The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  Five of Campbell’s men had been killed in the first few minutes. Campbell had taken an arrow in the back, but the thick leather and providentially located steel studs of his cotun had prevented it from sinking into his flesh. Eoin had been lucky to be wearing a steel helm and mail coif, or the arrow that struck him just below the ear would have killed him.

  Despite their small fighting force being cut by over a third those first few minutes, they’d rallied and fought off the attackers, who outnumbered them by at least two-to-one. The MacDougalls had eventually fallen back, but with three more of Campbell’s men dead and another four wounded, giving chase was not an option.

  Not all MacDougalls, a voice reminded him. He wished that voice would shut the hell up. He didn’t need reminding to recall seeing Margaret’s brother Duncan and at least a dozen MacDowells fighting alongside their distant kinsmen.

  It didn’t mean anything. It could hardly be considered a surprise that the MacDowells had joined the MacDougalls. They’d all known the MacDowell submission wouldn’t last.

  He and Campbell had gathered their men and sailed back to Gylen, if not in defeat then in something coming damned close to it.

  How the hell had it gone so wrong? Had someone warned them? But that wasn’t possible. No one had known their plan. Except for . . .

  Eoin knew what Campbell was thinking—because he’d thought the same thing, damn it—but Margaret couldn’t have betrayed them. Even if he thought her capable—which he didn’t—unless she’d sprouted wings and learned how to fly, there hadn’t been time for her to tell anyone.

  There had to be another explanation. He would find it. As much for Campbell as for his own piece of mind.

  His father must have had his men watching for him, as the locked gate was opened by the time Eoin reached the top of the stairs. He would have gone straight to the kitchens to rid himself of all the grime and blood of battle, but his father was waiting for him in his solar. He wasn’t alone—Fin was with him.

  His father’s gaze swept over him, taking in every detail of Eoin’s appearance. “Are you hurt?”

  Eoin shook his head. Pain in the knee was to be expected, and it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He’d fought with much worse. “The blood isn’t mine.”

  His father nodded, his face turning grim. “From your expression, I’m assuming your trip was unsuccessful?”

  Eoin frowned, with a glance toward Fin. “It was.”

  His father’s grimace deepened. Understanding Eoin’s silent communication, he explained, “Fin is here for a reason. He has some . . . distressing information.”

  Eoin turned to his foster brother for an explanation.

  “You aren’t going to like it,” Fin said bluntly. “Maybe there’s an explanation.”

  Sleeping a few hours in a cave, being ambushed, and nearly killed weren’t exactly conducive to patience. “Whatever it is you have to say, Fin, just say it.”

  “Your wife was seen talking to a monk yesterday.”

  Christ, what the hell was Fin getting at? “And?”

  “There was something odd about the man. I followed him into the village kirk, but he hit me from behind. By the time I woke, he was gone.” From the way Fin and his father were looking at him, Eoin knew he wasn’t going to like what Fin said next. He didn’t. “I caught a glimpse of him before he hit me. It was Duncan MacDowell.”

  Eoin’s expression gave no hint of the blow Fin had just dealt him, but inside he felt as if every bone had shattered, splintering into a million pieces. He remained standing by sheer force of will, but they could have toppled him with a nudge.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  Unless it did.

  Margaret woke to the warmth of the sun streaming through the shutters. She stretched lazily, feeling a little bit like a well-satisfied cat, and opened her eyes.

  She gave a sudden start at the man sitting in the corner watching her, but then smiled when she realized who it was. Relief swept over her. “Eoin! You’re back!” She frowned, peering at him in the shadows. “Why are you sitting there like that? You startled me.”

  He remained perfectly still, not reacting to her words. “Watching you sleep. You look like an angel.”

  There was something strange—almost accusatory—in his voice that made her skin prickle.

  He stood and walked toward the bed.

  She gasped at his appearance and sat up quickly. Blood and dirt were splattered and streaked all over his face and clothing. He looked like a man who’d just climbed from the pits of hell. “My God, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  She attempted to reach for him, but he took her wrist and brought her hand firmly back down to the side. “I’m fine.”

  Her heart jumped. For despite his words, she knew by the intensity of his gaze that something was wrong—very wrong. Margaret was used to being caught in the hold of those dark, piercing blue eyes, but this was different. She felt like a bug under a magnifying lens, as if every move was being scrutinized. “What happened?”

  “That’s exactly what I want to know.”

  “Did you find the MacDougalls?”

  “You might say that. And what of you, Margaret?” He changed the subject. “What did you do while I was gone?”

  There seemed to be a purpose to his question that she didn’t understand. She answered tentatively—everything about him made her tentative. He was drawn as tight as a bow—the muscles in his arms and shoulders taut and straining.

  “Your mother asked for my help with the steward yesterday, while Eachann worked with his new tutor. I think he was in heaven.” She laughed, but he was oddly silent.

  “Anything else?”

  The question seemed innocuous, but she knew it wasn’t. She tried not to think of the note that had been reduced to embers in her brazier. “I spoke with Marjory. She apologized. I think she is truly sorry for what she did.”

