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.
“Anything else?”
The question seemed innocuous, but she knew it wasn’t. She tried not to think of the note that had been reduced to embers in her brazier. “I spoke with Marjory. She apologized. I think she is truly sorry for what she did.”
Again, no reaction except he continued to watch—scrutinize—with unsettling intensity. Her heart started to beat faster. Did he know something or was guilt making her imagine it?
