The Striker (45 page)

She shook her head. “No, it's not. But he is wrong, Eachann. I love your grandfather and will always be his daughter, but my loyalty belongs to your father and has since I married him, just as yours now belongs to him.” Divided loyalties had interfered in her marriage before; she would not let them again. “Do you understand?”

He nodded solemnly.

She smiled. “Good, then try to get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”

She pressed another kiss on his forehead and closed the door to the small ambry attached to her bedchamber behind her.

She startled at the shadowy figure looming in the bedchamber, relaxing when she recognized Eoin. But good gracious would she ever get used to his size? In a low voice so that Eachann wouldn't hear, she asked, “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.” His fists clenched. “I should have killed the bastard. How could he tell my son I didn't want him?”

Margaret didn't know; nor would she make any excuses for him. “Eachann knows the truth now. That's what's important.”

But Eoin would not be so easily pacified. “Your father has poisoned him against me. God knows what other lies he's told him!”

Margaret didn't want to contemplate. “Eachann will see they are lies. Just give him some time.”

“I've lost too much time as it is.” She could hear the emotion in his voice as he raked his fingers through his hair. “He's five, Maggie.
Five
.”

Margaret looked at the devastation on his face and knew she had to do something. “He cried horribly when he was a babe—and always in the middle of the night. I didn't sleep for almost a year. He would screech until my ears were ringing, and I thought I'd go mad.”

Eoin frowned, clearly taken aback. “He did?”

She nodded. “Aye, it was horrible. But not as bad as all those dirty cloths.”

The frown turned to befuddlement. “Cloths?”

“Aye.” She shivered. “It was amazing such a foul smell could come from one tiny creature.”

His mouth twisted with amusement. “That's disgusting.”

“Not half as disgusting as cleaning up when his nursemaid wasn't around, I assure you.”

He held her gaze, a wry smile curving his mouth. “You're trying to make me feel better.”

Her mouth quirked. “Maybe a little. But I'm just pointing out that not everything was coos and goos, and cute little baby faces. There were plenty of days I felt like pulling out my hair. And I'm sure there will be plenty more for you to look forward to.”

“Thanks—I think.”

She laughed, and then asked, “Was there something you wanted? From the sounds below, the celebrating is just getting started.”

“It is, but I wanted to make sure you both had everything you needed.”

She smiled. “We're fine, Eoin. You don't need to check up on us. Enjoy your celebration. I know you must have been waiting for this for a long time.”

Given what had happened years ago, she would not begrudge him his victory, even if it was at the expense of her father and clansmen.

But what would become of the once proud and ancient clan of MacDowell? Eoin had her undivided loyalty, but that didn't mean she stopped loving her family.

He stepped closer to her, and she couldn't prevent the resulting quickening of her heartbeat—or of her breath.

The passion they'd shared last night only heightened her body's reaction to him. Every nerve ending seemed to flush with awareness and not a small amount of anticipation.

She'd forgotten everything. Forgotten how good it was between them. Forgotten how it felt to experience the kind of all-consuming pleasure that grabbed you deep down and wouldn't let go. Forgotten how it felt to have his weight on top of her, how it felt to have him inside her—filling her. And most of all, she'd forgotten how it felt to shatter into a million tiny pieces of bliss.

Six years of abstinence would not be sated by one night. First Tristan, and then when he'd tired of waiting for her mourning to be over, Sir John, had tried to make their relationship intimate, but it had felt wrong—disloyal somehow even to a husband she thought dead.

Ironic, given that . . .

She tried to push the thought away that had lodged in her head the night before, when she realized the difference in her husband's lovemaking. He made love like a man—an
experienced
man. With all the confidence and finesse of someone who knew exactly how to bring a woman pleasure.

Her chest squeezed. She had no right to expect six years of abstinence from him, but being confronted with the proof otherwise hurt.

He stared down at her. “I have been waiting for this day for a long time, but strangely I don't feel much like celebrating.” He smiled a little deviously for someone usually so serious. “At least not with the men below.”

The gaze that swept over her body and lingered left her no doubt of what he meant. But Margaret was determined not to fall into the trap of passion again. She wanted to be close to him—not just physically—and she sensed there was something about the warriors he was with all the time that was important.

She took a step back. “Tell me about them.”

He frowned. “Who?”

“The men you are always with. Ewen Lamont, Magnus MacKay . . .” She was about to say the good-looking man MacKay was always with, but then realized that wasn't exactly descriptive, as she would have had to be blind not to notice his friends were all rather uncommonly attractive. “The dark-haired warrior he's always with, Robbie Boyd, and the three scary-looking Islesmen.” There may have been one or two others, but they were the ones she could remember.

Had she not been watching him closely, she would have missed the surprise that crossed his gaze before the blank mask dropped over his face.
He's hiding something
.

“What do you wish to know?”

She shrugged. “I don't know, you seem unusually close, that's all. It's odd to see men of different clans fighting together rather than with their own.” She frowned; most of the men in Robert Bruce's retinue were well known—Douglas, Randolph, Edward Bruce, James the Steward, Robert Keith, Neil Campbell, Alexander Lindsay, David Barclay, and Hugh of Ross. “Are you part of the king's retinue?”

“Not exactly, although I often fight with them.” He closed the distance between them, not un-coincidentally she suspected, backing her to the most dominant piece of furniture in the small chamber: the bed. “Why are you so curious about them, Maggie?” His voice was husky as he brushed the back of his finger over the curve of her cheek. When he dropped it down her throat, over her pulse to the curve of her breasts, and leaned down closer, her breath quickened. “Do I have cause to be jealous?”

