She could have been happy, too—or at least she would have tried, blast it. Poor Sir John. She felt horrible about how quickly she’d had to leave him. She’d barely had a chance to mumble a hasty apology before she’d hopped on the horse to try to catch up to Eoin, who was already riding away.
She would write Sir John at the earliest opportunity and tell him... what? That she was sorry she couldn’t marry him now because the husband she’d mourned for six years, the husband who despised her, had decided to return and throw her life in disarray? Make her miserable? Divorce her?
Her chest squeezed. But even if he did dissolve their marriage, Margaret knew there was no going back to Sir John. It wouldn’t be fair to him. If Eoin had truly died that horrible day, they would have had a chance. But while her husband lived... how could she contemplate a life with someone else?
Blast him!
Aye, it was a miserable night filled with anger, frustration, disappointment, and heartache.
She would have liked to say she found some solace when she woke and learned they were heading to Dumfries. But she suspected it wasn’t Eoin trusting her as much as him reaching the same conclusion on his own.
By time they arrived late the following evening, Margaret was exhausted. She barely raised an objection when Eoin left her with the Benedictine nuns at the Abbey of Lincluden for the night, while he and the other men rode to a location he would not share with her to rendezvous with more of Bruce’s men.
At the first opportunity she’d written her note to Sir John. It had been more difficult than she’d anticipated, and she’d been grateful for the solitude to try to find the words to express her regret and disappointment, yet still make it clear that their relationship must end.
But with her task complete, she’d begun to fear the solitude would be permanent, and Eoin would not return. Finally on the third morning, the prioress came to the small chamber she’d been given to announce that she had a visitor.
Eoin was waiting for her in the cloister garden. She tried to quell the sudden quickening of her pulse. Like her, he’d bathed and changed his clothes. He no longer wore the mail shirt of an English soldier, but a black leathercotunstudded with bits of mail. His chausses were also made of the darkened leather. Illogically, he seemed even more imposing without the heavy armor.
Dear God, who was this man? Was this grim, fierce-looking fortress of war really the serious but still capable of smiling young warrior she’d married? Her husband might be alive, but he was not the man she remembered. He was a stranger, and the pain of that burned in her chest.
His gaze slid over her as she approached, and she didn’t miss the slight lift of his brow at her attire. “I see you are being well tended.”
How easy it was for him to poke old wounds. “The nuns were kind enough to lend me another gown. I know you think a harlot’s yellow hood is more appropriate, but I’m afraid a black habit was all they had.”
He frowned, clearly taken aback. “I never thought that.”
“Didn’t you?” She laughed harshly, remembering the accusations of that night, even if he didn’t want to. “I didn’t bleed, don’t you remember questioning whether I was a virgin? What about all those trips I took to Oban? And I tried to seduce your friend—I’m sure your sister told you all about it.”
For the first time since he’d reappeared in her life, the impenetrable facade of hatred dropped. He appeared genuinely discomfited. “I was out of my mind with jealousy that night, Margaret. I wasn’t thinking rationally. All I could see was the woman who’d left me in another man’s arms. I never doubted your innocence—not really. Nor did I think you were unfaithful to me. I owe you an apology. I should have believed you about Fin, I just didn’t want to think my oldest friend could...” He drew himself up and looked her in the eye. “He admitted to kissing you in the barn. He said he was drunk and never meant to scare you. I’m sorry that happened to you. You were my wife, and I should have protected you.”
Margaret felt the heat in her throat burning in her eyes. They were the words she’d desperately wanted to hear, six years too late. She looked away. “You were gone. There was nothing you could have done.”
He took her arm and forced her to look at him. His fingers seemed to burn through the cloth to imprint on her skin. Even now, after all these years, her heart still did a tiny flip when he touched her and her skin flushed with a blast of heat.
“I could have listened to you when you first voiced your problems with Fin. I could have made sure my mother was aware of the situation. I could have tried to stop him from marrying my sister.”
She saw the rage and self-recrimination in his eyes and instinctively wanted to soothe it. She of all people could understand. Like her, he’d trusted a friend. “It was a long time ago, Eoin. I’m sure there are things we would have both done differently had we known what would happen. You were right: there is no use trying to go back.”
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he let go of her arm and stepped back. “Aye, well, you defended yourself well. Your knee did some damage. From what I hear he was in bed for days.” He gave a slight shudder as if the thought of it caused him pain. “Remind me to not make you angry.”
Though she didn’t like to think of anyone suffering, in the case of Fin she would make an exception. Her mouth twisted in a smile. “I will.”
He smiled back at her for a moment, and then seemed to remember himself and shook off the moment of connection. “I came to tell you that you were right. Your father has taken refuge in Dumfries Castle.”
“And Eachann?” she asked anxiously. “He is all right?”
“A boy was with your father. That is all we know. Your brothers have taken refuge at Buittle.”
She nodded, not surprised that they’d separated. “Have you attempted to communicate with my father?”
Eoin nodded. “He has refused to release the boy.”
Though she suspected the answer, Margaret’s heart squeezed. “He won’t hurt him, Eoin.”
He didn’t respond. Clearly, he was not inclined to trust her judgment. She didn’t blame him, but she meant it. Her father loved Eachann. He would not hurt him... intentionally.
Her heart squeezed with fear. “What happens next?” she asked.
