The Striker (44 page)

One taste of her, and he was gone. All Eoin could think about was being inside her.

He
needed
to be inside her. Needed it more than he'd ever needed anything in his life.

He kissed her like a starving man—or maybe like a man who'd spent the past three days worried out of his bloody mind.

He tore off her clothes, stripping her bare so he could look at every damned inch of her and assure himself there weren't any other bruises she was hiding from him.

When he thought of the one on her face . . .

He kissed her harder, deeper, letting the feel of her tongue sliding against his take the edge off the burning rage.

He moaned as heat and sensation drowned him. He'd forgotten how incredible this felt. How incredible she felt.

With more gentleness than he thought himself capable at the moment, he eased her down on the bed, breaking the kiss for long enough to look at her.

He muttered a curse. A fist locked around his heart and squeezed. She was so damned beautiful she took his breath away.

How many times had he pictured all that smooth, creamy skin? Those long, slender limbs? Those incredible breasts. Aye, those he'd pictured most of all. He'd pictured his hands on them, squeezing, his mouth on them, sucking, and his face buried between them, inhaling that sweet scent of her skin.

But the memories of the girl paled in comparison to the woman before him. She was a little softer, a little fuller, and even more sensually curved than before.

He didn't know whether to curse or get on his knees in gratitude. How could he blame men for panting after her? She was an enchantress with a body ripe for pleasure.

His
pleasure, damn it. She was his.

And he proved it—in only a few more seconds than he'd promised.

He pulled his clothes off with marginally less impatience than he'd given hers and lowered himself down on top of her. The next instant her legs were wrapped around his waist and he was thrust up deep inside her. It was as if their bodies had come together on their own. Instinct, memory, he didn't know. All he did know was that it felt perfect and natural, as if six years hadn't come between them.

He looked into her eyes and felt an overwhelming sense of quiet. Of peace and fate.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His emotions were raw and there on the surface for her to see. He loved her. He'd always loved her and always would.

The flurry of emotions that had sent him into a frenzy the past few days began to unfurl as he thrust. Slow at first and then faster as her moans urged him on.

Pressure pounded at the base of his spine like a sledgehammer. Insistent. Demanding. Hard.

Sixty seconds might have been ambitious—for both of them. The only salve to his pride was that she cried out first.

When Eoin rolled off her, he took her with him, tucking her into his side. It took a few minutes for the breath to find Margaret's lungs again before she could speak. Propping her chin on his chest, she stared up at him. “Better now?”

He lifted a brow. “Sweetheart, if you think that came anywhere near to making me feel better, you're in for a rude awakening. That barely took the edge off.” His hand skimmed down over her naked bottom, pressing her closer to his leg.

His leg! She jumped up. “Your knee! I forgot about your knee. Oh God, did that hurt?”

His mouth quirked. “I can assure you the last thing I was thinking about was my knee. But it's fine.” He paused, leveling his gaze on hers. “Helen's potion worked its magic.”

She blushed, realizing what he was getting at. “I'm sorry, but it was the only way I could think of to prevent you from stopping me.”

“By drugging me?”

She shrugged. “I knew you weren't telling me everything—which you weren't—and I knew I didn't have much time. It was only a little more than you were supposed to take.” When it looked as if his temper might flare again, she added, “Besides, it's not as if you were being rational about the matter.”

“With good reason, damn it.” He took her chin, tilting her face to the light from one of the oil lamps. “I'll kill him.”

“You'll do no such thing. He's my father, Eoin. I'm not making excuses for him. Well, maybe I am, but he isn't exactly in the best frame of mind. He hasn't eaten in days, giving all his food to his men and Eachann. I came on too strongly, telling him what he didn't want to hear, and he reacted without thought. I was more in the way than anything else.”

“That's no excuse.”

“No, it's not,” she admitted. “But he felt so guilty about it that it helped me convince him there was only one course. Eachann helped, too. He truly loves the boy, Eoin. He couldn't bear to think of him suffering.”

“What will he do?”

“Go to Ireland or the Isle of Man, I suspect. England is out of the question for a while. Edward won't be happy that he surrendered one of his most important castles.” She paused, hesitant to broach the subject but knowing she must. “He wants to take Eachann with him.”

His entire body went stiff. “Over my dead body.”

She didn't think it wise to say that is exactly what her father had proposed.

But then a bolt of panic leapt in her chest at what he meant. “And it will be over mine before I let you take him from me.”

He lifted a brow, but she wasn't being dramatic, she meant it.

Still, issuing threats wasn't going to help anything. She needed to reason with him. “You can't just take him away; he doesn't even know you, Eoin.”

“I know, and I intend to change that. But I have no intention of taking him from you.”

Her breath held. “What about our separate ways?”

His gaze swept over her naked body and the sheets twisted at the bottom of the bed. “That didn't exactly work out very well, did it?”

She could barely breathe. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that I'd like you to return to Kerrera with me and our son.”

