And Eoin would be the one to put an end to it by capturing him—as soon as he could unload the burden (literally and figuratively) in his arms. He started to push Margaret toward Conyers, who as the groom in this farce of a wedding was standing closest to him, when her eyes fluttered open.
Their gazes locked, and not even six years of bitterness and hatred could make him look away.
He hadn’t expected to be affected. He hadn’t expected to feel anything. He hadn’t expected the air to squeeze out of his lungs and his heart to feel as if it were burning a hole in his chest.
But it was as if he was on that battlefield all over again, listening to her brother taunt him with her betrayal, and it all came rushing back. All the anger, all the rage, all the heartbreak, and most of all, all the questions.
Whyshouldn’t matter.Whywas irrelevant. He’d trusted her, and she’d betrayed him. That should be enough. But damn it, how could she have told someone, when she must have known what it would mean? Did she wish to be rid of him so badly? Had the marriage that had started with such happiness become so unbearable? Had her love once tested proved no deeper than a young girl’s feckless fancy?
A wave of fury and rage rose up hot and heavy inside him. His blood boiled. His body shook. He wanted to lash out at the injustice. How could she have done this to them? Why couldn’t she have been more patient? Why couldn’t she have done her duty and tried to understand? Why couldn’t she have been like the other wives? Since Loch Ryan, seven of his brethren had married, and not one of their wives complained about what they did or how long they were gone.
Margaret read none of the storm of emotion taking place inside him. Her eyes softened. The lips that he could still taste in his dreams curved into a dreamy, delectable smile.
She reached up, the hand she placed on his face stopping his heart. “You came back! It wasn’t a dream. You’re alive. Thank God in heaven, you’re alive.”
Not even the most accomplished liar could have feigned that reaction. He could not doubt that she was happy to see him. It gave him pause, but a movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him cold.
The precious few seconds of inattention—the previous few seconds he’d spent locked in a fool’s trance with his wife—had cost him. Where in Hades was MacDowell?
Not again, damn it.
Margaret couldn’t believe it. It was really him. Eoin was standing before her alive, and by the looks of it, perfectly hale.
Perhaps more than hale. From the breadth of his shoulders and the size of the rock-hard arms around her, he was in fine form. A shudder of awareness ran through her as her swooning senses began to focus and sharpen. Inveryfine form indeed. Good gracious, he was built like a...built.
Six years of war had hardened him. He was bigger, fiercer, and scarier. He not only looked strong enough to take out an entire army, his eyes possessed the cold ruthlessness to do so. There was a hard glint to the midnight blue that had not been there before, and the lines etched in his face were deeper and angrier, and punctuated by a few more scars. No smile would erase the furrow between his brow now.
The serious young warrior she remembered had needed to be reminded to laugh; the grim, imposing, mail-clad brigand before her looked incapable of doing so.
But no matter how changed, she was so happy to see him, she couldn’t resist touching him. His jaw hardened under her hand, but the roughness of the stubble under her palm sent a shiver of remembrance shooting down her spine. She’d loved to feel the scrape of his beard on her skin when he’d kissed her.
But if the way he suddenly pushed her out of his arms toward Sir John was any indication, her husband did not share the same fond memories of her touch.
“Take her,” he said with a sneer of disgust.
Then she remembered what she’d done, and how he must despise her. Her chest stabbed with a knife wielded by her own hand.
“Are you all right?” Sir John asked, wiping her brow with a tender caress of his thumb.
It was a thoughtless gesture that she would not have noticed an hour ago, but that in the presence of her suddenly-risen-from-the-dead husband felt wrong.
She need not have worried though. A sidelong glance at Eoin told her that he’d forgotten all about her.
Mumbling assurances to Sir John, she quickly extracted herself from his arms where she’d been so unceremoniously tossed like an unwelcome sack of grain.
It wasn’t until Sir John drew his sword and pushed her behind him that she realized what was happening. The movement she’d sensed earlier was Eoin’s men—wearing the armor and surcoats of English knights—surrounding the churchyard.
How did he still have the power to hurt her after all these years? This wasn’t about her wedding, she realized. Eoin hadn’t come for her. It wasn’t about her at all. It was about her father and brothers. He must have discovered that they would be here and hoped to use her wedding as a trap by creating a diversion.
He’d done that all right. While everyone had been gaping at Eoin, stunned by his pronouncement, his men had quietly moved into position.
But the diversion was over, and all hell had broken loose. Perhaps he’d counted on that as well? Perhaps he’d hoped to nab her father and brothers quickly in the ensuing chaos?
If that had been the plan, it hadn’t worked. It was certainly chaotic—the wedding guests had slowly realized something wasn’t right and were fleeing in all directions—but like Sir John, her brothers had drawn their swords and were preparing to put up a fight.
This was madness. With all these people in this confined space innocent people would be...
Her heart dropped. Oh God, Eachann. Where was her son?