  Again, no reaction except he continued to watch—scrutinize—with unsettling intensity. Her heart started to beat faster. Did he know something or was guilt making her imagine it?

  Blast her father for putting her in this position! Duty and loyalty to her husband warred with that to her brother. She wanted to tell Eoin about Duncan, but she didn’t want to put her brother at risk.

  Could she trust Eoin to do nothing with the information that Duncan was in the area?

  She knew the answer. If she told Eoin he would be in the same position as her: caught between divided loyalties. If he used the knowledge he would betray her, but if he didn’t, and Duncan did something against Bruce, he would feel as if he’d let down the king.

  Margaret wouldn’t put him in that position of having to choose between two loyalties. She would tell him, but only once Duncan had gone.

  “Nothing else?”

  Whether it was his persistence or his tone, she didn’t know, but every instinct flared. Still, she didn’t heed the warning and shook her head.

  His eyes never left her face. “We were set upon by Lorn’s men last night.”

  “Oh, Eoin!” She moved to her knees, wanting to throw her arms around him in relief that he’d not been injured or worse, but he pulled back stiffly.

  “I think they were warned.”

  Her eyes widened. “But how? I thought you said no one knew your plans.”

  “No one did.”

  It was then that she understood his cold greeting. She pulled back, looking at him in horror. “You don’t think I said something?” But it was clear that was exactly what he thought. A wave of hurt crashed down on her, threatening to drag her under, but she forced herself to stay calm. “It wasn’t me, Eoin. I know the danger—I would never betray your confidence.”

  His eyes scanned hers. “I want to believe that.”

  She lifted her chin. “Then do. It’s the truth.”

  “And what about your brother’s visit yesterday? The visit you failed to mention. What’s the truth about that, Margaret?”

  The blood slid from her
face. He had known. Oh God, she should have told him. He must be thinking the worst. How could she make him understand? “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

  He made a sharp sound. “You must be jesting. You can’t seriously claim to have lied to me for ‘my own good’?”

  Margaret bristled at his tone. “I didn’t lie to you. I was going to tell you when my brother left the area. But he’s my brother, Eoin. I don’t want to see him hurt any more than I do you. I did what I thought best under the circumstances. What would you have done had I told you? Would you have betrayed my confidence and gone after him or would you have ignored your duty to Bruce and let him go?”

  His mouth fell in a flat line—clearly he didn’t like her question or being put on the spot. “It isn’t that simple. Nor is this about what I’ve done.” Taking her by the elbow, he drew her off the bed to stand before him. “What did you tell Duncan, Margaret?”

  “Nothing.” She met his gaze square on. “I told him nothing.” Her eyes beseeched him to believe her, but his expression was set like stone and just as impenetrable.

  “So it’s just a coincidence that your brother shows up here one day and that very night the MacDougalls not only avoid the trap we have for them, but turn it against us? A trap, I might add, that no one knew about but you.”

  She lifted her chin. “Someone else must have known about it, because I didn’t tell him. My brother’s purpose here was not to spy on you or gather information. He was here to offer Eachann and me a way to leave. He was under the impression we were not here of our own volition and might be in need of rescue.”

  His eyes sharpened to hard blue points. “And what did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell him anything. We barely exchanged two words. But I would have told him that we were quite happy here and in no need of rescue.” Now she wasn’t so sure. “I certainly didn’t share anything about where you were going or what you were planning. Why would I do that? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? I’ve been trying to figure it out myself. Did you let it slip out accidentally? Did he threaten you or Eachann?”

  “I told you that I didn’t say anything. Is that so hard to believe?”

  He didn’t respond, but just stared at her coldly—harshly.

  Margaret felt her own temper spike. She thought they’d gotten past this. But maybe they would never be able to get past it. The newfound trust she’d been so excited by had crumbled at the first test. “So is this how it’s to be then? Am I to be the first one suspected whenever anything goes wrong no matter what I say? What about all those things you told me, Eoin—do they mean nothing? I thought you trusted me.”

  “I did—or I never would have told you my plans.”

  “And now?”

  His mouth drew down in anger. “Now I wish to hell I’d kept my mouth shut.”

  She flinched, her cheeks stinging as if he’d slapped her. “So not only am I suspected, but found guilty and condemned as well?”

  He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Damn it, Maggie, look at the facts. What am I supposed to think?”

  “I guess it’s too much to think that I might be telling the truth.”

  His silence was answer enough.

  “I won’t do this, Eoin. Not again. I made a mistake six years ago, but I wasn’t the only one to blame. You didn’t share enough with me for me to make the right decision. Had I known what you were involved in and had any sense of the danger, I never would have admitted to Brigid that you were there. For our marriage to work, there can’t be secrets between us. I won’t be half a wife. I love you, but I’m not going to live my life under suspicion. I need you to trust me. Right here, right now. Even when all the ‘facts’ tell you otherwise.”

  “Or what?” he said furiously. “Are you still issuing ultimatums? Is it blind faith or nothing? That’s not the way it works, Margaret. You’re my wife, not my priest.”

