Hell, it was not something he’d ever forget. He’d probably go to his grave thinking about that kiss and those sweet little insistent moans.
He adjusted himself for what felt like the dozenth time as they’d ridden this morning as he swelled with the memory.
As the track through the forest widened, Fin rode up beside him.
“What’s the matter with you?” his foster brother said in a low voice. “You’ve barely said a word all morning.” He shot him a knowing sidelong glance. “Or maybe I don’t need to ask. From your dark expression, I take it you didn’t finish after I interrupted yesterday? The way the lass was moaning, I thought she wouldn’t be able to wait.”
Eoin’s jaw hardened, his mouth clenching with anger and distaste. He sent Fin a dark glare. “I told you last night nothing happened. What you saw was a mistake.”
Fin laughed. “It might have been a mistake, but if that was ‘nothing,’ I wouldn’t mind a taste of it. Where do I get in line?”
If they hadn’t been riding, Fin would have been on his back. As it was, Eoin contemplated leaning over and wrapping his hand around his neck. Instead, his fingers tightened around the reins until his knuckles turned white. “Stay away from her, Fin. I mean it.”
Fin gave him a long look through narrowed eyes, as if he knew how close Eoin was to striking him. “You’re acting a little possessive for ‘nothing.’ Are you sure there isn’t more to this than you are letting on? God’s hooks, don’t tell me you actually like the lass?”
Eoin’s teeth hurt, his jaw was clenched so tight. He did like her. That was the problem. She was... different. Confident, good-natured, and charming with a wry, self-deprecating, slightly wicked sense of humor that made him wonder what outrageous thing was going to come out of her mouth next. “I don’t have any complaints on your end either.”
The lass was incorrigible. And amusing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that with a woman. Probably because he never had.
Fin must have guessed his thoughts. “She isn’t for you, MacLean. I know you, and a brazen minx like Margaret MacDowell would drive you out of your mind with her antics. Do you really want to take the time to mold her into a proper wife—even assuming it could be done? You might be bold and inventive on the battlefield, but you are reserved and conventional about everything else. I’ll give you, there’s something different and enticing about the lass in all of her primitive splendor, but do you want a wife who runs around the countryside as wild as a heathen and looks like a ripe peach waiting to be plucked? She won’t be content to sit waiting contentedly by the home fires while you do whatever the hell you want. A lass like that demands attention. Yours is fixed elsewhere and always has been. How long do you think it will take her to find that attention somewhere else?” He paused letting that sink in. “Do you think she’ll share your intellectual pursuits? The lass probably can’t even read and write her own name.” Fin gave him a hard, unflinching stare. “Bed her if you want, but don’t lose sight of what’s important. You have a brilliant future ahead of you. The lass will hold you back. Have you forgotten about Lady Barbara?”
“Of course not,” Eoin snapped. “I don’t need a damned lecture, and you are well off the mark about my intentions.”
“Am I?” Fin challenged.
Eoin slammed his mouth shut. His foster brother might be a crude arse at times, but he knew him too well. Eoin might have harbored a thought or two in Lady Margaret’s direction after that kiss, but Fin was right in more ways than one. Lady Margaret was a temporary distraction—a beautiful one—but not the sophisticated, learned sort of woman who would content him in the long term.
For that he needed a woman like Lady Barbara. For an ambitious warrior there could be hardly better connection than with a Keith. Moreover, Lady Barbara knew what was expected of her. Demure and circumspect, she wouldn’t draw attention wherever she went. She wouldn’t make inappropriate jests or provide endless fodder for the gossipmongers at court. Fin was right. A man wouldn’t have a moment’s peace in his life with a wife like Margaret.
But there would never a dull moment.
And there would be fun.
And excitement.
And passion.
He’d never wanted that before, but she’d given him a taste of it, and he had to admit it was more enticing than he would have expected. Enticinganddistracting.
Still furious with his friend, Eoin was saved from having to respond when Bruce called him forward. For the rest of the ride, Eoin concentrated on what he loved best—warfare—and on convincing his kinsman that he was the best man for the place in his secret army. This was his chance, and he wasn’t going to bugger it up.
They were locked in a fierce debate about William Wallace as they reached the top of the steep hill and rode through the main gate into the outer bailey of the castle. Perched high on a rocky hill, inaccessible from three sides by sheer rock face, Stirling had not one but two walls protecting the towers and buildings within.
“Wallace failed because he could not rally Scotland’s nobles behind him to stand as one against Edward,” Bruce said, dismounting.
“Partly,” Eoin agreed. Already off his horse, he handed off the courser to one of the stable lads who’d rushed out to meet them. “But he might have had a better chance had he stuck with his type of warfare and not relied on the nobles in battle.”
Bruce stiffened, obviously sensitive about the subject, though Eoin hadn’t been referring to him but to Comyn’s desertion at Falkirk. The Lord of Badenoch’s decision to have his cavalry retreat on the battlefield had left the infantry unprotected and led to Wallace’s disastrous defeat. Even with Badenoch’s cavalry, victory would not have been assured, but without him the loss had been all but guaranteed.
Eoin hastened to clarify. “Wallace was at his best when he avoided pitched battle, when he made the English fight onhisterms. It was his unconventional warfare—the surprise attacks and ambuscade—that gave him a chance against the English militarily. Winning over Scotland—and its nobles—politically was another matter.”
Bruce’s mouth quirked. Eoin took that as a concession, as he followed his kinsman over to the wall that looked out over the town below. Most of the rest of the party did not follow them, retreating to the barracks or Hall, but Fin, Campbell, and a few others lingered.
“You speak of furtive ‘pirate’ tactics,” Bruce said. “Yet here we are in the shadow of Wallace’s greatest victory, and the one for which he will always be remembered.” He pointed to the bridge in the distance below to the northeast. “The pitched battle of Stirling Bridge.”
“Aye, it wasn’t a skirmish or chance encounter, but even then he fought his war, using unconventional tactics—trickery of sorts. He took advantage of his position and lured the English into terrain of his choosing: a narrow bridge where he could trap them in a loop in the river and then cut them down as they came across to take away the power of their numbers. That’s certainly a far cry from two armies meeting face-to-face and letting knights and strength of arms battle it out.” Eoin paused. “I’m not saying that we can never fight a pitched battle and win. I’m saying we should not fight one unless it is a place and setting of our choosing where we can even the odds. Until then, many small victories can be every bit as demoralizing and effective as one big one. It isn’t vanguards and formations, or longbows, cavalry, and schiltrons that will defeat the English, it’s our knowledge of the terrain, our ingenuity, and our ability to outthink them by using all the weapons in our arsenal, be they trickery, deviousness, or fear.”
Bruce smiled. “That’s probably the longest speech I’ve ever heard you give, cousin. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so enthusiastically about anything.”
