by Amy Jarecki
Eoin studied the behemoth facing him. Looking like a Highland bull ready to charge, MacIain could have blown steam out his nose.
Braying a battle cry, Aleck barreled toward Eoin—exactly what he anticipated. Steeling his nerves, he stood firm. One step before impact, Eoin lunged aside, too late for MacIain to change his course. The chieftain stumbled face first to the cobblestones.
Grunting, Aleck pushed up with his palms, shaking his bulbous head. When he rose, blood streamed from his nose, his face crimson. “You’re a backstabber, you are.”
“I think not.” Eoin raised his fists. “Come again.”
This time, Aleck approached with more caution, ready to strike.
Breathing deeply, Eoin waited for the cur to make the first move. Aye, rage tore at his gut, but he’d not let it control him as Aleck did. With a roar, Aleck swung his fist toward Eoin’s jaw. Ducking, Eoin slammed a punch to MacIain’s gut. The wind wheezed from the maggot’s lungs, but it wasn’t enough to stop him from jabbing his elbow into Eoin’s sternum.
He reeled back at the bone-crunching thud. Something cracked, but he could feel no pain. Rage swelled inside his chest. Advancing with relentless pummeling of his fists, Eoin drove the bastard backward. The blood oozing from his nose turned to a stream of red. But Eoin didn’t stop. Faster and faster he threw his fists until he could scarcely make out MacIain’s face through the mass of blood.
Shouts from the crowd grew louder, driving Eoin deeper into the frenzy of attack. A fist connected with his jaw, but he didn’t even feel it.
Aleck stumbled and dropped to his knees.
Eoin advanced.
Someone caught him by the elbows.
“Enough,” Fergus growled in his ear.
Eoin blinked, suddenly aware of the beating he’d unleashed. Rarely did he lose control. He nodded and took in a calming breath. Fergus was right. They were allies. It was time to stop.
Eoin held out his hand. “Shall we call it a draw, Sir Aleck?”
MacIain eyed him, blood oozing around his teeth and from the jagged cuts on his face, then he grasped Eoin’s palm. “No one makes me look the fool,” he said with a low snarl.
Eoin should have expected a traitorous move.
Before he could pull away, MacIain swung at him with a dagger. Bending backward, the blade sliced across Eoin’s abdomen. Hot blood oozed down his gut. Nostrils flaring, Eoin advanced and pulled the dagger hidden in his sleeve. Hands clamped around his arms. He fought to break away, throwing his left, then right. “Release me you mongrel varmints.”
“I’ll murder the bastard,” MacIain bellowed from across the circle. He too was being pulled away by his men.
“He’s nay worth the king’s ire,” Fergus hissed in Eoin’s ear.
“What is this commotion about?” Lady Helen dashed into the midst of the mayhem.
“Get back into the keep woman,” Aleck bellowed.
When Helen shifted her gaze to Eoin, he stopped struggling and froze. What would she think of him now that he’d started a brawl with her husband?
Chapter Seven
When Helen saw Eoin bleeding across his midsection, her heart beat so fast, it nearly hammered out of her chest. She ignored Aleck’s command to go back inside and raced toward the MacGregor Chieftain. “My God, what happened?”
Eoin shrugged away from his men’s grasp. “’Tis a scratch.”
Fergus shook his head. “Laird MacIain drew his knife—’twas after Sir Eoin had offered his hand.”
Helen spun to Aleck. “Is this true?”
He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. “What of it?” He gestured to the cuts on his face and rising bruises. “I swear the bastard broke my nose.”
Helen stepped up and examined him. It wouldn’t be the first broken nose she’d seen on her husband’s roughhewn face—but there was little that could be done for it—or for the bruises she imagined Eoin had inflicted. After careful inspection, she determined Aleck’s injuries were superficial. “And so you pulled a dagger in a fair fight?” Yes, she’d seen and heard enough of the encounter from the kitchen window.
“Wheesht, woman. I told you to return to the keep.”
Helen turned and pointed at the MacGregor men. “Take Sir Eoin to the antechamber off the kitchen. I’ll fetch my medicine bundle and meet him momentarily.”