Kerrera
. She stiffened at the mention of the place where she'd experienced so much unhappiness.

“It will be different this time, Margaret,” he said, sensing her reaction. “I will be with you. For a while at least. The king has given me leave until my knee is healed. But even after that it won't be like last time. I will be able to return to you—to you both—more frequently. The end is coming.”

She paused, not wanting to ask, but knowing she had to. “Does this mean you have forgiven me?”

He nodded, sweeping his thumb over her cheekbone as if it were the most rare porcelain. “Aye, we both made mistakes. We can't go back, but we can try to go forward.”

Margaret couldn't believe it: he'd forgiven her. She pushed aside the unease and anxiety provoked by the idea of returning to the place she'd run from all those years ago. It was his home, and if she wanted to be part of his life—to give their marriage another chance—she would have to make it her home, too. For Eachann's sake, as well as her own, she nodded.

The smile he gave her tore through her heart. “Then it's settled.” He drew her up on top of him. “But other scores have not been.” One hand snaked around the back of her neck and the other around her bottom to draw her in. “This time you're going to help me feel better slowly. Very,
very
slowly. And it's going to take a long time.”

She did, and it did.

B
Y MIDDAY
Dumfries Castle belonged to Bruce, her father had swallowed his pride long enough to voice the words submitting to “King” Robert's authority, and Margaret had said her farewells to him under the blistering glare of her husband, who despite her pleas, made no effort to make his feelings toward the man who'd struck her less apparent.

With Dugald MacDowell vanquished, the king and his men were celebrating the victory over the last of the Scottish resistance with a feast in the Great Hall of the castle that would be slighted on the morrow. Dumfries—like all the other strongholds Bruce had taken back from the English—would be destroyed to prevent the enemy from garrisoning it again.

Given the circumstances, Margaret did not feel like celebrating and decided to stay in the room that had been set aside for her and Eachann.

Although the day could be counted a great success for Bruce and had proceeded as well as could be expected, it had been a difficult day for her. Not only had her father's virulent antagonism upon hearing that she intended to stay with her husband been difficult to bear, there was also Eachann's reaction.

A reaction that hadn't shown any signs of waning. Even after a hearty meal of his favorites—including mutton from the king's own stores and sugared plums procured by Eoin as if by magic—and a warm bath, the boy was still close to tears and, as she tucked him into bed, still asking the questions he'd been asking since he'd walked out of the castle with her father.

“But why must we go with
him
? Why can't we go with Grandfather to the Isle of Man or back to England with Sir John? I thought you wanted to marry him?”

“I did,” she tried to explain, fearing she was doing no better than she'd done in the note she'd written to Sir John. She hoped he'd understood. “But that was when I thought your father had died. He is my husband, Eachann, and even were I to wish it—which I don't—I cannot marry anyone else.”

The little face that was so much like Eoin's screwed up angrily. “I wish he was dead. He's a traitorous bastard, and I hate him!”

Apparently he'd learned how to pronounce the word correctly. Margaret didn't want to be harsh with her son after all that he'd been through, but she knew she could not allow these feelings to fester. Her expression hardened, imparting the seriousness of what she was about to say. “I know you are confused and upset, but wishing someone's death is a grave matter. Your grandfather was wrong to speak of your father like that, and I was wrong to allow him to. Your father has never been a traitor. He has always fought for what he believed in, even if your grandfather doesn't agree with it. It shames me to think that you would condemn a man without giving him a chance.”

The face that looked up at her was as pale as the pillow behind him. He blinked, his rounded dark-blue eyes filling with tears. “But why does he want me now, when he didn't before?”

Margaret gasped in horror. “Who told you that?” As if she needed to ask. Her mouth fell in a flat line. “Your grandfather was wrong. Your father wants you very much. He stayed away because he was angry with me—for something
I
did.” His eyes widened. “Your father trusted me with something, and I betrayed him by telling someone I shouldn't have. Many men died and your father was nearly killed because of it. He didn't know about you. Had he, nothing would have kept him from you.”

He seemed to accept what she said, but as always he understood more than she intended. His expression turned grave. “If you did that, why does he want you back?”

She wasn't sure he did, but the boy was confused enough. “Because your father is a fair man, Eachann, and he's giving me another chance. I hope you will do the same for him.”

He considered her for a moment and nodded. Margaret heaved a sigh of relief, smiling at the small victory, and bent over to press a kiss on his forehead.

Before she could wish him a good night, however, he asked, “What's a whore?”

The smile fell from her face. “Where did you hear that word?”

He flushed uncomfortably, seeming to realize he'd said something he shouldn't. “One of Grandfather's men.”

“What did he say?”

He looked down at his feet under the bed coverings. “Nothing.”

“It's all right, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You will not hurt my feelings.”

“He said you were no more loyal than a halfpenny whore.” He paused. “It's not a very nice word, is it?”