The Striker (42 page)

She scanned his face intently, as if desperately wanting to believe him. “Then he is not suffering? He's so small, I fear . . .” She turned to meet his gaze. “He has enough to eat?”

He didn't answer her directly. “The castle has only been under siege for a short time. I'm sure whatever food there is is going to our son. He is not suffering.”

Yet. But how much longer?

She nodded, as if satisfied, but he wondered whether she'd noticed his careful response.

He shifted a little on the bed, wincing when the pain shot through his leg. It didn't hurt that badly—until he moved. But he could feel the tight pounding of the swelling building in his leg. Despite all his protests to the contrary, he wasn't completely certain it wasn't broken or torn.

Margaret made a sharp gasp of horror that sounded a little bit like a squeak. “I forgot to bind your knee! The man who left to fetch the healer told me what to do. I'm afraid I'm not giving you a very good impression of my nursing skills.”

“Magnus MacKay,” he said, before he could stop himself. But he supposed she would find out soon enough anyway, when the big Highlander returned with Helen. “Helen—the healer—is his wife.”

She nodded, and then tilted her head to him contemplatively. “I should have guessed he was a Highlander from his size. Were the rest of the men you were with Highlanders as well?” She gave a mock shudder and laughed. “I felt as if a ghost had walked behind me the first time I saw them all.”

Eoin cursed inwardly. Her jests were too damned close to the truth. Having her see his brethren in their helms and armor had been unfortunate. He'd wanted his son to recognize him so had dispensed with the nasal helm. But the blackened armor had become all too connected to Bruce's “Phantoms,” as people called them.

Not wanting to risk any more questions, he shifted again—purposefully. The resulting wince he made because of the pain made her gasp again—this time with a muffled oath—and she hastened to fetch the cloth to bind his knee.

She returned quickly, but then stopped and paused, staring down at his leg. She bit her lip and looked at him uncertainly. “I need you to remove your chausses. Do you need help?”

He resisted the urge to shout, “Hell no.” Instead, he shook his head. “I can manage.”

The pain it caused him would be infinitely preferable to the pain of having her hands on him. Offering to help him remove his tunic had been bad enough—although he'd also wanted to prevent her from seeing his tattoo—but having her hands so close to . . .

He shuddered.

Clenching his teeth against the pain, he sat up and began to work the ties of the chausses. He had to move around quite a bit to get them off, but in a few minutes all that was between him and a whole heap of trouble was his tunic and a thin pair of linen braies.

He hadn't thought the injury looked that bad until she exclaimed, “It looks horrible. It's almost twice the size and already discolored with bruising. It must hurt terribly. Are you sure you don't want something for the pain?”

What he wanted right now would only cause more pain. He shook his head. “Just wrap it.”

She did, but even that wasn't a good idea. She had to sit on the edge of the bed to lean over him, and every time she did her breasts grazed tantalizingly close to his cock, and her silky hair slid forward across his chest. He ached to bury his face in both of them. He was holding himself so tightly he forgot to breathe.

“Are you all right?” she asked, turning her face to meet his as she finished securing the bands of linen around his knee. “Am I hurting you?”

“Aye,” he said with a grimace, “but not in the way you mean.”

Clearly, she didn't understand.

“It's not my knee, Maggie.”

It took her a moment, but then her eyes widened and fell on the place he meant—only causing him more pain. And a groan.

“Oh,” she said softly. Their eyes met. He could see the questions looking back at him. Questions he couldn't answer. “Eoin, I . . .”

He heard her hesitation, and understood it because he felt it, too.

“It's probably not a good idea,” she finished.

He shook his head in agreement, ignoring the disappointment in her voice. “Probably not.”

“It would only confuse things, wouldn't it?” She looked at him as if she were hoping he would disagree with her.

But he couldn't. “Aye.”

It would confuse things, and he was already confused enough. But that didn't mean that every nerve ending in his body wasn't clamoring to disagree. To pull her down on top of him and bury himself so deeply inside her nothing could ever tear them apart again.

Christ, she was too close. He could almost taste her on his tongue. Almost feel the softness of her skin under his hands. Almost smell the scent of her pleasure as he stroked her to release.

He remembered the way her eyes closed, her lips parted, and her breath quickened. He remembered the pink flush of her cheeks and the cry that always seemed tinged with surprise when she came.

He didn't know if he'd ever be able to forget. He wasn't all that sure anymore that he wanted to.

He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. Instead, he pulled her down alongside him on the bed. She curled into his side as if she'd never left, resting her cheek and palm on his chest.

He stared at the ceiling, stroking her hair and thinking for a long time.

Margaret woke before Eoin and slipped out of the tent, needing to escape for a moment. She walked to the burn on the other side of the hill and scooped up some of the cool water to splash on her face. If she hoped for sudden clarity, it didn't help.

What had it meant?

Making love would have been confusing, but what had happened was even more so. The closeness from passion could be easily dismissed as lust—as a temporary moment of insanity. But the closeness—the tenderness—she'd felt from spending a night in her husband's arms could not.

It was hard not to let her emotions get carried away, but she forced herself to be realistic. One night of tenderness was no better than one night of passion to build a marriage upon.

Whether more was possible would need to wait until Eachann was free. Her heart squeezed, giving way to the disappointment in the failed attempt that she hadn't wanted Eoin to see. He was upset enough by what had happened.

