The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  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.

  Eachann didn’t say anything, but the quirk of his mouth gave him away.

  Lamont gave a sharp laugh and said to Eoin, “He’s your son, all right.”

  I’ll be damned. Eoin couldn’t take his eyes from the boy. The swell of pride that rose inside him threatened to burst his chest.

  For a moment, Eachann seemed to swell up, too, and he started to give him a tentative smile. But then he seemed to remember something and jerked away from him as if scalded. His little face contorted in rage. “I’m not your son,” he said angrily. “I’m a MacDowell, and you’re a traitorous baserd! I hate you and wish you’d never come back!”

  Eoin jerked back as if the boy had just struck him.

  The shock gave Eachann his opening. Before anyone could stop him, he darted toward the keep. And obviously thinking better of his promise, he did so yelling.

  21

  KNOWING SHE wouldn’t sleep, Margaret didn’t bother trying. How long had it been since Eoin had left? An hour? Two?

  She paced the small tent, the flame from the oil lamps flickering, and occasionally paused to open the flap and peek outside.

  From the position of the tent on the small rise, she could easily make out the castle in the not-so-far distance. The dark castle that . . .

  Her heart jumped to her throat as the castle suddenly sprang to life. Torches went up everywhere and the sounds of shouting and clamor of men roused for battle shattered the night air.

  Had Eoin been discovered or was this part of his plan? Oh God, what was happening? Why hadn’t she forced him to confide in her?

  She watched in horror as her father’s men started to line the ramparts. Not just his men, she realized a moment later, but his archers.

  Arrows unfurled into the darkness, apparently aimed at targets below.

  Not Eachann. Not Eoin. Please!

  A few moments later the camp around her responded, roaring to life as well. Men rushed about everywhere. Men in full armor ready to attack. But they weren’t attacking. Something is wrong. Her chest pounded high in her throat. She tried to question the men running by her, but they ignored her.

  Bruce’s archers started to return fire, slowing the hail of arrows on the targets below. Please . . .

  It took at least another five minutes for her prayers to be answered, when down at the far edge of camp she saw at least a dozen warriors plunge out of the darkness. Eoin! It had to be. She scanned the unusually imposing figures. Her heart stopped on the man being carried between two others. Even from a distance, she recognized him.

  Heedless of Eoin’s warnings about leaving the tent, Margaret ran. She didn’t stop until she reached the gathering of men, and then she had to push her way forward through the crowd to see him.

  When she did, a cry escaped from where she’d held it tightly in her chest. She would have launched herself toward him, if he wasn’t being held up by two men.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, taking a more tentative step toward him.

  “I’m fine,” he said, but winced as he tried to stand on his own legs to prove it to her. “I just jammed my knee.”

  Only then did she notice that the two warriors holding him were wearing blackened nasal helms like the one Eoin had been wearing six years earlier. Of the dozen or so warriors who were with Eoin, only a few wore regular helms like he did, but all of the men wore black from head to toe. Black leather war coats, blackened mail shirts, blackened helms, black leather boots, even some of the faces beneath the masks seemed to be blackened. They seemed to blend into the night.

  There was something about them that made the hair on her neck stand up. Who—what—were they?

  But her attention was drawn off by one of the nasal-helmed monoliths holding Eoin. He sounded irritated. “Might be jammed or might be torn or broken, so don’t try to stand again until Helen has a chance to look at it.”

  Suddenly what—or who—was missing penetrated. Her eyes met Eoin’s.

  When he gave her a grim shake of his head, she knew he’d understood her question. It hadn’t worked. He hadn’t been able to free Eachann.

  “What happened?”

  Margaret recognized the voice as Robert Bruce’s, even if the mail-clad warrior who stood in the crowd of men surrounding them was otherwise indistinguishable. None of the men wore arms or colors, she realized. Bruce’s secret warfare, an army of pirates and brigands, they said. It wasn’t hard to understand why.

  “We were outsmarted by a lad,” one of the men quipped dryly.

  Margaret’s heart jumped as her gaze found Eoin’s. “Eachann?”

  He nodded and explained to the obviously impatient king. “We couldn’t open either of the gates. The keys had been removed, as were the ropes to raise the portcullis. MacDowell anticipated a sneak attack and knew that even if we managed to get a few men inside, we wouldn’t be able to get the rest of the army in fast enough to take the castle. It was a simple but effective defense.” The note of pride in Eoin’s voice warmed some of the chill from her bones. “It was my son’s idea,” he added.

  Bruce was incredulous. “You must be jesting? You said the lad is only five.”

  “He’s not jesting,” one of the men holding Eoin said. She recognized the voice as Lamont’s. “We all heard the boy.”

  Margaret felt the king’s gaze on her; he was looking at her as if it were her fault.

  She smiled sweetly back at him. “My son knows how to play chess as well, my lord.”

  For a moment no one said anything, and then all of a sudden Bruce let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I’ll remember that.”

  Margaret turned back to Eoin, whose mouth was twitching suspiciously. It was the first glimpse of lightheartedness she’d seen in him since he’d returned from the dead. Those hard-wrought smiles had always been her weakness. Turned out they still were.

  Unfurling the fist that had wound its way around her heart, she forced the emotions away and asked, “But why is Eachann not with you, if you spoke to him?”

  A shadow of pain crossed his face. “He ran away from me.”

  One of the other men hastened to cover the awkward pause. “We had to get out of there the same way we went in. MacLean hurt his leg having to drop from the wall, and Randolph was grazed in the shoulder with an arrow, but we were lucky.”

  The man who’d mentioned the healer grunted and readjusted his hold on Eoin. “We need to put him down, sire. Chief can fill you in on the rest.”