  A knock on the door startled them both. Eoin answered it, took the missive from the man who’d brought it—one of his father’s guardsmen—and read it quickly before turning back to her. She knew what he was going to say before he spoke. “I have to go,” he said grimly. “We’ll have to finish this discussion later.”

  Later. It was always later with him. He never put her first. I have to go. Just be patient, Margaret. Stay here, Margaret. Don’t ask questions, Margaret. Be a good girl, and I’ll make it up to you in bed.

  Well, she couldn’t do that anymore. “Of course,” she said tonelessly. “No doubt it’s important.”

  He frowned, perhaps hearing something in her voice. “I won’t be long.”

  “And if I asked where you were going?”

  His mouth fell in a hard line. The answer was obvious. He wouldn’t tell her.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, not letting on that he was tearing her heart to shreds—again. “I won’t ask.”

  She turned away, feeling an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. She loved him, but it wasn’t enough. Hurt and disappointment stabbed; there was nothing more she could do. Maybe in another six years, he would realize she was telling the truth, but she wasn’t going to wait around hoping that day would come.

  Once again, passion had deluded her into believing things had changed. But it was no different than it had been before. He would share his bed with her, but nothing else.

  She’d done everything she could to try to regain his trust, but it would never be good enough. She would never be good enough. She was a wicked MacDowell. The enemy and an outsider.

  She was done trying to prove herself to anyone. To hell with him. To hell with all of them.

  28

  CAMPBELL WAS WAITING for him at Dunstaffnage. His friend had arrived home not long after dropping Eoin at Gylen to find one of the nearby villagers requesting to speak with him immediately. As soon as he’d heard what the old woman had to say, he’d sent for him.

  The message had been short and to the point: one of MacDougall’s men is in the village.

  It seemed the old woman had a granddaughter who had been involved with one of the MacDougall warriors before he was forced into exile. He sometimes snuck back to see her when he was in the area. Last time he’d left her with a babe and a black eye, which had earned the enmity of the old woman, who was only too happy to take her revenge by reporting his presence to the king’s keeper.

  Eoin, Campbell, and a handful of Campbell’s men had the small cottage surrounded by late morning when the MacDougall warrior finally emerged to take a piss. Caught with his pants down—literally—and without a weapon, he didn’t put up much of a fight. Hours later, however, he had proved less than forthcoming in response to their questioning.

  They’d left him in the pit prison to contemplate his options while they ate. But even though Eoin hadn’t had a meal in almost twenty-four hours, he was too restless to force down more than a few bites. He couldn’t escape the feeling of trepidation that had been dogging him since leaving Gylen.

  At first he attributed it to his anger toward his wife, but the longer he was gone and the more he thought about it, the more the unease grew.

  “We need Viper,” Eoin said, a short while later as they waited in the guard’s room for the man to be brought back up. Lachlan MacRuairi was an expert at extraction—both of people and of information.

  Campbell eyed him carefully. “Anxious for confirmation? I thought you were convinced your wife let something slip to her brother.”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “But?”

  Eoin raked his fingers through his hair harshly. “I don’t know. Something about it doesn’t feel right.”

  No matter how many times he replayed the conversation with Margaret in his head, he couldn’t convince himself that she’d been anything other than hurt and stung by his accusations. He’d seen her guilt, aye, but only about hiding the truth of her brother’s presence
from him. Of the rest she’d been adamant—aggrieved.

  Had he been too ready to jump to conclusions? Too ready to find her guilty?

  One corner of Campbell’s mouth lifted. “I’ve always found that my instincts served me well.”

  That was an understatement. Campbell had become the best scout in Scotland by relying on his instincts.

  “What about when it comes to your wife?”

  His friend smiled. “Aye, well, they tend to get a bit confused when it comes to her. I just have to listen a little harder.”

  “Margaret didn’t say anything to anyone,” Eoin said suddenly. “I’d stake my life on it.”

  Campbell nodded, as the MacDougall warrior was led back into the room. “Then let’s find out who did.”

  It was easier than they expected. MacDougall wouldn’t say anything against his clansmen, but he wasn’t as closemouthed when it came to talking about the traitor who’d given information to Duncan MacDowell on Kerrera. The man had been a traitor to them before.

  Faced with the enormity of his mistake, Eoin raced back to Kerrera. It was already dark as the shadow of the tower on the cliff came into view. That his instincts about his wife had been proved right was small consolation for the realization that they might have come too late.

  “I need you to trust me. Right here, right now.”

  A mix of dread and panic fell over him. His pulse was racing, and a cold sweat chilled his skin. He felt ill. What the hell had he done? He’d been so angered by the ultimatum that he hadn’t thought about what else she’d done in the past. The “or what” that he’d put to her—the fact that she’d left him, and he might have given her every reason to do so again.

  “Where are we going?”

  Margaret looked down at the small figure walking beside her and tried to give him a reassuring smile, fearing the unshed tears burning in her eyes were anything but. “It’s a surprise,” she said with forced brightness.