The Striker (32 page)

He punctuated his words with a crushing swing of his sword, which Eoin deflected with his own. The clash of battle sent a wave of panic shooting through the crowd, and a woman screamed.

Sir John's act had snapped the unspoken standoff and the clash of more swords followed.

Margaret cursed, knowing that spilling of blood was inevitable. But damned if she would allow her son to be caught up in the mess. This was everything she'd hoped to avoid. But her husband had brought the war to their doorstep. She would curse him—after she found Eachann.

Assuming Sir John didn't kill Eoin first. Her erstwhile bridegroom was one of King Edward's best swordsmen. But a quick glance at the men exchanging blows of the sword told her that Sir John was the one she should be worrying about.

She'd never seen Eoin fight before, and the primitive fierceness of it both shocked and unsettled her. She hadn't expected him to be so skilled with a blade. He deflected the blows effortlessly—almost as if he were toying with the powerful knight. When Sir John grew impatient and moved in too close, Eoin didn't just use his sword, he used his elbow to smash into Sir John's nose and his foot to twist around behind the other man's ankle and drop him to the ground.

He lay there so still Margaret prayed he was just knocked out.

She would have gone to him to make sure he was all right, but Eoin had given her an opening. She darted forward toward the church where her two eldest brothers had just defeated a few of Eoin's men and were in the process of urging her younger brothers inside. Did they hope to take refuge in the church? For some reason, she doubted Eoin and his men would heed the laws of sanctuary.

Duncan had caught sight of her and motioned her forward. “Hurry, Maggie, there isn't much time.”

“Where's Eachann?”

“Safe,” Duncan said. “Father has him.”

Margaret let out a huge sigh of relief and muttered a prayer of thanks. Following her brother inside, she immediately realized it wasn't sanctuary they were seeking. The church had a back door.

Always be prepared, Maggie. Always have a means of escape
.

How many times had her father told her that over the years? He had avoided capture all these years by following those rules. Today was no different. The rear of the church was where they'd put the horses.

Her father had just mounted a horse and pulled Eachann up behind him when she and the rest of her brothers poured outside. There were only a handful of horses so a few of them would have to ride tandem.

“Father, wait!” she cried. She wanted her son with her.

He turned and met her gaze. “I have him. Go with Duncan. Hurry.”

He assumed she would leave with him. Is that what she would do? What about Eoin?

She didn't have time to think about it. Her father's gaze shifted behind her, and when his face darkened with anger, she knew it was too late for her.

In a panic she started to cry for her father to wait—to leave her son with her—but he'd already turned away. Gathering Eachann closer around his waist, her father snapped the reins, and clicked his heels. The horse shot off like an arrow, tearing across the yard toward the trees.

She heard Eoin's voice shout from behind her. “Shoot him, now, damn it. He's getting away.”

Margaret's face drained in horror. She turned around and saw Eoin and another man a few feet away.

The other man was holding a bow, with an arrow pointed at . . .

She didn't think before she reacted. “No!” she screamed and lurched forward, putting herself between the arrow and her father's fleeing form.

The archer couldn't have stopped the shot if he wanted to. Her movement had been well timed. He was already releasing his fingers as she lurched.

By all rights the arrow should have slammed into her chest an instant later. But with a vile curse, Eoin knocked the bow to the side, causing the arrow to skid off harmlessly to the ground.

He was on her a moment later, lifting her up by her arm to shout at her furiously. “You little fool! I should have let him kill you. What the hell did you think you were doing?” He turned back to the archer before she could respond. “Fire again. Don't worry about the others, get MacDowell before he disappears.”

“No!” She'd never seen Eoin so angry—and given the circumstances she probably should have shown more sensitivity. But her heart was still hammering with panic, and she felt her own temper rise. Her gaze blared right back at him. “What was I doing? I was stopping you from possibly shooting your son, that's what I was doing!”

As a member of the most elite group of warriors ever assembled in Christendom, handpicked by the Bruce for the most dangerous and difficult missions, Eoin had suffered his share of devastating blows that had left him stunned and reeling—most of them on the practice yard at the hands of Chief and Raider. But no knock in the head or slam across the chest had ever left him so completely poleaxed.

He felt as if the mucky ground had just been pulled out from under his feet, as if the world had tilted, as if everything he knew—or what he thought he knew—had changed in an instant.

Your son
.

The boy was his? He tried to recall what he'd looked like, but the memory was a blur. Eoin hadn't paid much attention, never considering . . .

He stared down into those flashing, golden eyes, saw the challenging tilt of her chin and furious purse of her mouth, and felt such a wave of fury rise inside him he had to fight to keep his fingers from clenching harder around her arm. “Say it again,” he gritted out slowly.

If he'd thought to intimidate her, he'd forgotten to whom he was talking. Margaret MacDowell didn't get intimidated—even when she should. She thrust that chin up higher and narrowed her gaze right back at his. “The boy your archer could have killed is our son, Eachann.”

Eachann
. The boy was named after one of the greatest warriors of all time, Hector of Troy, who was also known as a tamer of horses. The perfect ode to . . . them?

He hauled her up to him, their faces only inches apart. “If you are lying to me, Maggie, I swear by all that is holy, I'll make you regret it.”

