The Striker (52 page)

Margaret pursed her mouth. “That's ridiculous. You know why I left.”

It was a challenge, not a question.

Marjory nodded, the tears rolling full force now. “Aye, I saw everything—except that I didn't want to believe it. I thought he loved me. I convinced myself that you had to have done something to make him kiss you. But in my heart I knew.”

Margaret sighed deeply, almost feeling sorry for her. “Then why did you marry him?”

The other woman shrugged, her chest heaving from her sobs, and wiped away some of the tears with the back of her hand. “I thought once you were gone, I could make him love me. I thought that when I gave him a son . . .” Her voice fell off. “Fin says I'm barren, but I know this baby was a sign and next time . . .”

Margaret's heart went out to the other woman, but she feared Marjory was pinning all her hopes on the wrong thing. A baby wouldn't make her husband love her. She wasn't even sure Fin was capable of that kind of emotion. She wasn't surprised that he'd put the blame for their lack of a child on his wife either.

Marjory looked up at her. “But then you came back, and he wants you again.”

Margaret shook her head. “He may have once, but that was a long time ago. I think he despises me more than anything else. He doesn't look at me like that now.”

Now he looked at her as if he couldn't wait to see her gone. There was something cold in his eyes . . . She gave an involuntary shudder, but she had no intention of letting him scare her away this time.

Marjory's tear-streaked face stared back at her. “What if he's just better at hiding it?”

Margaret shook her head. “I don't think so.” But whether it was true or in Marjory's imagination didn't matter. It never had. “I love your brother, Marjory. I have always loved your brother. There was never anyone else for me from the first moment I saw him.”

The other woman looked into her eyes, perhaps seeing the truth for the first time: Margaret wasn't a threat. If she wanted someone to blame for her unhappy marriage, she would have to look somewhere else.

Feeling as if she'd turned an important corner with her sister-in-law, Margaret left the garden with an even greater sense of optimism for the future.

But just when it looked like she was finally finding a way to fit into her new life, her old one came back threatening to destroy all the inroads she'd made.

She was on her way to the stables in the late afternoon when she noticed a monk walking toward her across the yard from the sea gate. He wore the brown robe of a friar, and though the skies were clear, a hood covered his head, hiding his face from view. But that wasn't what drew her attention. It was the way he walked. Erect. Proud. Like a warrior, not a poor, humble churchman.

Curious, but also slightly uneasy, she looked around to make sure they weren't alone. The yard wasn't crowded, but a half dozen of the laird's guardsmen were practicing a shout's distance nearby.

Reassured by their presence, she started to greet the newcomer, who was now only a few feet away. “Welcome, Father, might I help . . .” Her voice trailed off as the face beneath the hood came into view.

Her breath jammed in her chest.

“
Brother
,” her brother Duncan corrected under his breath, taking her hands in his as if in blessing. “Not Father.”

Margaret was too stunned to react. She'd frozen in place.

“Christ, Maggie Beag. Do you want me thrown in the pit? Pretend like you are giving me directions to the kirk.”

He released her hands, and she recovered enough to realize he'd pressed a note into her palm. Slipping it into her skirts with one hand, she pointed out the gate with the other. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

But he was already heading toward the gate. “Rescuing you,” he said in parting. “Be ready.”

Margaret's heart was still fluttering wildly as she carefully unfolded the parchment in her chamber a few minutes later. The hastily scratched letters in black ink jumbled in her head. She had to read it a few times to realize that her brother and his men would be at the anchorage on the other side of the island tomorrow just after dusk to “rescue” her and Eachann and take them to the Isle of Man, where they could be reunited with their family.

Apparently, her brothers had surrendered Buittle Castle to Bruce as well and joined her father in exile. Duncan was obviously under the impression that she and Eachann had been coerced into going with Eoin.

Margaret cursed her father, knowing he was responsible for that. She wondered if Dugald MacDowell realized what danger he'd put his son in by giving him that impression—and by the problems he'd created for her. Though Margaret was moved by the risk her brother had taken to come to her aid, his showing up like this was going to make things difficult

Now, Eoin wasn't the only one with secrets.

A few hours before dawn Eoin made his way up the sea-gate stairs. His knee screamed in agony with every step, but he didn't mind. He was damned lucky to be alive, and he knew it.

Still, he was furious. He'd barely exchanged one word with Campbell the entire way back. But he could sense the other man's question—a question Eoin didn't want to hear.

It wasn't her, damn it!

But how had it gone so wrong? Not only had Eoin's perfect plan to trap Lorn's men been foiled, they'd been the ones nearly caught in a net.

Eoin and Campbell, along with a team of Campbell's best warriors—about fifteen men in total—had been in position on the western ridge of the Glen Stockdale overlooking Loch Linnhe and the fort of Stalker by dusk after leaving Gylen. From there they could see Lorn's men land on the Appin shore and then be ready for a surprise attack when the MacDougalls made their way inland to their tenants at Glenamuckrach.

Eoin and the team of warriors had lain in wait the first night to no avail. Taking advantage of some nearby caves to rest during the day, they'd emerged at nightfall to take position for the second night.

