He’d give her that, but his steely expression told her that was all he would concede. Whatever her intentions, shehadbetrayed his trust by telling her friend.
“I’m glad,” she said softly.
He believed her. Not that it changed anything. Too much had happened between them. Too many years had passed.
For a man known for seeing everything on a battlefield, ironically he’d never seen her coming.
Margaret had made him feel something he hadn’t felt before or since. The passion had been incomparable. But it was more than physical. Far more. For so long his life had revolved around war—being the best warrior not just physically but also mentally. He loved the challenge of outthinking and outwitting the enemy ever since he was a lad. It was all he’d ever thought about—cared about—until he’d met her. For a short while, she’d made the world a little bigger than the battlefield. He’d cared about something else.
And it had cost him. He’d done stupid things to see her. Taken chances where he shouldn’t have.
Maybe that was the real problem. As much as he blamed her for what happened, he blamed himself even more. He should never have confronted her that night. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything, but it had still been a mistake. He shouldn’t have trusted her with something so important. Bruce knew that, and he knew that. He couldn’t fault his kinsman for questioning his judgment. When it came to Margaret MacDowell, Eoin had never seemed to have any.
Even now just looking at her was enough to get him hard. The memories flooded him. He could recall every inch of creamy skin beneath that blasted gown that he wanted to rip to shreds. He remembered burying his face between the generous breasts displayed to such tempting perfection in the layers of formfitting silk. He remembered the scent of her skin, the silken honey of her pleasure, and the sound of her moans as he’d made her shatter. He remembered the way her hips would lift up to meet him as he’d thrust, taking him deeper, harder, faster.
Christ.
He stepped back. The sooner this was over the better. The quick dissolution of their marriage had been complicated by the discovery of a son, but it hadn’t changed his desire to put an end to it. The end of the war was drawing near, and Bruce had already hinted at the lands, which would be his reward. Landsanda bride, if Eoin wanted one. Surprisingly, he did. Seeing his brethren with their wives made him realize what he was missing. He’d been alone for too long.
Hell, even Lachlan MacRuairi was bloody happy. Like Eoin, the Guardsman with the disposition of the viper that had given him his war name made a disastrous first marriage to a woman who had betrayed him. But he’d found happiness in his second, and Eoin took some hope from that.
Almost as if she knew what he was thinking, she asked, “What happens now, Eoin?”
He gave her a hard stare. “What do you think? We sure as hell can’t go back.”
“We could try to go forward.”
Angered by the unmistakable hitch in his chest, his response came out harsher than he intended. “What would be the point of that? You seem to have found England much more to your liking than you ever did Kerrera.”
The slight flush to her cheeks and pursing of her mouth were the only signs that she’d heard the none-too-subtle criticism. But she’d always known how to strike back. “Aye, Sir John ensured I always felt welcome and did everything to see to my happiness. He wanted to share his life with me—allof it.”
The dagger slid right between his ribs and twisted. The sharpness of the pain almost made him flinch. Damn it, it shouldn’t hurt so much. After all these years, nothing she could say or do should be able to get to him. “I’m sure he did.”
He tried to walk away, but she caught his arm. The shock of her touch did make him flinch this time. “I know I wasn’t the kind of wife you wanted, Eoin. But if you wanted someone like Lady Barbara, why didn’t you just marry her? It would have been much easier on us both.”
“Aye, it would have.”
It was the truth, although he hadn’t intended to strike so hard. From the look in her eyes, there was no doubt he’d done just that.
He didn’t want to do this anymore—any of it. The more they were together, the more they would hurt each other.
He looked down into the beautiful features bathed in moonlight of the woman who’d haunted his dreams for too long. “I think it will be best for us both if you and I part ways permanently when this is over.”
She drew herself up stiffly with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes scanned his face, as if looking for an opening. “If that is what you want.”
Right now what he wanted was to pull her up against him and kiss her until he could no longer feel her pounding through his blood, invading his bones, and haunting his dreams. Instead he answered with a nod and walked away.
18
PART WAYS PERMANENTLY...
After all this time, it shouldn’t hurt so horribly. Of course he wanted nothing to do with her. But hearing him speak so unequivocally of ending their marriage—God knows how he intended to do so without making their son a bastard—hurt very horribly indeed.
Through the long, sleepless night in the cold (sleeping outside wasn’t nearly as comfortable without Eoin beside her), and the even longer ride north to Scotland, Margaret asked herself how she could have thought even for a moment that Eoin would want anything more to do with her. He hated her—as she’d known he would if he lived. What had she expected? Forgiveness?
Some mistakes were unforgivable. She’d left him, told him never to come back, and betrayed his trust, leading to the deaths of so many men. Even if she’d thought she hadn’t had choices, she had. Looking back, given the consequences, it might not seem as if she’d made the right decisions, but she’d done what she thought best at the time. Obviously, Eoin didn’t agree, and given the consequences how could she blame him?
But as she tossed and turned on the hard ground shivering and miserable, on what was to have been her wedding night to a man she’d come to care for—a good man who’d been nothing but kind to her and her son—she found her bitterness toward Eoin growing. She might have deserved this, but Sir John didn’t—and neither did Eachann. For Eoin to let her think he was dead forsixyears, mourning for him, suffering, blaming herself, raisingtheirchild alone, only to suddenly appear on her wedding day when she’d finally let herself try to be happy was just as unforgivable.
