He nodded. “She asked me to take her to the king.”
Eoin’s heart dropped. He swore and jumped out of bed, forgetting his knee. Wincing, he grabbed the wooden brace MacKay had made him and ordered the lad to help him dress.
With considerable effort, a couple of near stumbles as he tried to navigate the uneven terrain, and quite a bit of swearing, Eoin stormed into the king’s tent less than a quarter of an hour later.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
The men seated around the table—the largest piece of furniture in the king’s tent—didn’t look surprised to see him. They were the king’s closest advisors: Tor MacLeod, Neil Campbell, Edward Bruce, Douglas, and Randolph.
“Have care, Striker,” MacLeod warned, presumably for his tone.
But Eoin didn’t bloody care whom he was talking to: he just wanted his wife. His wife who never did what she was supposed to do, damn it. What about his rule not to interfere?
“I assume you are referring to your wife?” Bruce asked.
“Aye.”
“She’s in the castle.”
Hearing what he’d suspected confirmed didn’t make it any easier to bear—or make him any less furious. Eoin forgot about his injury, about formality, and about royal deference. He leaned over the table and stared at the man who’d been his cousin far longer than he’d been king—even if Bruce didn’t always like to be reminded of it. “Why the fuck is she in there?”
Bruce didn’t flinch, putting his hand up to stop the others from objecting. “Leave us,” he said. His guard dogs didn’t look happy about it, but they complied with the king’s order.
When they were gone, Bruce answered his question. “Because she asked me to give her a chance to end the siege by negotiating her father’s surrender.”
Eoin’s blood was boiling—literally. It felt like his head was about to blow off. “And you just let her walk in there without any protection?”
“I wasn’t aware she needed protection. MacDowell is her father.”
He seethed, the air moving tight and heavy through his lungs. “MacDowell is a cornered dog. You know as well as I do that there is nothing that bastard is not capable of, and that sure as hell includes using his daughter and my son if he thinks it will help his bloody cause.”
The air of certainty in the king’s demeanor lessened. “She was very insistent. She thought that her father would listen to her. She said she wanted to help—to atone for what had happened before.”
“And will her being hurt or starving to death do that? Damn it, Rob.” The old nickname slipped out. “She didn’t know what would happen. She no more sought Thomas and Alexander’s deaths than I did. You knew her. She was just a young girl—a little wild and a little reckless maybe, but not capable of intentionally sending all those men to their deaths.”
The king held his gaze. “And yet that is what you thought.”
Eoin took the shot—which was warranted. “I was wrong.”
He’d been out of his mind with jealousy, hurt by her leaving, and afterward gutted by the slaughter at Loch Ryan. He hadn’t been rational. He’d been angry and bitter, and so tied up in his own guilt he couldn’t see beyond it.
His leg finally gave out. He collapsed in one of the chairs and put his head in his hands. God’s blood, what the hell had he done?
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Bruce said after a minute.
Eoin lifted his head. “I hope to hell you’re right.” He gave his kinsman’s words back to him. “I’ll hold you responsible if anything happens to her.”
“I thought you didn’t care what happened to her.”
“I didn’t think so either.”
It was a declaration of sorts, although of what Eoin didn’t know. But the thought of what could be going on in that castle made him feel like he was crawling the walls.
Two days later he was half-crazed with the possibilities.
By the third evening, when the gate finally opened and he saw her walking out, he was completely unhinged.
Margaret knew Eoin was going to be angry, but this...thiswent far beyond her expectations.
