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 hiscotunhad 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.