She started for the keep when Aleck stepped in front of her. “You’re off to tend that miserable cur when I’m bleeding like a stuck pig?”
She stopped and dabbed beneath his nose with her kerchief. “The bleeding’s mostly ebbed.” She rose up on her toes and inclined her lips to his ear, whispering, “Perhaps you should wander up the hill and have Mary ply it with a bit of ointment.”
He snapped his hand back, but Grant caught his arm. “Och, m’laird. Do you not think we’ve had enough beating for one day?”
Helen didn’t wait to hear the outcome of that interchange. Under her breath, she prayed Aleck wouldn’t start another brawl with the brave henchman. By the looks of her husband’s face, he’d certainly received his due—though his injuries were nothing compared to the quantity of blood staining Eoin’s shirt.
It took Helen no time to retrieve the basket with her healing essences and salves—something no respectable wife would be without. She hastened to the antechamber where she’d sent Eoin. The room was close to the courtyard and had a stone floor which would be easy to clean. She would have preferred to have sent him to his chamber above stairs, but it might be seen as scandalous. She also feared Aleck would balk. As it was, he might tell her she couldn’t tend Eoin—though his wound appeared far worse.
She bustled through the kitchen and Peter gave her a look of earnest solemnity. “The sparring got a bit serious today.”
She shook her head. “I ken and Sir Aleck had to be in the center of it.”
“As well as the MacGregor Chieftain.” Peter followed her across to the passage that led to the small chamber mostly used for drying herbs.
“Whatever the cause, I wish they’d behave like grown men rather than a pack of heathens.”
Peter scoffed. “Now that’s asking a bit much, m’lady.”
Helen pushed into the chamber filled with men who stank as if they’d been a month or longer without a bath. She flicked her hand through the air. “Shoo, the lot of you, and go find a basin of water and a bar of soap.”
“Bloody hell, I had a bath last year.” The cheeky lad slipped past before Helen had a chance to scold him.
As the men cleared, she found Eoin sitting on a stool. He gave her a sheepish smile. “Apologies, m’lady. I’ll see the men take a dip in the sea. That’ll fix them up.”
“My thanks.” She stood awkwardly. Now that the room had emptied, she realized they were alone—together alone—just like they’d been when he’d consoled her on the beach. Her palms perspired. Oh how heavenly it would be if she were able to offer him the same soothing embrace right now. But that would be improper and impertinent. Realizing she’d been staring, Helen drew in a breath and turned to set the basket on the table. “Why were you not wearing your hauberk?”
“I’ve been training all this time and wasn’t planning on doing any fighting. Moreover, the day was warm.” The deep hum of his voice eased her tension. She could listen to him recite passages from the Book of Job all day and remain completely enthralled.
Helen swallowed and regarded him over her shoulder. “I surmise you’ll think again before you make such a blunder.”
“Aye.” Eoin glanced down. “Had I been wearing my mail, I wouldn’t have felt so much as a pin prick.”
She agreed. It wasn’t like Eoin to be careless. “Your shirt is ruined.”
He held it out and examined the gaping hole and the stain. “I suppose it would look a bit odd with a seam across the middle, even if the blood did wash out.”
“Do you have another?”
“I’ve one in my kit.”
She gestured with her upturned palm. “Then you’d best
give this one to me and I’ll see what I can do to mend it.”
“All right.” He pulled the shirt over his head and held it out.
Helen drew in a stuttered breath. She’d seen him shirtless often, but that was years ago when she and Gyllis used to watch the knights sparring from the battlements at Kilchurn Castle. And she’d never been this close. His arms were sculpted with thick, undulating muscles. The one holding the shirt flexed, defining perfection. His chest was as broad as a horse’s hindquarters with hard muscle beneath embossing each masculine breast. She ached to press her fingers against his flesh to discover if he were made of iron. Her eyes drank him in, then dipped lower. Well defined muscle rippled over his abdomen, but that’s where she stopped. Helen clapped a hand to her chest and gasped.
He shook the shirt. “Should I set it on the table?”
