The Striker (39 page)

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?”