The MacDougalls were waiting for them. A hail of arrows had rained down on them from behind. The men on watch had been looking to the west, but the MacDougalls had taken a circuitous route from the east, approaching Appin overland rather than by sea. Almost as if they knew someone was waiting for them.

Five of Campbell's men had been killed in the first few minutes. Campbell had taken an arrow in the back, but the thick leather and providentially located steel studs of his
cotun
had prevented it from sinking into his flesh. Eoin had been lucky to be wearing a steel helm and mail coif, or the arrow that struck him just below the ear would have killed him.

Despite their small fighting force being cut by over a third those first few minutes, they'd rallied and fought off the attackers, who outnumbered them by at least two-to-one. The MacDougalls had eventually fallen back, but with three more of Campbell's men dead and another four wounded, giving chase was not an option.

Not all MacDougalls
, a voice reminded him. He wished that voice would shut the hell up. He didn't need reminding to recall seeing Margaret's brother Duncan and at least a dozen MacDowells fighting alongside their distant kinsmen.

It didn't mean anything
. It could hardly be considered a surprise that the MacDowells had joined the MacDougalls. They'd all known the MacDowell submission wouldn't last.

He and Campbell had gathered their men and sailed back to Gylen, if not in defeat then in something coming damned close to it.

How the hell had it gone so wrong? Had someone warned them? But that wasn't possible. No one had known their plan. Except for . . .

Eoin knew what Campbell was thinking—because he'd thought the same thing, damn it—but Margaret couldn't have betrayed them. Even if he thought her capable—which he didn't—unless she'd sprouted wings and learned how to fly, there hadn't been time for her to tell anyone.

There had to be another explanation. He would find it. As much for Campbell as for his own piece of mind.

His father must have had his men watching for him, as the locked gate was opened by the time Eoin reached the top of the stairs. He would have gone straight to the kitchens to rid himself of all the grime and blood of battle, but his father was waiting for him in his solar. He wasn't alone—Fin was with him.

His father's gaze swept over him, taking in every detail of Eoin's appearance. “Are you hurt?”

Eoin shook his head. Pain in the knee was to be expected, and it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. He'd fought with much worse. “The blood isn't mine.”

His father nodded, his face turning grim. “From your expression, I'm assuming your trip was unsuccessful?”

Eoin frowned, with a glance toward Fin. “It was.”

His father's grimace deepened. Understanding Eoin's silent communication, he explained, “Fin is here for a reason. He has some . . . distressing information.”

Eoin turned to his foster brother for an explanation.

“You aren't going to like it,” Fin said bluntly. “Maybe there's an explanation.”

Sleeping a few hours in a cave, being ambushed, and nearly killed weren't exactly conducive to patience. “Whatever it is you have to say, Fin, just say it.”

“Your wife was seen talking to a monk yesterday.”

Christ, what the hell was Fin getting at? “And?”

“There was something odd about the man. I followed him into the village kirk, but he hit me from behind. By the time I woke, he was gone.” From the way Fin and his father were looking at him, Eoin knew he wasn't going to like what Fin said next. He didn't. “I caught a glimpse of him before he hit me. It was Duncan MacDowell.”

Eoin's expression gave no hint of the blow Fin had just dealt him, but inside he felt as if every bone had shattered, splintering into a million pieces. He remained standing by sheer force of will, but they could have toppled him with a nudge.

It didn't mean anything
.

Unless it did.

Margaret woke to the warmth of the sun streaming through the shutters. She stretched lazily, feeling a little bit like a well-satisfied cat, and opened her eyes.

She gave a sudden start at the man sitting in the corner watching her, but then smiled when she realized who it was. Relief swept over her. “Eoin! You're back!” She frowned, peering at him in the shadows. “Why are you sitting there like that? You startled me.”

He remained perfectly still, not reacting to her words. “Watching you sleep. You look like an angel.”

There was something strange—almost accusatory—in his voice that made her skin prickle.

He stood and walked toward the bed.

She gasped at his appearance and sat up quickly. Blood and dirt were splattered and streaked all over his face and clothing. He looked like a man who'd just climbed from the pits of hell. “My God, what's wrong? Are you hurt?”

She attempted to reach for him, but he took her wrist and brought her hand firmly back down to the side. “I'm fine.”

Her heart jumped. For despite his words, she knew by the intensity of his gaze that something was wrong—very wrong. Margaret was used to being caught in the hold of those dark, piercing blue eyes, but this was different. She felt like a bug under a magnifying lens, as if every move was being scrutinized. “What happened?”

“That's exactly what I want to know.”

“Did you find the MacDougalls?”

“You might say that. And what of you, Margaret?” He changed the subject. “What did you do while I was gone?”

There seemed to be a purpose to his question that she didn't understand. She answered tentatively—everything about him made her tentative. He was drawn as tight as a bow—the muscles in his arms and shoulders taut and straining.

“Your mother asked for my help with the steward yesterday, while Eachann worked with his new tutor. I think he was in heaven.” She laughed, but he was oddly silent.