The Striker (31 page)

St. Mary's Church near Barnard Castle, Durham, England, January 17, 1313

E
OIN HADN
'
T
expected her to faint. And he sure as hell hadn't expected to be the only one with the presence of mind to catch her before she hit the ground.

But there he was holding his wife in his arms again, wondering why he hadn't let her fall. It was no more than she deserved. And he wouldn't be stuck with the scent of her in his nose, the weight of her breasts on the arm that had snaked around her waist, and the soft, erotically-curved body that had haunted his dreams for almost six years pressed snugly against him.

Nor would he be forced to gaze up close at the face he'd never quite been able to forget, though God knew he'd tried.

He was sorry to see that she was still beautiful, her features seemingly unmarred by the passage of time. Her lips were still the same vibrant crimson, her siren's slanted eyes still framed with the long, dark lashes, her skin still a youthful powdery cream, and the hair peeking out from the sides of the veil still a bold and fiery red.

She didn't look much older than the last time he'd seen her, almost six years ago, when he'd watched from the safety of the forest where Lamont had dragged him, after the blow to the back of the head that should have killed him, as she'd sunk to her knees in apparent regret before the fire that could have well been his funeral pyre.

Even from afar he could see her devastation, but it was too late. His heart had already hardened. He'd been glad she thought he was dead, for she was dead to him. He'd turned and never looked back.

Or tried not to. Sometimes late at night, in moments of weakness, he wondered what had become of the wife who'd nearly cost him everything. Where she was.
Whom
she was with.

Married
, he thought bitterly. He was surprised she'd waited this long.

But maybe it was partly his fault. He should have dealt with his ill-advised marriage a long time ago. It was well past time to put Margaret MacDowell behind him for good.

But as his gaze lingered one more moment on the face he'd once thought to look at for the rest of his life, his jaw hardened at the injustice. Surely her countenance should show some of the blackness of her soul? She looked more like an angel than a treacherous bitch who'd betrayed him and sent so many men to their deaths.

Sure, Eoin knew what Lamont and the rest of his Highland Guard brethren said. That MacDowell had been prepared for them. That rumors of Bruce's planned attack had already reached him. That the Galwegian chief's garrisons had been packed and his men had been at the ready. That their own intelligence had been faulty. That Eoin's mistake was not to blame for what had happened. That it wasn't his fault.

When he could think rationally about it—which was rare—he probably even agreed with them, but it didn't change what she'd done.

Or what he'd done. His weakness for his wife had cost him.
She'll hold you back
. Fin and his father had been right. He'd lost his kinsman's trust, and his place in the Guard for a short time—although Chief had made Bruce reconsider quickly.

Eoin would never have a place in Bruce's government. No matter how many successful plans Eoin came up with, none could make up for the disaster at Loch Ryan. Eoin knew the king laid part of the blame for the deaths of his brothers at Eoin's feet. He accepted that, but Dugald MacDowell would finally account for the rest.

Reminded of his purpose, Eoin turned his gaze from the woman in his arms to the men standing before the church door, who were still reeling from the shock of his announcement and had yet to move.

Which was exactly what Eoin had counted on. A quick scan around the yard told him his men were almost in position. A few more moments, and the churchyard would be surrounded.

He pictured how it would play out in his head, anticipating how MacDowell and the English would react and accounting for every possible move. He could have attempted the straightforward surprise “pirate” raid for which Bruce and his men had become known—riding in with swords drawn for the fierce attack—but that would have left too much to chance. MacDowell had proved as slippery as a snake. Relying on the disguises might be more risky if someone noticed them too early, but by surrounding the churchyard, MacDowell would have nowhere to go. A quick snatch and grab, and Eoin and his men would be on the way back to Scotland before the English—and the garrison at the castle—knew what had hit them.

Conyers and his men would have to be neutralized, but Eoin's target was the MacDowell chief and his sons—as many of them as could be taken. Eoin recognized the eldest two standing beside Conyers and their father with a young lad. His gaze skimmed over the boy standing with his back to him, who was too young to be one of Margaret's other brothers. The boy must be Dougal's.

Margaret's eldest brother had married an English heiress not long after Loch Ryan—one of the MacDowells' rewards from Edward of England for the service they'd done that day in capturing Bruce's brothers and crushing the southern attack. Fortunately for Bruce, the northern prong of the attack at Turnberry had proved more successful, and despite the loss of nearly two-thirds of his army at Loch Ryan, Bruce had defied the odds against him and risen from the ashes of defeat to establish a foothold in his kingdom. A foothold that in the last few years had become entrenched. MacDowell and his Gallovidians were the last of the significant Scottish resistance.

And Eoin would be the one to put an end to it by capturing him—as soon as he could unload the burden (literally and figuratively) in his arms. He started to push Margaret toward Conyers, who as the groom in this farce of a wedding was standing closest to him, when her eyes fluttered open.

Their gazes locked, and not even six years of bitterness and hatred could make him look away.

He hadn't expected to be affected. He hadn't expected to feel anything. He hadn't expected the air to squeeze out of his lungs and his heart to feel as if it were burning a hole in his chest.

But it was as if he was on that battlefield all over again, listening to her brother taunt him with her betrayal, and it all came rushing back. All the anger, all the rage, all the heartbreak, and most of all, all the questions.

