by Amy Jarecki
“It will never be all right.” Her voice was as bitter as bile.
Not once had Eoin ever heard such defeat come from another living soul. His tongue twisted—spewing curses about Aleck MacIain wouldn’t help the lady. If he hadn’t witnessed the bastard’s behavior last eve, he never would have believed a woman as genteel as Helen could be so openly scorned by a man who had taken a solemn marriage vow to love and protect his wife. But to see the lady battered made Eoin want to march into the keep and show Aleck MacIain exactly what it was like to take a beating.
He bowed his chin to Helen’s silken tresses and kissed the top of her head. “I do not take kindly to any man who strikes a woman, no matter the cause.”
She sighed deeply and shook her head. “I suppose I deserved his ire.”
He blinked. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“I tried to confront him about Mary and asked…”
When she stopped herself, curiosity needled at the back of his neck. “What did you ask?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’ll never allow me to leave Mingary. And I cannot flee without my daughter.”
Eoin pursed his lips. He’d want to run too—had he been in Helen’s position. “Aye, you’ve a bairn who needs you.”
She leaned into him, her hands clutched under her chin. “I fear more for Maggie than for myself.”
Eoin’s gut roiled. “Don’t tell me he’s turned his hand against the wee lass.”
“Nay, but he plans to make an alliance with her marriage—far before she’s ready.” Helen tensed in his arms. “I swear on my father’s grave, I’ll not see her in a miserable marriage. ’Tis no life without happiness.”
Heaven help him, the woefulness in her voice tore his heart to shreds. “No, lass. It is not.”
Helen’s breathing grew steadier, but she remained nestled into him as if afraid to let go. Eoin’s heart swelled. Lady Helen needed someone to care for her—to stand up for her. Whom could he appoint? By the end of summer he would return to his clan and then he’d be of no use to her at all. But holy Mother Mary, it had been a long time since he’d wrapped his arms around a woman—even longer since he’d embraced a lass without seeking a kiss.
She seemed content to remain in his arms for a time. Oddly, Eoin could think of no other place he should be presently. There were probably a host of things requiring his attention, but his mind blanked. Only Lady Helen filled his senses as his rocking motion brought on a peacefulness he hadn’t a mind to end.
He thought back to the years he’d spent as a squire at Kilchurn Castle. Helen had been such a darling child, but he was older—seven years was a great deal to a young lad. He’d never thought of her romantically until…hmm…she must have been about ten and five the first time I realized she was stunning. Though I wanted to, I couldn’t do much about my desires at the time. Even at two and twenty I was still trying to earn my place as a knight.
He smiled at the memories his thoughts rekindled. Helen wasn’t as tall as Gyllis, her elder sister by one year. She was fairer and more fine-boned—quieter, but by the intelligence reflected in her eyes, Helen was aware of everything that happened around her. He chuckled.
Helen pulled away a little. “Why are you laughing?”
Eoin didn’t want to release her yet. He smoothed his hand along her outer arm, akin to comforting a fond pet, and she eased back against him. “Do you remember the time your mother blamed you and your sisters for pinching the Yule log?”
She tapped her fingers to her mouth and blew out a burst of air—not a laugh, but almost. “Aye—why on earth would you remember that?”
“Duncan and I used it the night before for a bonfire—sort of a rite of passage ceremony we dreamed up.” He inclined his cheek against her hair. “We didn’t realize what we’d done until the next day. Holy Moses, your mother was furious.”
“And you allowed her to believe we girls took it?”
Eoin absently smoothed his hand over her tresses. “Duncan made me swear a vow of silence—said we’d not eat a decent meal in a month if Lady Margaret discovered we’d used her masterpiece.”
“Do you realize that without a guard, Ma took us into the forest—whilst it was snowing, mind you—and each of us chopped until blisters formed. Then she made us drag the heavy thing all the way back to the keep.”
Eoin grimaced. He hadn’t been aware of the severity of their punishment. “I’m sorry we made you go to so much trouble. I never should have kept mum.”
Helen turned her face up to him. “And go against your vow to my brother?”
God in heaven, he’d never realized her eyes were so incredibly blue. “That would have caused some consternation,” Eoin said, his voice husky.
“I’ll say.” Helen smiled, ever so innocently. “Knowing Duncan, he still wouldn’t have forgiven you to this day.”
Chapter Six
Aleck trudged toward Mary’s cottage, a trek he’d made many times before. He’d done a good job of keeping his affair with Mary a secret up until Helen gave birth to a bloody bitch. Christ, he’d waited so goddamned long for Campbell’s sister to bear his son, the birth of a daughter pushed him over the edge of his tolerance. Any reasonable man would feel the same.
If only Mary had been the daughter of a knight, he would have been able to marry the widow. He’d been in love with her even before her husband passed. But she was the daughter of a common crofter. An alliance with her would bring no riches. Lady Helen Campbell had come with an impressive bloodline as well as a healthy dowry, not to mention the alliance with her family served him well at court.