Heat roared up her cheeks. “Of course not!”

“Good. They're all happily married anyway.”

“I wasn't—”

He cut off her protest with a kiss. A long, slow, thoroughly distracting kiss.

Though she suspected it was intentional, she decided to let him get away with it. She had to be patient. She wanted to know about him—about what he did—but sharing and trust would not come overnight. And in the meantime . . .

He was awfully good at distracting.

The muscles in the back of his neck tensed with the sound of laughter. Eoin had to force himself not to turn around again. He knew what he would see.

Bloody hell, he thought with not an insignificant amount of irritation. Maybe they should have ridden to Kerrera after all. When Hawk had offered to sail them to Gylen on his way to Spoon Island to see his own family, Eoin had jumped at the chance to avoid the drudgery of overland travel and long days in the saddle—especially with his sore knee. By ship, the journey that could take weeks depending on the roads would be only a matter of days. Although the sea roads between Dumfries and the Argyll coast could be dangerous—and Eoin would not have chanced it on his own—with the best seafarer in a kingdom of seafarers at the helm, Eoin was confident that they would be able to outrun any trouble.

MacSorley had saved their hides more times than he could count, and Eoin trusted the brash West Highland chieftain with not only his life, but his wife and son's. But why the hell did he have to be so damned
likable
?

MacSorley was wickedly funny, could charm the habit off a nun, and never took anything too seriously. In short, he was everything Eoin wasn't. Which was why watching his son—the son who'd barely said three words to him—hanging on his friend's every word, spellbound by the big
Gall-Gaedhil
(who looked more Viking than Gael), grated. Margaret wasn't helping matters any; she was laughing at Hawk's jests just as hard as the lad, damn it.

Why was he surprised? Hawk and Margaret were two sides of the same coin. He frowned. At least they used to be. When he'd first met Hawk, Eoin had been struck by their similar personalities. But Margaret had changed, he realized. She no longer walked into the room with the brash, swaggering confidence of a pirate taking over a ship; she didn't say outrageous things or make irreverent jokes; and she dressed as fine as any English noblewoman, with her bold, dramatic locks tucked neatly and modestly behind a veil—although she was having a devil of a time with the wind. He smiled, watching her struggle to tame the red strands from whipping wildly around her head.

She was far more quiet and reserved, and although her beauty would always set her apart, she no longer stuck out like a peacock in a flock of wrens. She was the type of decorous noblewoman who would make any man proud. Which was exactly what he'd wanted, wasn't it?

Turning around, he caught sight of her face twinkling with laughter, and it clobbered him in the chest with the force of a taber. He was a bloody fool. He'd been drawn to her precisely because she was so different—because she was so special. She'd brought out a side of him no one ever had before. He'd felt lighter when he was with her. Happier. The world hadn't seemed quite so grave and not everything so dire. His life had felt broader than the narrow field of battle.

No wonder she'd been so unhappy at Kerrera. He'd forced her into a mold of conventionality and made her feel as if she wasn't good enough for him the way she was. But she'd been perfect.

He wanted the girl he'd married back. He wanted her to be happy again. He wanted her naughty and a little outrageous. He wanted to see her hair flowing down her back and her head bent over a horse as she tore uninhibited across the countryside. He wanted her to look at him as if she couldn't wait to swive him senseless.

The way she was laughing right now made him think that it might not be too late.

But as soon as their eyes met, she seemed to catch herself. The girlish smile fell from her face and her laugh seemed suddenly more restrained.

Guilt stabbed, and he swore he would do what he could to make it up to her. “
Get your family in order
,” the king had said before he left. Eoin intended to do just that.

But it would be a hell of a lot easier if he could confide in her about his role in Bruce's army. He hated keeping her in the dark, and if her questions about the Guard were any indication, her perceptiveness was going to make it difficult.

As the coast of Galloway disappeared into the morning mist, he took his turn at the oars, focusing on the steady rhythm of the blade cutting through the waves, rather than the goings-on at the back of the ship. But he could hear them.

“I have a son about your age,” MacSorley's deep voice rang out.

“You do?” Eachann asked. “How old is he?”

“He'll be five just after midsummer.”

“I'm already five,” Eachann said proudly. “My birthday was on All Saints' Day.”

Eoin's gut stabbed; he hadn't even known that.

“I should have guessed,” MacSorley said, laughter in his voice. “You are much bigger than Duncan.”

“I am?” Eachann couldn't hide his surprise. “My grandfather said I had to eat more or I would never grow big and strong enough to be a warrior.”

“You can be whatever you want, Eachann,” Margaret interjected firmly. “You don't have to be as tall as the captain to be a warrior—if that is what you want to be.”

From the way that Margaret hastened to respond, Eoin sensed the lad's size was a tender spot. Was he small? Eoin didn't have much experience with boys his age, but supposed he could be. Eachann was built like his brother Donald. Donald was two years older than Eoin, but Eoin had been a head taller than him by the time they were thirteen. Donald was lean and wiry, as opposed to muscular like Eoin and their eldest brother, Neil. It had bothered Donald, too, until he'd found his strength. Like MacSorley, his brother excelled at seafaring.

MacSorley must have picked up on the sore spot as well. “Your mother is right, lad. In fact, I even know a lass who can flip me on my backside. And she has . . . more than once,” he grumbled.