The Striker (23 page)

Tilda hadn't noticed her unusual quietness. She shook her pretty golden brown head. She had the same coloring as Eoin and Neil. The two other siblings, Marjory and Donald, were darker like their mother. “I've never seen Eoin do anything like that,” she said. “I knew he must love you very much. He would have to turn his head away from the battlefield or one of those boring old folios for more than a few minutes. I hope one day I will marry a man that will take one look at me and carry me up to the bedchamber.” She sighed dramatically. “You are so lucky.”

Lucky? Margaret was lucky she wasn't drinking her sweet wine (the syrupy wernage was a suitable lady's beverage) or it might have been “uncouthly” spattered all over the pretty linen tablecloth. She mumbled something intelligible in response, which must have satisfied Tilda, because she resumed her soliloquy on the “romantic” events of earlier.

Margaret wished she could see it the same way as Tilda. But to her, the frenzied lovemaking had seemed more a cry of desperation and a release of pent-up emotion and pain than a romantic expression of love.

She would never deny the passion she felt for him, but lust wasn't romance. Romance wasn't sharing a bed, it was sharing a life. It was trusting someone. Having someone to share your thoughts. Knowing that the person lying next to you would do anything for you because you would do the same for them.

It wasn't disappearing for five months without explanation. It wasn't being kept in the dark. And it wasn't being left alone and miserable among people who thought you weren't good enough or smart enough for the “brilliant” young warrior with such a promising future.

Perhaps some of that misery showed on her face. Eoin caught her eye, said something to his father, and stood. Lady Rignach looked in her direction, and for once Margaret thought she detected sympathy.

She discovered why a short while later. Margaret sat on the edge of the bed, while the man she'd given her heart to stood before her and stomped all over it.

He calmly explained that he'd been at Lochmaben in Dumfries with the Earl of Carrick and turned her world upside down.

“But you said you were doing something for your father.”

“I was,” he said. “Am. Bruce is the rightful king of Scotland. My father believes that as much as I do.”

“Rightful king of Scotland? Only because he rid himself of his rival by killing him in a church!” The news of the Lord of Badenoch's murder last month had spread across Scotland like wildfire. She'd been shocked—horrified—and sad for his son. John Comyn was too young to have such a weight on his shoulders. But ironically she'd thought the murderous act would help Eoin make the decision to fight
with
her clan. Never had she imagined Eoin . . .
Oh God!
“Please tell me you had nothing to do with it.”

His mouth tightened. “I was not there when it happened. It was regrettable, but Bruce was provoked.”

Margaret couldn't believe this was happening. The nightmare was only getting worse. Her absent husband had come home, but he'd done so in full-fledged rebellion. He'd chosen to fight not only against her family, but against the most powerful man in Christendom. How could he have kept this from her?

“You can't do this, Eoin. You have to reconsider. Think of what happened to Wallace. King Edward will do far worse to Robert Bruce—a man whom he trusted—and his followers. You will be hunted like a dog. And what of my family? There will be a civil war, and my father will never forgive you if you fight with Comyn's murderer. I thought you loved me. How can you choose Bruce over our marriage?”

He frowned. “This has nothing to do with you or our marriage. My decision was made long before I ever met you.”

She stared at him wide-eyed. “But I thought . . . We discussed . . .” She looked up at him. “You let me think you would consider fighting with my family.”

He shook his head. “You let yourself think that. I told you I didn't want to talk about it.”

Was that supposed to be some kind of excuse? “So I'm to have no say in the matter? You will make enemies of my family, put your life at risk, and I'm allowed no choice?”

“You made your choice when you agreed to become my wife.” He eased the harshness of his words by kneeling down before her and taking her icy hands in his. Big and warm, with more calluses than she remembered, they seemed to swallow hers up. “I know this is difficult for you, and I never wanted to hurt you, but you are my wife. Your loyalty belongs to me now.”

Her heart wrenched in her chest, as if it were being twisted in two different directions.

But he was right. No matter how much she didn't want to hear it, she had made her choice when she married him. But she never realized what she would have to give up. With no discussion and no say.

“I love my family. You can't expect me just to forget them.”

He shook his head. “I would never ask that of you. But I am asking for your support and loyalty. I'm asking for you to trust that I know what I'm doing. I truly believe this is the best thing for Scotland.”

“More war is the best thing?”

“If it sees Scotland's rightful king on the throne and an end to Edward's overlordship.”

“And you think Robert Bruce is that rightful king?” Half of Scotland—including her clan—would disagree.

“I do. I'm not asking you to believe in him, I'm asking you to believe in me.”

Her heart squeezed. “I do.”

The politics weren't what mattered to her, it was keeping all those she loved alive.

“I didn't know it would happen like this,” he said in earnest. “I thought we'd have more time together before war broke out. Believe me, if I didn't have to leave—”

He stopped suddenly, as if realizing what he'd just said.

“Leave?” she repeated thinly, through lungs that had just had all the air sucked out of them.

His expression turned grim. “Tomorrow. I'd hoped to have longer, but we were unavoidably delayed. We will be racing across Scotland as it is to make it in time.”

She was too shocked to question him about “we.” She shook her head. “No.” She shook her head furiously, panic rising in her chest. “You can't go. You can't leave me here alone.”

“You won't be alone, my mother—”

“Your mother despises me. She and Marjory can barely stand to be in the same room with me. You don't understand how horrible it's been since you left. Everyone hates me here.”

