“Is that why you never told me what you were doing? Are you really part of Bruce’s infamous Phantoms?”
He heaved a heavy sigh. “I made a vow of silence. It wasn’t just me I was protecting but the others as well. But I was planning to tell you after I spoke to Bruce.”
It was the piece of the puzzle that finally made everything fit together. This was the big secret he’d been keeping from her. No wonder.
“The men at camp. The ones I asked you about.” He didn’t confirm or deny, but she’d already guessed. “I knew there was something strange about all of you! But I never imagined you—” She stopped, staring at him accusingly. “I should have known you would sign up for the most dangerous job. No doubt you’ve been right in the forefront of everything. You could have been killed. I should be furious with you. But...” She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly filling with emotion.
He tipped her chin with the back of his finger, tilting her face to his. “But?”
“But I’m very proud of you.”
He smiled broadly—and a little too smugly. “You are?”
She shoved his chest. “You don’t need to look so pleased with yourself. I didn’t say I forgive you.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressing her fingertips to his lips in a timeless romantic gesture. “But will you?” He held her gaze to his. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I should have known that no matter how bad it looked, you wouldn’t betray my confidence. I did know, but it just took me a little while to realize it.”
She nodded. “I think I can see now why you felt you had to keep me in the dark. It is dangerous.” She thought about it a minute. “I guess I’ll just have to trust you to talk about what you can with me. It was never about the details. It was about being a part of your life and feeling like I mattered.”
He looked floored. “Of course you mattered. You were all I thought about, you were what I was fighting to get home to, you were what kept me from sinking into the darkness of war. Without you nothing else mattered.” She must have shown her skepticism because he laughed. “If you don’t believe me, ask Lamont. He can attest to my less-than-sunny disposition the past six years. Without you”—he paused—“the world was darker. You were my light.”
She smiled. “That’s sweet.”
He looked appalled and glanced around, as if worried someone might have overheard. “God, Maggie, don’t say things like that—especially around Hawk.”
“Who?”
He didn’t hesitate. “MacSorley.”
She understood. “War names! Do you have one, too?”
“Striker.”
She recalled the words on his arm.Just something some friends and I... “The tattoo?”
He nodded and changed the subject. “What made you decide to come back?”
Her mouth quirked. “I think Eachann has come to like it here. He didn’t want to go, and I realized when I thought about it that neither did I.” She paused. “I didn’t want to keep making the same mistakes, and I intended to come back here and knock some sense into that supposedly brilliant mind of yours.”
“Not always. Remember, I told you once when it came to you I wasn’t smart at all.”
Their eyes met, remembering that day long ago when they’d fallen in love, married, and consummated that love (not necessarily in that order) all in one rainy afternoon. She smiled up at him through watery eyes. “I wish it hadn’t taken seven and a half years to figure it all out.”
He drew her into his arms. “Me, too. But we have a lifetime to make up for it.” He grinned. “Starting right now.”
She smiled, letting him carry her to the bed. “Maybe you’re pretty smart after all.”
EPILOGUE
Garthland Castle, Galloway, February 15, 1315
EOIN DIDN’T WANTto be here. The memories were too sharp, the pain too fresh, the ghosts too vivid. Eight years wasn’t long enough to forget. Hell, a lifetime wouldn’t be long enough to forget. But he knew how important it was to Maggie to come home, so he’d agreed to return to the place of so much death and despair.
He gazed down at the fiery-haired bundle in his arms and felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. He was damned lucky, and all he had to do was look at the faces of his family to remind him. Margaret’s, his now seven-year-old son’s, or the fifteen-month-old redheaded cherub’s in his arms who, if her toddlerhood was anything to judge by, just might be the death of him in a few years.
“Here you are,” Margaret said, coming into the room behind him. “I should have guessed.” She bent over, her own fiery locks tumbling over her shoulder. She’d dispensed with the veil and was much more the unabashed, take-no-prisoners young girl he remembered. “She looks so sweet when she’s sleeping, doesn’t she?” she whispered softly. Their eyes met, and she grinned. “Almost makes you forget what she’s like the rest of the time.”
He grimaced. “Almost. The little tyrant threw one of the chess pieces out the tower window again this morning.”