Her mouth suddenly turned as arid as a hot pan with no water. She licked her lips and plucked the clothing from his grasp. “I’ll do it.” She turned her back to him on the pretense of folding the shirt. You are here to tend his wound and that is all. She steeled her nerves with a deep inhale. “Tell me what happened.” After she pulled a cloth from her basket, she swathed his wound. It was still weeping, but thankfully the heavy bleeding had stopped.
“I suppose it was my fault.” Eoin held up his palms and shrugged. “Sir Aleck came into the courtyard and I needled him a bit for not being present for our training sessions. It turned into a challenge and, the next thing I knew, we were throwing fists.”
“And he pulled a dagger.” She pushed against his belly to see how deep the injury went. A hand’s breadth long, it wasn’t the worst she’d seen, but the cut needed to be tended for certain.
He hissed. “Aye. I should have been expecting him to pull a blade.”
“Why? I heard the part where you said no weapons.”
He hesitated and pursed his lips, but Helen gave him her inquisitive eye—it worked on everyone but Aleck.
Eoin gave her a lopsided grin. “Some people don’t like to play fair.”
“That would be Aleck MacIain.”
“Aye, m’lady,” he whispered, a touch of color flooded to his cheeks as if he were embarrassed to admit to it.
She fished in her basket for a bone needle and thread. “It needn’t bother you to speak the truth.”
“No, m’lady.” His voice rasped.
“Your wound must be stitched.” Helen held up a needle and threaded it.
“I can think of no gentler hands to tend me.”
She regarded him over her shoulder. His chin was slightly lowered and he looked up to meet her gaze. There was a hunger in that crystal-blue stare, fringed by long, dark lashes. It was Helen’s turn to flush. From the heat spreading across her cheeks, she knew she must be as red as a berry. If he asks, I’ll say the room is overwarm.
She stepped into him. “Shall I call for some whisky?”
He continued to stare. “Nay, it’ll be fine.”
Helen swallowed and ignored those piercing blues, at least tried to make a pretense of doing so. “S-sir Aleck always ensures he has plenty of drink before being stitched.”
“Do you stitch him often?”
“I did once, but now he has…someone else tend to his ills.”
Eoin’s gaze narrowed and he looked at her with a concerned expression. Then he grasped her chin and examined the bruising around her eye. “It has almost completely faded.”
She turned her head away so he couldn’t see the eye. “I’ve been trying to keep it hidden.”
He smoothed his hand over her cheek—the one without the bruise. His fingers, though rough, were gentle—so unlike Aleck’s. If only things had been different for her.
“I’m sorry you’ve been unhappy,” he said, making her heart skip a beat.
She smiled and knelt, holding up the needle. “Are you ready?” Heaven help her, he smelled of the sea on a warm summer’s day.
“Aye.” And his deep burr curled off his tongue like a lazy wave.
Helen forced herself to focus on the task at hand, lest she hurt him. She carefully used her thumb and pointer finger to pinch Eoin’s flesh together, trying to keep her hands steady. “Things are not half so lonely now that I have Maggie.”
He chuckled. “How is the bairn?”
“She’s healthy. Growing too fast.” She made the first suture.
Eoin didn’t even hiss. “Wee ones have a way of doing that.”
“I suppose they do, though this is the only time I’ve had the opportunity to see it first-hand.” She tied off the second suture.
He tugged a strand of hair from beneath her veil and twirled it around his finger. “Does she have honeyed locks like her mother?”
Helen almost didn’t want to say. “’Tis black with silken curls.” Helen whipped two more stitches. “She’ll be a bonny lass, for certain.” Then her face fell with thoughts of the miserable life her daughter might endure because of her beauty.
Eoin released her hair. “Why so glum?” The MacGregor Chieftain was too perceptive and too disconcerting.
Helen couldn’t help but heave a sigh. “Aleck aims to make an alliance by marrying Maggie off as soon as her menses show.”
She must have stabbed Eoin with the next stitch because the muscles across his abdomen contracted. He let out a grunt. “I’ll wager you’re not happy with the prospect of seeing her married so young.”
Helen tied the last knot. “I would do anything to keep her from an unhappy marriage.”
She snipped the thread and Eoin took in a deep breath. “At least you have a dozen years or more before you must worry about that.”
“Aye.” I’ll have a dozen years to keep her away from Aleck’s lash, too.
