“A smith’s son?” Randolph asked. “How did he come to be a man-at-arms for Edward?”
“Thom has never known his damned place,” Douglas replied angrily. But after a pause, he answered the question. “His mother was the daughter of a knight. I believe she left him some silver when she died.”
Eoin didn’t care who the hell he was, he just wanted to know why MacGowan was with his wife again. And what was Margaret doing out of the tent? So much for her adherence to his rules. He’d warned her about moving about camp on her own. She was supposed to not be drawing attention to herself—as if that were bloody possible. His wife was always the center of attention, good or bad.
She must have sensed that black glare he was giving her. She glanced up. Their eyes met and held. Something passed between them. Something hot and penetrating, and dangerous.
She seemed to get the message. She winced—guiltily— said something to MacGowan, and dashed off in the direction of the tent that she wasn’t supposed to have vacated.
Eoin had been so caught up in his wife he hadn’t noticed that the king had moved up behind him. Bruce’s narrowed gaze expressed his anger. “What is she really doing here, Striker?”
Eoin heard the underlying question. But a reconciliation wasn’t what he wanted. “As I told you, she is concerned for the boy and wants to help if she can.”
Rarely did his kinsman vent his rage at the personal toll exacted on him by this war, but he did so now. Bruce’s eyes flashed hard as steel. “Just like she ‘helped’ kill my brothers?”
Eoin looked him right in the eye. “That was as much my fault as it was hers.”
Bruce didn’t disagree. At least right away. But after a moment, he seemed to collect himself. He was the king again and not the man who’d lost three brothers and countless friends to the executioner’s blade, and his wife, sister, and daughter to English captivity. “MacDowell was prepared and knew we were coming. Your wife’s information only confirmed it.” He paused for a moment, considering. “I’m willing to accept what you have told me that she did not intentionally betray us, but that doesn’t mean I trust her. Remember your vow and make sure she doesn’t learn anything that could jeopardize our mission here. She’s your responsibility, cousin.”
The reminder of their kinship Eoin took to be the king’s apology for showing the anger and resentment that Eoin knew lingered, in spite of everything Eoin had done in the years since. He would never atone for what he’d done.
He nodded, but wondered whether in Margaret he’d taken on more than he could handle.
Margaret had expected Eoin to come storming through the flap of the tent at any moment, so she was surprised when darkness fell and he had yet to return.
It had been obvious that he’d been furious to find her outside with Thom MacGowan, and she was ready with an explanation, but he hadn’t appeared for her to give it to him.
Not appearing seemed to be a common occurrence since she’d moved into the tent. Eoin darted in and out infrequently during the day, barely giving her time to question him about the progress of the siege. He’d moved his trunk out with his friend’s, so she assumed he dressed and washed elsewhere.
She would have thought that he slept elsewhere as well, but last night she’d feigned sleep and waited to see whether he would come in. He finally did at what must have been hours past midnight. He’d stood close enough to her bed for her to feel the brace of cold night air on his skin, and it had taken everything she had not to open her eyes, knowing that he was watching her. He’d stood there for a few minutes until she feared the stillness of her breath had given her away.
Muttering a curse, he’d left.
She’d wanted to call him back, but for once she didn’t want to press him. Her husband was struggling with his feelings toward her, and she knew one wrong move could push him over the edge. Which edge was the problem. Would he send her away or give in to the desire that she knew he was fighting?
Which did she want? Truth be told, Margaret didn’t know. She was struggling with her own feelings. Not two weeks ago she’d been getting ready to marry another man. A man whom even if she didn’t love, she’d cared for.
She was no longer certain that love was all that mattered. Years ago she’d loved Eoin with everything in her young girl’s heart and it hadn’t been enough. He’d never made her a part of his life. He’d never truly committed to her or to their marriage. He’d kept her in the dark and showed her in every way that mattered he did not trust her.
If he had, maybe what had happened would not have occurred. Had he taken her into his confidence and told her what was at stake, she would never have told Brigid. She would have let her friend think she’d been attacked rather than give any hint that Eoin was in the area.
She’d betrayed his confidence, and there was no doubt the consequences had been horrific, but she’d made the best decision she could with the information she had at the time.
It was an epiphany. Some of the blame and guilt that had haunted her for years lifted. It wasn’t all her fault. She’d betrayed him that day, but he’d betrayed her and their marriage every time he’d left without telling her anything. He’d betrayed her again by letting her think he was dead for six years.
She still loved him—she suspected she always would—but it wasn’t enough. At eighteen she hadn’t known any different, but now she did. Sir John had shown her what it could be like. He’d trusted her and shared his life with her. She wouldn’t settle for anything else.
But now that Eoin had even less cause to trust her was that even possible?
She didn’t know, but she intended to find out as soon as their son was free.
It was the thought of what was going on in that castle, and the boy’s possible suffering, that dominated her thoughts. Until Eachann was safe, her feelings for her husband would have to remain unsorted.
She hoped that Robert the Bruce’s arrival would bring them one step closer to seeing her son returned to her. Although she’d been focused on her husband earlier, she hadn’t missed the man who’d come up behind him. The former Earl of Carrick had aged in the years since he’d declared himself king, but she would know him anywhere.
It was hard to believe all this man had accomplished, but it hadn’t been without suffering. He’d lost three brothers and his wife, sisters, and daughter were in English hands—one of his sisters had even been hung in a cage.
Learning of Bruce’s arrival was worth the tongue lashing she was sure to receive for breaking one of his so-called “rules.” Anxious to learn what was happening, she was about to break it again and go search for him, when her husband finally deigned to gift her with his presence.
