were ominously slow and even. Thump. Thump. Good lord, the ground couldn’t be shaking. She’d listened to too many faerie tales about hungry giants.
Wasn’t he supposed to be hobbling? How could he be walking so quickly with a stick to brace himself?
She knew there was no escape, but she still wished the tent had a door—preferably one with a big iron bar. Although somehow, she didn’t think that would keep him out tonight.
The mouse was cornered.
She feared she was squeaking when she finally turned to face him to explain. “Now, Eoin, I know you are upset—”
Something that sounded suspiciously like a growl cut her off.
He was standing near the opening of the tent seething at her like a madman clenching his fists. Actually, he was clenching everything. Every muscle in his body seemed taut and flared like a beast waiting to pounce.
She bit her lip. Perhaps she didn’t know him as well as she thought she did. He didn’t seem quite as civilized as she remembered. Actually, he looked rather uncivilized. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept or eaten much the past few days. Neither had he found time for a razor, although she must admit the dangerous brigand look sent a little pulse of excitement shooting through certain parts of her.
But there was no denying her nervousness; her voice was shaking as she said, “Perhaps we should save this discussion for the morning, when we are both rested and a little more rational.”
Where was that brilliant mind when she needed it?
It was the wrong thing to say. He was on her much faster than a man with an injured knee ought to be. He loomed over her, threatening but not touching her—almost as if he didn’t trust himself to do so.
“I don’t think so, a leanbh. Rest isn’t what I have in mind for you right now.”
The dark huskiness of his voice made her shudder, leaving her no doubt what he meant.
“I thought we both agreed that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“To hell with a good idea, Maggie. Take off your damned clothes because I’m about two seconds from ripping them off you, and five seconds from being inside you. If you’re lucky, we’ll make it to sixty before we’re both crying out.”
Oh dear, that shouldn’t make her so hot and tingly, should it? “Eoin . . .”
He leaned closer, fixing his gaze on hers, leaving her no doubt he meant what he said. “One.”
“Won’t you try—?”
She didn’t finish. The sound of her ripped bodice was muffled by the low groan in his throat as his mouth came down on hers.
One taste of her, and he was gone. All Eoin could think about was being inside her.
He needed to be inside her. Needed it more than he’d ever needed anything in his life.
He kissed her like a starving man—or maybe like a man who’d spent the past three days worried out of his bloody mind.
He tore off her clothes, stripping her bare so he could look at every damned inch of her and assure himself there weren’t any other bruises she was hiding from him.
When he thought of the one on her face . . .
He kissed her harder, deeper, letting the feel of her tongue sliding against his take the edge off the burning rage.
He moaned as heat and sensation drowned him. He’d forgotten how incredible this felt. How incredible she felt.
With more gentleness than he thought himself capable at the moment, he eased her down on the bed, breaking the kiss for long enough to look at her.
He muttered a curse. A fist locked around his heart and squeezed. She was so damned beautiful she took his breath away.
How many times had he pictured all that smooth, creamy skin? Those long, slender limbs? Those incredible breasts. Aye, those he’d pictured most of all. He’d pictured his hands on them, squeezing, his mouth on them, sucking, and his face buried between them, inhaling that sweet scent of her skin.
But the memories of the girl paled in comparison to the woman before him. She was a little softer, a little fuller, and even more sensually curved than before.
He didn’t know whether to curse or get on his knees in gratitude. How could he blame men for panting after her? She was an enchantress with a body ripe for pleasure.
His pleasure, damn it. She was his.
And he proved it—in only a few more seconds than he’d promised.
He pulled his clothes off with marginally less impatience than he’d given hers and lowered himself down on top of her. The next instant her legs were wrapped around his waist and he was thrust up deep inside her. It was as if their bodies had come together on their own. Instinct, memory, he didn’t know. All he did know was that it felt perfect and natural, as if six years hadn’t come between them.
He looked into her eyes and felt an overwhelming sense of quiet. Of peace and fate.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His emotions were raw and there on the surface for her to see. He loved her. He’d always loved her and always would.
The flurry of emotions that had sent him into a frenzy the past few days began to unfurl as he thrust. Slow at first and then faster as her moans urged him on.