The problem was the lady herself. How on earth Colin Campbell, the great Black Knight of Rome could have sired a mouse like Lady Helen was beyond Aleck’s comprehension. He’d expected and preferred a robust woman who brazenly spoke her mind and presided over the keep with a firm hand. Helen was too bloody nice for a noblewoman. Aleck couldn’t imagine Lord Campbell ever allowing servants to be friendly. They were provided by God to serve the gentry and perform a duty for their maintenance.
Aye, bringing Helen to Mingary had been a mistake. She was so demure—hadn’t a backbone in her body. Aleck stopped and scratched his chin. Her behavior in the solar this morn had been quite out of character for her. She’d never confronted him with such passion. He’d wanted to take his dagger and slit that slender neck of hers. Seek an annulment? Take Maggie away? The bitch finally gives me a bairn and she’s suddenly found her grit? Well, she will not leave me until I’ve interred her rotting corpse into the family crypt.
He pulled out his dirk and ran his thumb over the flat edge as he continued along the path. The thought of Helen meeting her end tempted him. But that wouldn’t solve his problems in the short term. He needed an heir from Helen first. After she birthed a son, Aleck would be free to dispose of her as he saw fit.
But he must visit her bed again soon. The very idea repulsed him. He’d never enjoyed swivving with his wife. She provided him no sport whatsoever. Worse, with small breasts and a tight arse, she looked more like a lad than a lass. But Mary? Aleck could bury himself in her mountainous breasts along with his cock in her...
He moaned and rubbed his crotch. Christ, just thinking about that woman made his seed dribble in his breeks.
He rapped on Mary’s door and entered the small cottage. It smelled of tallow candles—a scent to which he’d grown fond. It reminded him of Mary’s practicality and made him hungry for her.
Seated at her loom, the woman glanced over her shoulder and stood with a smile. “I’m surprised to see you m’laird.”
“Oh?” He crossed the floor and pulled her into his arms. “And why wouldn’t I visit my leman in the middle of the day, as well as after dark, or any time that suits my fancy?”
“Leman,” she grumbled. “I hate that word.”
“But you are.” He nuzzled into her hair. “And so much more.”
She pushed away and strolled toward the hearth. “Tell me, why is Sir Eoin MacGre
gor here?”
Aleck unfastened his sword belt and tossed his weapons on the table. “King’s orders—his royal highness thinks the bastard can help us quell the MacDonalds to the north.”
“Aye?” Mary faced him. “I do not like the way he looks at me—or you for that matter.”
Aleck’s gut clenched. “You don’t say? I’ve always thought that man always sported a disagreeable scowl.”
“Mayhap, but he’s got dagger-eyes for you, m’laird.”
Aleck was well aware Eoin was close to Helen’s brother, Duncan. He didn’t give a rat’s arse if the knight disapproved of his behavior. But Eoin could cause a stir with the Lord of Glenorchy. Not that Aleck thought anything would come of it…still, it was always better to avoid tempting potential dragons. “Perhaps it would be best if we kept our rendezvous secret whilst he’s here.”
“But I’ve been ever so happy now it is no longer necessary to sneak around that woman’s back.” Mary groaned. “Why can you not push the wench out an upper window and marry me?”
Chuckling, he reached for her, but she snatched her hand away. Aleck wouldn’t let her little outburst dissuade him. “We’ve been over that many times. I need Helen to produce an heir. After that...” He dipped his chin and waggled his dark eyebrows—a look that always made Mary damp between the legs. “Any matter of ills could befall her.”
Mary took a step back, appearing more distraught than usual. “I should be your lady. You love me, not her—I cannot bear the thought of your visiting her bed to produce your heir.”
“Och, Mary.” He grasped her hand firmly and this time she didn’t pull away. “I do not like the idea any better than you.”
She stepped into him and twirled his shirt laces around his finger. She rubbed her mons across his crotch. “Get me with child. I’ll give you a son, I’m certain of it.”
With Mary so close, Aleck couldn’t think straight. For years he’d fought his urge to see Mary birth his bairn. The thought tempted him. Would the king allow him to legitimize a bastard? Perhaps if Helen had an unfortunate end. Eventually. And he’d need to ensure he received credit for any battles they won against Clan MacDonald and not that sniveling maggot, Eoin MacGregor.
Mary opened his shirt and slid her hand over his chest. “Stay away from that woman’s bed and have faith in my ability to produce an heir.”
***
A sennight had passed since Eoin had comforted Lady Helen in the stone cavern. Since then, he’d hardly seen her. Even at meals, she’d rarely made an appearance. He suspected her absence was because of the bruising on her face. Even with a wimple, the purple surrounding her eye was noticeable.
He’d tried to push thoughts of Helen from his mind and focus on the task at hand—after all, he was there on the king’s orders and quashing the MacDonald uprising was a task not to be taken lightly.