She pushed away from him with a hard shove. “Of course I'm not lying to you. Eachann turned five last November. I assume that brilliant mind of yours can count back easily enough, but your visit that night left me with more than a broken heart. Ironic, isn't it? All that trouble to avoid a child and one lapse was all it took.” She made a sharp scoffing sound. “It's no secret who his father is. Ask anyone.”

She looked around, obviously realizing what he already knew: her brothers were gone. They'd left without her.

A son? Devil take it, a son who was five years old? How could she have done this to him?

If he could think rationally, he might realize that this was not a sin he could lay at her feet, but he was too angry to be rational. “Your father used
my
son as a shield so that he could get away? I'm going to tear the bastard apart with my own hands.”

Margaret looked outraged. “He wasn't using him as a shield, he just wanted him with him to keep him safe.”

Eoin was so furious he didn't realize he was bellowing at her. “Safe? By putting him in the way of my archer? He was counting on the fact that I would not shoot with the boy behind him.”

She shook her head. “He wouldn't do that. He loves Eachann. He is his only grandchild. He would never hurt him. I know you have cause to hate my father, but whatever else you may say of him, he is no coward, and he would die before letting anything happen to that boy. I was there, I saw what happened. He wanted him with him, nothing more.”

Eoin heard the conviction in her voice and gritted his teeth. Even if she was correct in the estimation of her father's actions this time, they would never see eye to eye on the subject. There was little of which Dugald MacDowell wasn't capable, and Eoin wouldn't put anything past him.

But he was done arguing with her. He needed to focus on salvaging the mission. Not only had he let MacDowell slip through his net—how the hell had they missed the back door to the church when they'd scouted the area last night?—he had a son who'd been stolen from him for five years.

Failure wasn't an option. He'd get them both back, damn it.

Forgetting about Margaret, he told Douglas's archer to follow him, and they returned to the churchyard, where Hunter and the rest of the men had just finished subduing the English.

They'd already overstayed their welcome. Eoin kept one eye on the castle that he knew at any moment could open to release a flood of more soldiers.

“What happened?” Hunter said.

“I'll explain later,” Eoin said. “We need to get to the horses. MacDowell and his sons”—
and my son
—“rode into the forest.”

“They're headed for the castle?”

Eoin shook his head. He'd prepared for that, posting a few men on the road in case MacDowell had managed to slip away from the churchyard. But he hadn't planned on that back door. Eoin didn't make mistakes like that. At least he hadn't in about six years. “I suspect he's heading for the coast.”

Lamont swore, knowing as well as Eoin did that if MacDowell made it to a ship they wouldn't be able to catch him. If they were in Scotland with Hawk, they might have a chance of slipping through the heart of the English naval forces, but without the famed seafarer it would be suicide.

“Don't worry,” Lamont said. “We'll get him.”

Eoin didn't need to nod, his grim look said it all. Damn right, they would get him.

Lamont whistled and motioned for the men to follow.

He would have gone after them, but Margaret stopped him.

“Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm.

He looked down at it and told himself the coiling and twisting in his chest, the feeling that he was coming out of his own skin, was because he was angry. Her touch had lost the power to affect him years ago. But there was no denying the heavy drum of his heart.

Perhaps sensing the dangerous emotions boiling inside him, she dropped her hand. “I'm going with you.”

He almost laughed. Glancing over, he noticed Sir John starting to stir. “I don't think your fiancé will like that very much. Besides, I lost the taste for treacherous redheads six years ago.”

She flushed angrily but refused to be baited. “This has nothing to do with you. My son needs me.”

His gaze turned as wintry as his blood. “
My
son will have his father.”

“He doesn't know you, Eoin. He'll be scared. I know you hate me, but don't take your feelings for me out on our son. He's only little boy. Please, he needs me. I swear I won't get in the way.”

He gave a harsh laugh. As if that were possible. She'd been in his way since the first day he'd met her.

“You need not worry that I won't be able to keep up,” she persisted. “I know how to ride.”

He gave her a long look. “I remember.”

And bloody hell, it infuriated him.

She flushed again, realizing to what he was alluding.

His jaw hardened, refusing to let her sway him. “The boy will be fine. Though the same cannot be said of your father when I catch up with him.”

“I can help you find him.”

Now
that
caught his attention. His eyes narrowed on her, assessing. If she was lying to him . . . “You know where he is going?”

“Not exactly, but—”

He cut her off with a harsh sound. “I didn't think so. I don't need your kind of help. I'll find him on my own.”

Lamont was the best tracker in Scotland.

“And what if you don't? Think about it, Eoin. If you want to catch my father, are you better off taking me with you or leaving me here? I have knowledge you may need.”

She was right. But that didn't mean he thought she'd give it to him . . .
willingly
. Torture, now
that
was tempting. His mouth curled. “You offer to betray your father so easily? Why am I not surprised?”

Her cheeks went hot with anger, but she didn't attempt to defend herself. How could she? They both knew what she'd done. She lifted her chin. “There is nothing I wouldn't do to see my son safe—nothing.”

She might be a liar, but she wasn't lying about that.

He might be able to use her. To hold over her father's head if nothing else. Would MacDowell trade his foul life for that of his daughter's? He should be so damned lucky.

He turned to one of his men. “Find the
lady
a horse. She may be of some use to us.” He turned back to his deceitful wife, making sure she understood the stakes. “But lie or do anything to make me regret this, Margaret, and I swear I'll do everything in my power to ensure that you never see the boy again.”