The Striker (40 page)

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.