He looked genuinely taken aback. “I know it must be difficult adjusting to a new home, and it might seem that way, but—”

“Don't tell me I'm exaggerating or imagining things, I'm not. They think I'm some kind of wicked strumpet who forced you into marrying me.”

The circumstances of their marriage unfortunately had followed them to Kerrera—as had the disparaging stories of her clan and the fair “maid” of Galloway.

He frowned, clearly taken aback. “If someone has said something to offend you . . .”

“No one has said a thing. It's the way they look at me. The way they stop talking as soon as I come into the room. I'm a MacDowell, Eoin. To them I might as well be heathen dancing naked around the fires of Beltane. I can't even go to a convent without gossip and speculation. Half the people here, including your mother, think I'm doing something illicit. Do you know that Fin followed me today? He practically accused me of seducing a priest!”

Eoin frowned. “I'm sure you misunderstood. Fin told me what happened. He was only doing what I asked him to do. You shouldn't be going back and forth to Oban by yourself.”

Margaret tried to rein in her temper, but it was quickly slipping through her fingers. “I did not misunderstand. I'm sorry, but I cannot like him, Eoin. I've tried, but there is something about your foster brother . . . he makes me nervous.”

His eyes flared with the first real sign of anger. “If Fin has said something or done anything to hurt you, I'll kill him. Damn it, I thought that business with the race was forgotten. But if he's holding a grudge . . .”

“It's not like that. He hasn't done or said anything. I just don't trust him.”

“He's my best friend, Maggie. I've known him since I was seven. I'd trust him with my life.”

“And yet you told him nothing about where you were going either.”

His mouth fell in a hard, grim line; he clearly wasn't happy to have that pointed out.

He was hiding something. She'd known it, and now she had proof.

“I will talk to him. But you do not need to worry about Fin.”

“Why?”

“He will be leaving with my father and brothers as soon as war breaks out.”

The look of relief on her face told him that maybe there was more than a young girl's loneliness and penchant for hyperbole at work.

Damn Fin to hell. Eoin suspected his foster brother had just as little regard for his wife as she did him. Maybe it had been a bad idea to have Fin watch over her, but he'd hoped they could become friends.

What a mess. Eoin had never felt so helpless in his life. Exaggerated or not—people didn't hate her, they just didn't know her—he could not deny that Margaret was miserable and believed it to be true.

He hated that he hadn't been here for her to help ease the transition. Hated that she'd had to go through her first few months at Gylen alone. But what the hell was he supposed to do? It was an impossible situation. He shouldn't even be here right now.

He took a chance and got up off his knees to sit beside her on the bed. When she didn't shirk away from him, he put his arm around her and drew her against him. She melted into his chest, wrapping her arm around his waist, and he felt the first flicker of hope.

“I wish I could make it easier for you,” he said. “Tell me what I can do to make it better.”

She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes glassy. “Don't go.”

He was surprised how much the soft plea ate at him, and how much he wished he could stay with her. “If I didn't absolutely have to go, I wouldn't. But I'm needed.”

“It's more than that though, isn't it,” she accused. “You
want
to go.”

The lass was too perceptive. “I would stay here with you right now if I could, but if you are asking whether this is something I want to do the answer is yes. You knew who I was when you married me. I'm a warrior, Maggie. Warriors fight. And this opportunity—” He stopped, realizing he was treading too close to the truth. “This is something I've been preparing for my whole life. There will be challenges and the chance to do something different—the chance to make a difference.”

“So you are choosing war over me?”

Damn it, that wasn't what he was doing at all. It didn't have to be an either-or—not unless she made it that way. “I'm not choosing anything. What would you have me do? Ignore my duty? Would you ask your father or brothers to do the same? Would your mother have demanded your father stay with her rather than fight for King John?”

He could see the answer shimmering angrily in her eyes.

He took her chin, tilting it toward his. “Do you love me, Maggie?”

He didn't expect her to hesitate. When she did, he realized how close he was to losing her, his gut checked hard. Hell, it scared the shite out of him.

“Aye,” she said finally.

“Then don't give up on me. I know it's been difficult for you, but if you could just try a little longer, I know you'll win them over.” He smiled wryly. “Don't tell me all these new gowns and veils have made you soft.”

A furrow appeared between her finely etched brows. “Soft?”

He shrugged. “I thought you didn't care what people said and would not be defeated so easily. What happened to the girl who donned lads clothing and bested one of the best horsemen I know in a race? Was all that MacDowell pride a bunch of bluster?”

He felt like he'd hung the damned moon when one corner of her mouth lifted. “Are you suggesting I wear breeches to break my fast tomorrow morning?”

He laughed. “Good God, no. I wouldn't want my mother to expire of shock.” He sobered a little. “I know she can be difficult at times, but once you get to know her, you'll see that she just wants the best for my brothers and sisters and me.”

“Which is exactly the problem.”

“You are the best for me. She just hasn't realized it yet.”

She smiled, and it wasn't like he'd hung the moon—it was like he'd hung the sun. Warmth spread over him like a bright summer day.
This
was why he loved her. She was fun and lighthearted, outrageous, knew how to make him laugh, and reminded him that not everything was the life-or-death stakes of war. This was why he needed her in his life. She was the light in a world that sometimes became too dark. The past months of doing—thinking—nothing but battle fell away.