  “Helen is nearby?” the king asked.

  “Near enough. I will fetch her tonight.”

  Bruce looked to Margaret. “I assume you can tend to him until the healer arrives?”

  “I’m fine, damn it,” Eoin complained.

  Both she and the king ignored him. She nodded. “Aye.”

  “Good.” To Lamont, the king added, “See that she has what she needs.”

  Bruce turned his attention to one of the most imposing of the warriors standing next to them, as the two men carried Eoin toward his tent.

  They were all drenched, she realized, and smelled faintly of a bog. She wrinkled her nose. They must have swum the ditch.

  They were about to put him down on the bed when she stopped them. “Wait!” She grabbed an old plaid and spread it over the bed to protect the bed coverings. Realizing they were all staring at her with amusement—they weren’t exactly fine linens—she thrust up her chin. “He’ll catch a chill.”
/>   Peter, the lad who helped Eoin, had rushed into the tent, and Lamont sent him out for fresh clothes and water.

  It quickly became clear that her husband was not going to be an easy patient. The complaining started as soon as they had him down on the bed. He didn’t need a healer, Eoin cursed, but the unnamed warrior left anyway to fetch her. When Lamont asked him if he wanted help with his armor, Eoin’s blistering reply made her ears burn. And she was used to foul language from her brothers!

  After a few minutes trying to make him comfortable, Lamont gave up. “Have fun, my lady. I’ll have the lad bring you some whisky for the pain.”

  “I don’t need any blasted whisky,” Eoin said.

  “It’s not for you, it’s for her,” Lamont responded.

  Margaret laughed. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll manage just fine.”

  Lamont looked at her as if he wasn’t so sure, but left with a short bow a few moments later.

  Peter must have been warned by Lamont about Eoin’s foul temper, because the lad rushed in shortly afterward with a bucket of water and change of clothing, and then rushed back out.

  Eoin had sat up a little to start jerking off his weapons and armor, and she silently moved over to help him. He stopped her when she tried to help him remove his tunic.

  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.”

  Neither of them said anything. Finally, he nodded. He would do his damnedest to make it up to the lad. As soon as he got him out of that castle.

  The grim line of his mouth must have given his thoughts away.

  She stiffened, as if bracing herself. “How did he seem, Eoin? Did he look”—her breath hitched—“well?”

  His chest twisted, and he forced aside thoughts of the eager way the boy had taken the water and beef. “The lad is fine, Margaret,” he said firmly. “Perfectly hale as far as I could tell.”

  She scanned his face intently, as if desperately wanting to believe him. “Then he is not suffering? He’s so small, I fear . . .” She turned to meet his gaze. “He has enough to eat?”

  He didn’t answer her directly. “The castle has only been under siege for a short time. I’m sure whatever food there is is going to our son. He is not suffering.”

  Yet. But how much longer?

  She nodded, as if satisfied, but he wondered whether she’d noticed his careful response.

  He shifted a little on the bed, wincing when the pain shot through his leg. It didn’t hurt that badly—until he moved. But he could feel the tight pounding of the swelling building in his leg. Despite all his protests to the contrary, he wasn’t completely certain it wasn’t broken or torn.

  Margaret made a sharp gasp of horror that sounded a little bit like a squeak. “I forgot to bind your knee! The man who left to fetch the healer told me what to do. I’m afraid I’m not giving you a very good impression of my nursing skills.”

  “Magnus MacKay,” he said, before he could stop himself. But he supposed she would find out soon enough anyway, when the big Highlander returned with Helen. “Helen—the healer—is his wife.”

  She nodded, and then tilted her head to him contemplatively. “I should have guessed he was a Highlander from his size. Were the rest of the men you were with Highlanders as well?” She gave a mock shudder and laughed. “I felt as if a ghost had walked behind me the first time I saw them all.”

  Eoin cursed inwardly. Her jests were too damned close to the truth. Having her see his brethren in their helms and armor had been unfortunate. He�
��d wanted his son to recognize him so had dispensed with the nasal helm. But the blackened armor had become all too connected to Bruce’s “Phantoms,” as people called them.

  Not wanting to risk any more questions, he shifted again—purposefully. The resulting wince he made because of the pain made her gasp again—this time with a muffled oath—and she hastened to fetch the cloth to bind his knee.

  She returned quickly, but then stopped and paused, staring down at his leg. She bit her lip and looked at him uncertainly. “I need you to remove your chausses. Do you need help?”

  He resisted the urge to shout, “Hell no.” Instead, he shook his head. “I can manage.”

  The pain it caused him would be infinitely preferable to the pain of having her hands on him. Offering to help him remove his tunic had been bad enough—although he’d also wanted to prevent her from seeing his tattoo—but having her hands so close to . . .

  He shuddered.

  Clenching his teeth against the pain, he sat up and began to work the ties of the chausses. He had to move around quite a bit to get them off, but in a few minutes all that was between him and a whole heap of trouble was his tunic and a thin pair of linen braies.

  He hadn’t thought the injury looked that bad until she exclaimed, “It looks horrible. It’s almost twice the size and already discolored with bruising. It must hurt terribly. Are you sure you don’t want something for the pain?”

  What he wanted right now would only cause more pain. He shook his head. “Just wrap it.”

  She did, but even that wasn’t a good idea. She had to sit on the edge of the bed to lean over him, and every time she did her breasts grazed tantalizingly close to his cock, and her silky hair slid forward across his chest. He ached to bury his face in both of them. He was holding himself so tightly he forgot to breathe.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, turning her face to meet his as she finished securing the bands of linen around his knee. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Aye,” he said with a grimace, “but not in the way you mean.”

  Clearly, she didn’t understand.