The Striker (28 page)

He shouldn't be here. Eoin had promised Lamont that he'd take a quick look at the castle and meet back at the rendezvous in an hour. He wasn't supposed to let
anyone
know he was here—even his runaway wife. Too much was riding on it.

After five months of biding their time in the Western Isles while Bruce gathered the support necessary to retake his kingdom, they were ready. Tomorrow night the king and about three hundred men would lead an attack at Turnberry farther up the coast, and the larger part of their forces—about nine hundred men—under the command of Bruce's two brothers Alexander and Thomas, would lead an attack on Galloway on the south coast.

Everything was ready, and the warriors of the Highland Guard had been given the dangerous task of scouting the landing areas the night before. In Galloway that meant Eoin and Lamont. In Ayrshire that meant MacSorley, MacLeod, and MacGregor. The other half of the Guard were somewhere in northwest Scotland, leading Bruce's womenfolk to safety.

Eoin and Lamont's mission was simple: reconnaissance of the enemy strength and position, and to make sure no one was expecting them. The site chosen for their landing was less than ideal. Indeed, Eoin had argued against it. The deep narrow cove at Loch Ryan could enable the enemy to pick them off from the shore like fish speared in a barrel. But with the currents, it was the only place to land so many men safely, and he'd lost the argument. Their success would hinge on surprise.

Yet here he was, on the most important mission of his life, risking everything because he was too furious—too consumed by jealousy—to heed caution.

He'd been high in a tree just outside the castle walls, trying to see into the yard to get an idea of the number of men inside—and hoping for a glimpse of his wife—when the woman and man rode out of the gate. The light was low, and she was wearing a cloak over her head, but he'd recognized her instantly. The laugh over her shoulder and the way she'd shot out through the trees on her horse had only confirmed it. He'd scrambled down and followed after them.

He couldn't believe it. He'd been berating himself for months about how he'd left her, to find out that not only has his wife left him with barely an explanation (he didn't need to look at the note—how had she learned to write?—in his sporran to recall the words, misspelled and all: “
I love you, but I canot stay here withowt you any longer. I will be wating for you at Garthland. Forgive me
.”), but when he finds her, she's gallivanting across the countryside with another man.

A man whom it doesn't take him long to realize must be Tristan MacCan. The bastard who had probably given her her first kiss. And her second. And how many more? And how
much
more?

The pernicious thoughts assailed him in the darkness. Jealousy coiled inside him like a snake, waiting to strike. It wasn't helped by the fact that MacCan could hold his own on the battlefield and give MacGregor a contest in visage. When the bastard kissed her, Eoin went mad with rage. It had taken everything he had not to rip MacCan off her and tear him apart limb by limb.

If she hadn't pushed MacCan away herself, Eoin might have. But sanity intervened.

For a moment at least. Until she sensed his presence and opened her mouth to scream. Knowing he couldn't let her alert the castle to their presence—men swarming all over the area was a chance he could not take—he was forced to reveal himself.

“Shhh,” he whispered in her ear. He felt the sharp intake of air under his hand, as her body stiffened with shock and recognition. “Unless you want to bring your father's men down on me,
wife
.”

Even in his anger he was aware of the press of her body against his. All those soft curves that he loved fit perfectly against him, and he reacted like a starved beast, hardening, as blood rushed to all parts of his body in contact with her.

As soon as he released his hold, she turned and threw her arms around him. “Eoin!” she sobbed. “You came.”

He held her away from him. “Aye, and just in time, from what I just saw.”

Something in his voice must have alerted her. She eyed him anxiously, although it might have had something to do with his appearance. All those months on the run had taken their toll; he not only fit but looked the part of the outlaw. Remembering that he was wearing the blackened nasal helm favored by the Highland Guard, he let her go to remove it. Tossing it on the ground, he waited.

She bit her lip, clearly embarrassed. “It was nothing, Eoin.”

“Nothing?” he exploded, his mind racing back to that day at Stirling Castle, and how easily she'd dismissed young John Comyn's kiss. “He had his mouth on you, Margaret, and that is sure as hell
something
as long as you are my wife—a fact you seem to have forgotten.”

“Of course I haven't forgotten.”

“Haven't you?” He hauled her up against him. His senses exploded, but anger held him back from crushing his mouth to hers. “Then what the hell are you doing out here alone with him? Or maybe I don't need to ask? You and I went riding once alone.”

She gasped with outrage, her eyes narrowing to angry slits. “Just what are you insinuating?”

“I'm not insinuating anything, I'm asking. Just what in the hell is your relationship with Tristan MacCan?”

“I don't have a relationship with him. You should know that.” She must have seen something in his expression. “What?”

“You didn't bleed.”

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. She gave him a look that made him want to crawl under a rock.

“And so I must not have been a virgin?” She gave a harsh laugh. “Jealousy has made you a fool as well as an arse. Not all women bleed their first time, Eoin. Even I know that. I was a virgin when I met you, and I've been faithful to you every day since, though right now I'm asking myself why.” She paused, as if fighting to calm her temper. “Tristan was wrong to kiss me, and I'm sorry you had to see that, but I am not a whore. And just because I fell into bed with you doesn't mean I will with any other man.”

Bloody hell, she was making
him
feel in the wrong. But it wasn't he who was kissing another woman in the forest. It wasn't he who was discussing how to end their marriage. “Why the hell do I find you here at all? My
wife
should be at Gylen. Is MacCan the reason you left me? Did you grow tired of waiting for one husband and decide to take another?”

