Eoin didn’t waste time arguing. MacRuairi was right. Still holding his hand around his mouth, Eoin pulled the little boy from bed as if he weighed nothing—which wasn’t that far off the mark—and carried him from the chamber. Although Eachann wasn’t resisting, Eoin didn’t want to take any chances until they were outside of the keep. Only then did he put him down and look him right in the eye. “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth, but if you make a sound, I’ll have to put a gag on you. Do you understand?”
The lad—hislad—nodded.
Eoin studied him intently, seeing something in the little boy’s eyes. “Do I have your promise?”
His son nodded again, this time with far less enthusiasm, and Eoin tried not to smile. It wasn’t hard to imagine what he was thinking. But the fact that Eachann didn’t like being forced to promise gave Eoin enough reason to think he would keep it, and he released his hold over his mouth.
The lad took a few deep breaths of air as he eyed Eoin—who’d bent down on one knee—warily.
Eoin took a skin from around his shoulder and handed it to him. “Would you like some water?”
Eachann didn’t hesitate, taking the offering with an eager nod.
Eoin swore as the little boy gulped down the water as if he hadn’t had a drink in God knows how long. The situation was obviously more dire in here than they’d thought, and the thought of his son suffering...
Dugald MacDowell was glad he wasn’t standing here right now.
MacRuairi nudged him to hurry, but Eoin waved him off. “He’s thirsty, damn it.” And probably hungry. He dug in his sporran and pulled out a piece of dried beef. “Take this. I should have brought more, but as soon as we are back at camp you can have whatever you want.”
The boy’s eyes widened at his words, and Eoin felt as if he’d just offered him a kingdom. The lad chewed on the beef with relish, each bite making Eoin feel angrier and angrier.
He looked sharply at Lamont and MacSorley as they came up beside them.
“Any problems?” he asked his partner.
Lamont shook his head. “It’s quiet. About fifty men in the keep.”
“Good, less than we thought. Let’s go.”
They were about to continue down the motte when the others came rushing up the stairs toward them. Eachann recoiled instinctively in terror at his side, and Eoin put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “It’s all right, they’re friends.”
The boy seemed to take offense and stiffened. “I’m not scared,” he said proudly. “MacDowells don’t get scared.”
Eoin’s jaw clenched, and he would have corrected him—the boy was a MacLean—but he saw Douglas’s expression.
“There’s a problem,” the big warrior said. Aside from Eoin, who hadn’t wanted to scare the boy, Douglas was the only one not wearing a nasal helm. Douglas didn’t care if everyone knew the “Black Douglas” was about. “We can’t open the gate.”
“Why not?” MacRuairi demanded impatiently.
To Eoin’s surprise, his son answered. “The guard doesn’t have the keys. My grandfather has them.”
MacLeod looked at the boy, and then turned back to Eoin. “It doesn’t matter. We can swim across the ditch for now to open the main gate. Ice can get one of his bags of powder ready for this gate.”
Everyone started to move toward the stairs except for Eoin. He was still staring at his son. There was something...
Damn.
“The outer gate won’t work either, will it?” he said.
Eachann didn’t say anything, but one corner of his mouth lifted.
“Are those keys missing, too?”
Eachann nodded. “And the ropes for the portcullis.”
The others had stopped, too, and like Eoin were staring at his son.
“Who told your grandfather to do that?” Eoin asked, already guessing the answer.