Why
shouldn't matter.
Why
was irrelevant. He'd trusted her, and she'd betrayed him. That should be enough. But damn it, how could she have told someone, when she must have known what it would mean? Did she wish to be rid of him so badly? Had the marriage that had started with such happiness become so unbearable? Had her love once tested proved no deeper than a young girl's feckless fancy?

A wave of fury and rage rose up hot and heavy inside him. His blood boiled. His body shook. He wanted to lash out at the injustice. How could she have done this to them? Why couldn't she have been more patient? Why couldn't she have done her duty and tried to understand? Why couldn't she have been like the other wives? Since Loch Ryan, seven of his brethren had married, and not one of their wives complained about what they did or how long they were gone.

Margaret read none of the storm of emotion taking place inside him. Her eyes softened. The lips that he could still taste in his dreams curved into a dreamy, delectable smile.

She reached up, the hand she placed on his face stopping his heart. “You came back! It wasn't a dream. You're alive. Thank God in heaven, you're alive.”

Not even the most accomplished liar could have feigned that reaction. He could not doubt that she was happy to see him. It gave him pause, but a movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him cold.

The precious few seconds of inattention—the previous few seconds he'd spent locked in a fool's trance with his wife—had cost him. Where in Hades was MacDowell?

Not again, damn it.

Margaret couldn't believe it. It was really him. Eoin was standing before her alive, and by the looks of it, perfectly hale.

Perhaps more than hale. From the breadth of his shoulders and the size of the rock-hard arms around her, he was in fine form. A shudder of awareness ran through her as her swooning senses began to focus and sharpen. In
very
fine form indeed. Good gracious, he was built like a . . .
built
.

Six years of war had hardened him. He was bigger, fiercer, and scarier. He not only looked strong enough to take out an entire army, his eyes possessed the cold ruthlessness to do so. There was a hard glint to the midnight blue that had not been there before, and the lines etched in his face were deeper and angrier, and punctuated by a few more scars. No smile would erase the furrow between his brow now.

The serious young warrior she remembered had needed to be reminded to laugh; the grim, imposing, mail-clad brigand before her looked incapable of doing so.

But no matter how changed, she was so happy to see him, she couldn't resist touching him. His jaw hardened under her hand, but the roughness of the stubble under her palm sent a shiver of remembrance shooting down her spine. She'd loved to feel the scrape of his beard on her skin when he'd kissed her.

But if the way he suddenly pushed her out of his arms toward Sir John was any indication, her husband did not share the same fond memories of her touch.

“Take her,” he said with a sneer of disgust.

Then she remembered what she'd done, and how he must despise her. Her chest stabbed with a knife wielded by her own hand.

“Are you all right?” Sir John asked, wiping her brow with a tender caress of his thumb.

It was a thoughtless gesture that she would not have noticed an hour ago, but that in the presence of her suddenly-risen-from-the-dead husband felt wrong.

She need not have worried though. A sidelong glance at Eoin told her that he'd forgotten all about her.

Mumbling assurances to Sir John, she quickly extracted herself from his arms where she'd been so unceremoniously tossed like an unwelcome sack of grain.

It wasn't until Sir John drew his sword and pushed her behind him that she realized what was happening. The movement she'd sensed earlier was Eoin's men—wearing the armor and surcoats of English knights—surrounding the churchyard.

How did he still have the power to hurt her after all these years? This wasn't about her wedding, she realized. Eoin hadn't come for her. It wasn't about her at all. It was about her father and brothers. He must have discovered that they would be here and hoped to use her wedding as a trap by creating a diversion.

He'd done that all right. While everyone had been gaping at Eoin, stunned by his pronouncement, his men had quietly moved into position.

But the diversion was over, and all hell had broken loose. Perhaps he'd counted on that as well? Perhaps he'd hoped to nab her father and brothers quickly in the ensuing chaos?

If that had been the plan, it hadn't worked. It was certainly chaotic—the wedding guests had slowly realized something wasn't right and were fleeing in all directions—but like Sir John, her brothers had drawn their swords and were preparing to put up a fight.

This was madness. With all these people in this confined space innocent people would be . . .

Her heart dropped. Oh God, Eachann. Where was her son?

Her gaze shot to the last place she'd seen him. He'd been standing between her father and Dougal on the other side of the priest near the church door as she started to say her vows. She could see Dougal and Duncan with their swords drawn standing before the door, but neither the boy, the priest, nor her father were with them.

Eoin must have realized her father wasn't there as well; she heard him shout an order to one of his men to find MacDowell. He likely would have done so himself, except that he was fending off a threat from Sir John.

“You should have stayed dead, MacLean,” Sir John said in a menacing voice she'd never heard before.

“And you should have found a bride who was not already married,” Eoin replied. “But I did not come here for you—or her,” he added with a scornful look in her direction. “None of your guests needs to be hurt. I want MacDowell. Do not interfere, and I'll write to the pope myself. I'm sure my wife can think of dozens of reasons why our marriage could be dissolved.”

Margaret didn't miss the dig about the conversation with Tristan that Eoin had overheard all those years ago, nor was his obvious eagerness to be rid of her not without a painful pinch or two (or handful) in her chest, but her focus was on her son.

Where was he?

She tried to peer over the crowd, but there were too many people in the way—including Sir John and Eoin. She had to get around them. Sir John had pushed her behind him against the church, thinking he was protecting her, but now she was stuck.

“Writing to the pope won't be necessary,” Sir John said meaningfully. “Not when I'm done.”