Pressure pounded at the base of his spine like a sledgehammer. Insistent. Demanding. Hard.
Sixty seconds might have been ambitious—for both of them. The only salve to his pride was that she cried out first.
When Eoin rolled off her, he took her with him, tucking her into his side. It took a few minutes for the breath to find Margaret’s lungs again before she could speak. Propping her chin on his chest, she stared up at him. “Better now?”
He lifted a brow. “Sweetheart, if you think that came anywhere near to making me feel better, you’re in for a rude awakening. That barely took the edge off.” His hand skimmed down over her naked bottom, pressing her closer to his leg.
His leg! She jumped up. “Your knee! I forgot about your knee. Oh God, did that hurt?”
His mouth quirked. “I can assure you the last thing I was thinking about was my knee. But it’s fine.” He paused, leveling his gaze on hers. “Helen’s potion worked its magic.”
She blushed, realizing what he was getting at. “I’m sorry, but it was the only way I could think of to prevent you from stopping me.”
“By drugging me?”
She shrugged. “I knew you weren’t telling me everything—which you weren’t—and I knew I didn’t have much time. It was only a little more than you were supposed to take.” When it looked as if his temper might flare again, she added, “Besides, it’s not as if you were being rational about the matter.”
“With good reason, damn it.” He took her chin, tilting her face to the light from one of the oil lamps. “I’ll kill him.”
“You’ll do no such thing. He’s my father, Eoin. I’m not making excuses for him. Well, maybe I am, but he isn’t exactly in the best frame of mind. He hasn’t eaten in days, giving all his food to his men and Eachann. I came on too strongly, telling him what he didn’t want to hear, and he reacted without thought. I was more in the way than anything else.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“No, it’s not,” she admitted. “But he felt so guilty about it that it helped me convince him there was only one course. Eachann helped, too. He truly loves the boy, Eoin. He couldn’t bear to think of him suffering.”
“What will he do?”
“Go to Ireland or the Isle of Man, I suspect. England is out of the question for a while. Edward won’t be happy that he surrendered one of his most important castles.” She paused, hesitant to broach the subject but knowing she must. “He wants to take Eachann with him.”
His entire body went stiff. “Over my dead body.”
She didn’t think it wise to say that is exactly what her father had proposed.
But then a bolt of panic leapt in her chest at what he meant. “And it will be over mine before I let you take him from me.”
He lifted a brow, but she wasn’t being dramatic, she meant it.
Still, issuing threats wasn’t going to help anything. She needed to reason with him. “You can’t just take him away; he doesn’t even know you, Eoin.”
“I know, and I intend to change that. But I have no intention of taking him from you.”
Her breath held. “What about our separate ways?”
His gaze swept over her naked body and the sheets twisted at the bottom of the bed. “That didn’t exactly work out very well, did it?”
She could barely breathe. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’d like you to return to Kerrera with me and our son.”
Kerrera. She stiffened at the mention of the place where she’d experienced so much unhappiness.
“It will be different this time, Margaret,” he said, sensing her reaction. “I will be with you. For a while at least. The king has given me leave until my knee is healed. But even after that it won’t be like last time. I will be able to return to you—to you both—more frequently. The end is coming.”
She paused, not wanting to ask, but knowing she had to. “Does this mean you have forgiven me?”
He nodded, sweeping his thumb over her cheekbone as if it were the most rare porcelain. “Aye, we both made mistakes. We can’t go back, but we can try to go forward.”
Margaret couldn’t believe it: he’d forgiven her. She pushed aside the unease and anxiety provoked by the idea of returning to the place she’d run from all those years ago. It was his home, and if she wanted to be part of his life—to give their marriage another chance—she would have to make it her home, too. For Eachann’s sake, as well as her own, she nodded.
The smile he gave her tore through her heart. “Then it’s settled.” He drew her up on top of him. “But other scores have not been.” One hand snaked around the back of her neck and the other around her bottom to draw her in. “This time you’re going to help me feel better slowly. Very, very slowly. And it’s going to take a long time.”
She did, and it did.