Eachann is all right
, she told herself. But she couldn't escape the feeling that Eoin hadn't been completely honest with her. He was holding something back, and she knew she had to do something.

She sat by the water, savoring the early morning quiet and watching the faint light of dawn brighten across the stark winter countryside. As soon as the men started to rise and the bustling sounds of camp interrupted her solitude, however, Margaret rose from the rock she'd been sitting on and walked slowly back to the tent.

Hearing raised voices as she drew near, she quickened her step. All three inhabitants stared as she ducked through the flap. Eoin was glaring angrily, but it was Magnus MacKay who spoke. “We caught him halfway out of bed.”

Margaret hadn't known Eoin as a boy, but Eachann had obviously inherited the mulish, disgruntled look when he got in trouble from him.

“Where were you?” he demanded. Perhaps realizing he'd given too much away, he tried to cover it up. “You left me alone with
them
.”

Margaret glanced at the woman standing by the bed and was surprised she hadn't noticed her before. She was lovely. Soft, floaty red hair, fair skin, green eyes, and delicate features made her look like a pixie, even if her expression made her look like a battle commander.

The woman—the healer, Margaret assumed—gave her a decidedly cool look before turning to Eoin. She was pushing a cup toward his mouth. “Don't be such a bairn. Just drink it. It will make you feel better.”

Eoin pulled back disgustedly. “It smells vile, and I told you, I feel fine. You said yourself I just wrenched it.”

The healer put her hands on her hips, looking as if she were summoning patience from up high. “I told you it didn't
appear
to be torn, but I can't be sure. And I know it hurts, so you can stop that tough warrior routine with me.” She rolled her eyes toward her husband. “Lord knows, I get it enough from him.”

Eoin pushed it away. “Let him drink it then.”

Magnus gave a shudder and stepped back. “Hell, no. It smells like animal dung. Every time I sniffle she tries to force one of those concoctions down my throat.”

The healer—Helen, Margaret recalled her name—threw up her hands in exasperation. “Good lord, are you all born with some perverse predilection for suffering pain? Do you know how ridiculous this is?” She glared at Eoin. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

Magnus cleared his throat, shooting a glance in Margaret's direction, and his wife pursed her lips.

Margaret frowned, wondering what she wasn't supposed to have said, but then turned her attention to Eoin. “Do you trust this woman?” she asked.

Eoin appeared completely taken aback. “With my life. She's one of the best healers that I've ever seen.”

Margaret didn't say anything, she just approached the bed, took the cup from the healer, sat calmly on the edge of the mattress, and waited. Eoin was smart. He would put it together himself.

It didn't take him long. He cursed, grabbed the cup from her hand, and downed it in one long gulp. The face he made after was almost comical, but Margaret forced herself not to smile.

Helen looked at her questioningly, and Margaret shrugged. “He just realized that you were the one in position to know what was best for him, and that if you wanted him to drink the posset it was for his own good.”

Eoin shot her a glare, as if he wasn't happy that she knew him so well.

“I wish all my patients were so reasonable,” Helen said with a meaningful glance toward her imposing-looking husband.

The healer's gaze when it turned back to her was appraising, and perhaps marginally less cool. Margaret couldn't blame the other woman for her reserve, assuming she knew about her part in the battle at Loch Ryan. She should expect hostility from Bruce's followers and Eoin's friends (as it was obvious these two were), but it didn't make it any less uncomfortable.

Eoin must have picked up on it as well.

“Helen, Magnus,” he said by way of introduction. “This is my
wife
, Margaret.”

The pretty healer lifted a brow, obviously just as surprised as Margaret was at the way he'd stressed
wife
. “I've heard quite a bit about you,” she said in a way that was definitely open to interpretation.

Magnus gave his wife a chastising frown, and Eoin looked as if he were about to intervene, but Margaret shook him off. She needed to fight her own battles. “I'm sure you have. And I'm sure most of it's true.”

“Only most?” Helen asked.

“It's a matter of perspective. But I hope you will get all the facts before passing judgment.”

Helen gave a twisted smile and turned to her husband. “I think I've just been very politely put in my place.” When Margaret tried to object, she waved her off. “No, you were right. I will form my own opinion, and so far from what I've seen you can at least be reasonable, which is more than I can say for him.”

Eoin scowled, but Helen ignored him and proceeded to give Margaret instructions on how to care for him—which mostly involved forcing the drink down him for a few days so he would rest and not letting him put weight on the leg.

“As for his grumpiness,” the healer shrugged. “Well, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about that. They're all that way when they're hurt.”

“They?” Margaret asked.

Helen looked momentarily startled by the question, but recovered quickly. “Warriors. Highlanders. The whole blasted lot of them.”

Margaret bit her lip to keep from smiling. “They do have their benefits though.”

The two women shared a look, and Margaret knew she understood when the healer's gaze slid over her husband's broad chest. “Aye, you're right about that.”

Magnus frowned, obviously confused. Margaret suspected Eoin would have been as well, but he was already fading.

“The medicine might make him a little sleepy,” Helen said.

It did. And a few days later, with the siege dragging on and no end in sight, it also gave Margaret an idea.

Though Eoin was much improved and had even begun to hobble around with the help of a long stick fitted with a smaller stick crosswise to go under his arm to brace himself, she put a little extra of Helen's medicine in his cup that night. He protested, only relenting when she assured him it was the last time.

When he was out cold, she went in search of Bruce.