Their eyes met. “I’ll do it,” he said gruffly.
Heat rose to her cheeks, and she nodded. Helping him remove his shirt was probably not a good idea for either of them—the current situation was intimate enough. By the time she turned back around, he’d washed the worst of the muck away and donned a new tunic.
He didn’t protest, however, when she helped him with his boots, no doubt realizing that he wouldn’t be able to remove them on his own with his injured leg. Even with her help, it was obvious that pulling them off had caused him considerable pain.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Does it... is it... you aren’t...?” Her composure crumpled, her fear for him rushing out.
He tipped her face to him. Tears blurred her eyes. “I’m fine, Margaret, truly. It hurts a little.” Her eyes narrowed through the tears. His mouth curved. “All right, it hurts a lot, but I’m sure it will feel much better in a few days.”
“You’re certain?” she whispered hoarsely.
He nodded.
And then as if it were the most natural thing to do, he lay back down on the bed and drew her against him so that her cheek was pressed against his linen-clad chest. How many times had she been curled up against him like this all those years ago? She’d never felt safer or more secure than when his arms were wrapped around her like this and the steady beat of his heart drummed in her ear.
Oh Eoin, why? Why had this happened to them? Emotion burned in her eyes and throat. They could have been so happy. All of them.
“You had him,” she whispered.
He was silent a moment, and then said, “Aye.”
She heard something in his voice and looked up. “He’s yours, Eoin. Surely you could see it? Eachann looks just like you.”
“He ran from me, Margaret. He knew who I was, and he ran from me.”
He looked so destroyed her heart went out to him. “He was scared.”
Eoin shook his head. “It wasn’t that. He hates me. I could see it in his eyes. And how can I blame him? I let my anger take over, and it cost me my son.” He looked at her, his eyes stark. “You were right, I have no one to blame but myself.”
“He’s a little boy, Eoin. He doesn’t hate you, he doesn’t know you. What he does know is mostly from my family. That’s my fault. I should have spoken of you more, but it hurt too badly. This has been a shock for him. Once he gets to know you, it will be different. Just give him time. He doesn’t hold grudges like my father.”
“Or like his father?”
Their eyes held.
Surprised, Margaret didn’t know what to think. Was it just Eachann or was Eoin admitting to something more? Did he regret the grudge that had kept them apart for so long?
Eoin knew that regret served no purpose, but with the first glimpse of that small boyish face—the face that looked so much like his own—it so overwhelmed him he could have choked on it.
Five years. He’d lost five years of his son’s life because he’d been too damned stubborn and too filled with hatred and anger to face the woman whose betrayal had cut so deeply and cost so much.
And now, in the ultimate cruel justice, his son hated him.Hate begetting hate.
It was his own damned fault. He should have come back years ago. But he’d been scared that anger and hatred weren’t enough. Scared that he would see her again and be weak. Scared that what she’d done—what he thought she’d done—hadn’t completely obliterated the love he’d had for her. So he’d stayed away like a bloody coward.
And what had it gotten him? All the confused emotions for his wife he’d sought to avoid, and a son who hated him so much he’d rather starve than come with him.
Eoin wanted to believe what Margaret said, but he’d looked into the boy’s eyes. He’d seen the intensity of emotion and recognized it as his own. How could he expect forgiveness from his son, when he couldn’t forgive himself?
She looked away first. “You had cause, Eoin.”
He took her wrist and forced her to look back at him. “Did I? It no longer feels as black and white as it once did. I should have given you a chance to explain.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
At the time, probably not. His emotions had been too raw. Her intentions wouldn’t have mattered to him then. Without perspective, the consequences of her—his—mistake were too horrible for understanding. “I don’t know. But I would have known that I had a son. And he wouldn’t think I’d abandoned him.”
“You didn’t. He won’t. Just give him a chance.”