“I’d like to see her,” Eoin said as if he cared not if the bairn was a lass or lad.
Something warm flickered within Helen’s breast. “You would?”
He puzzled. “Why have you not brought her to the great hall? Everyone is fond of a glimpse at a wee bairn.”
Another deep sigh slid through her lips. “Everyone except Sir Aleck, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t understand.” Eoin knit his brows, looking rather dangerous. “True, he wanted a lad, but he has a lass to love until a boy is born.”
Helen’s throat closed. If only Aleck could be half as sensible as Eoin. She fished in her basket and pulled out a small stoneware pot. “This salve has avens oil to help you heal.” She couldn’t bring herself to apply it. Smoothing her fingers over his warm and banded flesh was more than she could bear.
He took the pot and his finger brushed hers. It was as if he’d taken a feather and teased her with it. She wrapped her hand around the finger to staunch the tingling. Why on earth did Eoin MacGregor disarm her with a simple touch? Yes, it had been an eternity since she’d had such a friendly conversation with a man, but must a mere brush of his fingertip send her insides into a maelstrom of fluttering butterflies? Helen picked up her basket and dipped into a curtsey. “You’d best find that shirt before you catch your death.” Or you make all the women in the castle swoon into a heap of worthless mush.
***
Eoin let out a long breath as he watched Helen stroll out of the antechamber. Holy Mother Mary and all the saints, whether coming or going, the lady was a vision to behold. A married vision nonetheless. He still couldn’t believe he sat there and wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger. Then it was all he could do not to hold it to his nose and inhale.
Devil’s bones, he’d acted like a lovesick fool. He wasn’t in love. Even if he were—which he definitely was not—the lady embodied the metaphor of forbidden fruit. Worse, she had to be married to the most insufferable arse in the Highlands. Without a doubt, this was the most god-awful assignment Eoin had endured since he’d joined with the Campbells and the Highland Enforcers.
Christ, his gut hurt worse now than it had after MacIain sliced his dagger across it. The miserable backstabber. That’ll teach me. I should have been w
earing an arming doublet and hauberk.
Eoin glanced at his belly. Helen had tied off a half-dozen stitches, each one perfectly exact in a row just below his navel. Funny, he hadn’t felt any pain whilst she was stitching, but as soon as she left the room, the wound throbbed and ached as if he’d been gutted. Bloody oath, he could use a healthy swig of that whisky now. He pulled the stopper out of the pot, hit by a strong clove-like aroma. Spreading it over his wound, he let out a grunt. It stung and, holy hell, his eyes watered.
Truth be told, he’d wanted Helen to apply the salve with her deft fingers—wished she’d do it. He’d even closed his eyes and prayed she could hear his thoughts. Please. Smooth in the ointment. I need to feel your lithe fingertips upon my skin just once more.
He understood why she’d handed him the pot. He must have made the lady damn uncomfortable when he touched her hair…and her cheek…and examined her eye. God, he was daft.
If anything, the confrontation with MacIain, gave him the impetus to make up his mind. They hadn’t heard any news from the spies posted up the coast. It was about time someone paid them a visit. He and his men needed time for respite and a few days at sea would serve to ferry them away from Mingary for a bit. Besides, they could also do some spying of their own and discover more about what Alexander MacDonald was up to. The chieftain controlled a great deal of land around Skye—and his northern lands were far away from the scrutiny of the crown.
Eoin pushed the stopper into the pot and stood just as Fergus walked through the archway.
The henchman held out a shirt. “I fetched this from your kit—thought you might need it.” He glanced from side to side as if expecting to see Lady Helen. It was a good thing she hadn’t tarried. Eoin wouldn’t want the castle astir with any gossip about her, no matter how unfounded.
“My thanks.” Eoin took the shirt and pulled it over his head. “Tell the men we’ll be sailing at dawn on the morrow.”
“Had enough of the MacIain scoundrels have you?”
“Of sorts.” Eoin wouldn’t divulge the extent of his ire to one of his men. He supported King James’s cause, and that was all they needed to know. “Moreover we need to run a sortie to the north to discover what the MacDonald scallywags are up to.”