“Maybe I should have! I'm not the one who left you alone and unprotected. I'm not the one who disappeared for months without telling you anything. I'm not the one keeping you in the dark. I'm not the one who leapt out of the darkness, scaring me half to death, hurling accusations like a wild man, when I haven't seen you for months. Months when I didn't know if you lived or died. That is not a marriage, Eoin—or at least not one I will be a part of.”

Unprotected? What did she mean? He would have asked, but she tried to draw away and he knew he couldn't let her go. Part of him feared he'd already lost her.

He leaned his face toward hers, so that only a few inches separated their eyes. “As long as there is breath left in my body you belong to me. If MacCan or your father thinks they are going to change that with some false claim of precontract, they can go to Hades. I'll put them there myself.”

Her eyes flashed. “I don't belong to anyone. I'm not a possession to be fought over, I'm supposed to be your wife. But if this is your idea of how to treat someone you are supposed to love, then I've had enough, and it is you who can go to Hades—or back to the war that is so important to you.”

But God, he did love her. That was the problem. He couldn't let her go, even though she deserved more than he could give her right now. He had to hold on to her. Had to find some way to put the broken connection back together.

So he did the only thing he could think of. The only thing that she couldn't deny. The only thing that he knew could quiet the storm raging inside them both.

He covered her mouth with his and kissed her with all the pent-up passion, all the unfettered anger, all the fear lashing around inside him. His need for her was raw and powerful, fierce in its intensity. Like a lightning storm it clattered and thundered, whipping the elements around them both in a violent frenzy of lust and desire.

Her mouth was open, her tongue was thrusting against his with the same hunger, the same need, the same frantic desperation. She was grasping his shoulders, squeezing his arms, moving her hands over his body with the same fervor. He loved when she touched him, loved the feel of her greedy hands all over him.

His mouth was on her throat, his hands on her breasts, on her bottom, lifting.

She reached for him, molding her hand around his cock. It felt so damned good, he thought he was going to explode.

They were pulling at each other's clothes. His chausses were unlaced, his braies untied, and his erection bobbed free.

The cold night air didn't give any relief against the heat hammering through his veins. He was on fire. They were on fire.

He pressed her back against a tree, lifted her skirts, and slid his hand between her legs.

Jesus
. She was already ready for him, and he couldn't wait another second to be inside her. It had been so long . . .

He slammed into her with a thrust that surprised them both. A thrust of possession. A thrust of exclamation. And a thrust that couldn't be denied.

They belonged together.

Over and over he proved it to her, as his hips rocked back and forth, first slowly, and then as her cries grew more insistent, faster. Pumping harder. Circling deeper in a fierce, primitive drum of need and desire.

Yes. Oh God, yes. It felt so good.

It was building. Surrounding them. Clamoring for release.

He could feel the pressure spiking at the base of his spine. Unrelenting, all-consuming, and irrepressible.

The sound of her cries sent him over. “Oh God, Maggie . . . I love you so much.”

The words echoed over and over in his head as his body seized and the powerful emotions tore him apart. He filled her with the proof of that love, exploding deep inside her.

Only when the roar of the flames had dimmed did he notice the quiet.

Something
had
been different.

Since that first time in the cottage, Margaret had known that there was something different in her husband's lovemaking. She sensed he'd been holding back. But it wasn't until now that she realized what that was.

He pushed back, his manhood coming out of her—
out
of her—from where he'd found his release. She felt the coldness and wondered how she could have missed something so significant. Except for that first time, every time he'd made love to her, he'd pulled out of her.

“Oh God, Maggie, I'm sorry.” He drew his hand back through his disheveled hair—hair that was much shorter than she remembered it. He looked so different. All vestiges of youth were gone. He was a man, and a dangerous-looking one at that. This man belonged to the shadows—lived in the shadows. He wasn't the man she'd married. “I didn't mean for that to happen like that.”

She didn't move from her place against the tree while he re-did his clothing.

Why? Why? The question rang in her ear. She feared she didn't want the answer, but she asked anyway. “Didn't mean for what to happen like that? Why, did you forget to do something?” He stared at her, obviously confused. “Is there a reason you have chosen to take your pleasure
outside
of me until now?”

He didn't flinch from the accusation in her eyes. “I thought it was best.”

Her fists squeezed at her side, her voice shrill. “What was best?”

“There is less chance of a child.”

She stared at him in the darkness, unable to breathe, feeling as if he'd just kicked her in the chest. “You don't want a child with me,” she whispered. His wild, backward mistake of a wife.

He took her icy hand in his, but she feared she would never feel warm again. “Of course I do—just not right now. I haven't known whether I was going to be alive from one day to the next for almost the past year, Maggie. I thought it would be easier on you.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Her voice sounded as dull and far away as she felt.

He'd been holding himself back from her in so many ways, why should she be surprised? He told her nothing about his plans to fight for Bruce, where he'd disappeared to for months, where he was going, and what he was doing. He'd refused to take her with him, and left a man who hated her—who might have hurt her—to “protect” her. And only now did he come for her?

“Why are you here, Eoin? Why have you come to fetch me now?”

The grim angle of his jaw was her answer.

She sucked in her breath, the tightening in her chest a cruel, burning pain. “I see,” she said softly. “You didn't come to fetch me at all, did you?”