Today he strode down a line of men, all sparring with various weapons. Each warrior was paired according to skill. Eoin stopped to watch Fergus and Grant—MacGregor’s finest against MacIain’s best, just as they’d been paired on the first day. He wouldn’t have believed it a sennight ago, but Grant looked as if he’d make a fine knight one day…until Fergus darted in with an upward strike of his battleax and the sword flew from Grant’s hand.
The soldier groaned and grimaced, appearing as if he could slam his fist into the stone wall.
Eoin stepped forward. “You were looking good right up until you took your eyes off Fergus’s weapon.”
Grant opened his mouth as if he were about to deny his error, but Eoin held up his hand. “I saw you, lad.”
Grant’s expression softened and he nodded.
Eoin stooped to retrieve the sword. “When your opponent is coming over the top with an ax, spin away and counter with a backward thrust like this.” He demonstrated how to swivel his grip and maneuver the weapon backward while securing it with both hands rotating at his left hip to ensure a kill straight to the gut. Eoin would have stepped in and sparred with the guard, but he’d opted against wearing his hauberk this day—no sense in chancing an injury when Fergus is outfitted for a fight.
The corner of Grant’s mouth turned up. “That’s bloody brilliant.”
“’Tis just good swordsmanship, lad.” Eoin slapped the soldier on the shoulder and handed him the weapon. “Go on, give it a try.”
With a few practice moves, Grant had mastered the maneuver. Perhaps I should ask him to join Clan Gregor. Eoin chuckled at the consternation such an offer would bring Aleck MacIain.
No sooner had he thought about the braggart when Aleck strode into the courtyard. It was about time the beef-witted chieftain showed his face during the training. MacIain mostly steered clear of the daily sparing sessions. Eoin gestured to the line of sparring soldiers. “Your men are showing promise.”
MacIain frowned, his dark eyes squinting in the sunlight. “My men were well-trained before you arrived.” He pointed to Grant. “Look there, my henchman just out-maneuvered yours.”
A smirking blast of air trumpeted through Eoin’s nose. It would be useless to try to explain what had happened to the clueless buffoon. Instead, he opted to focus on the positive. “Now you’ve got it, Grant. Give Fergus a good run and make him earn his keep.”
MacIain scowled. “You think you’re so bloody superior. If you put my army against yours, my men would stand together and come out the victors.”
That stopped Eoin short. “You reckon?”
“I don’t reckon. I ken.”
Eoin smoothed his hand over his chin and eyed the man’s belly—it was nearly as big as the man’s bravado. Then a picture of Helen’s bruised face came to mind. “Seems to me you’d prefer to fight with the lassies than come out here with the men.” He waggled his brows. Mayhap he’d rile MacIain enough to make him take a swing.
Aleck shoved Eoin’s shoulder with the heel of his hand. “You’d best watch your mouth, else someone might opt to cut out your flapping tongue.”
“Aye, oh, great chieftain?” Eoin would have liked to see him try. He stepped within an inch of the braggart’s nose. “Why have you been hiding in your miserable keep—or do you let your men fight your battles for you?”
With a growl MacIain shuffled away and drew his sword. “I’ll show you a thing or two, you bloody bastard.” The big man advanced, hacking his weapon like he was wielding a meat cleaver.
Anticipating the assault, Eoin had snatched his sword from its scabbard. He defended the attack with swift counter moves. What Aleck lacked in finesse, he made up for in brute strength. Eoin suspected the chieftain would tire quickly—he hadn’t seen MacIain lift a finger in the past sennight. No warrior could withstand a good fight without honing his stamina daily.
Eoin darted from side to side, eluding the brutish strikes while patiently waiting for the big oaf to tire. “Tell me, how did Lady Helen end up with a blackened eye?”
The thug bellowed as he hacked his blade with herculean thrusts. “That is none of your concern.”
Och, but I’m making it my concern. Eoin played along with Aleck’s display of brawn, deflecting every bone-jarring blow, biding his time until the brute made a critical mistake. Deep down, Eoin wanted to match MacIain stroke for stroke—to drive him to the wall and hold his blade against Aleck’s neck and demand he never raise a hand against Lady Helen again. But first, he would wear him down.
“Do you know what I think?” Eoin asked casually as if he were out for a noonday stroll.
“I don’t give a rat’s arse,” Aleck growled, sucking in deep gasps of air. “You can take your thoughts and sail back to Argyllshire.”
“That would be my pleasure,” Eoin seethed through gritted teeth. “If we didn’t have our beloved Scotland to defend.” Eoin circled, watching and waiting for Aleck to make his next move. “I think,” he said, not caring whether Aleck wanted to hear his opinion or nay. “You struck Duncan Campbell’s sister—a noblewoman, for one, and a lady who has no means to defend herself against an oaf
as large as you.”
Aleck’s toe caught on a cobblestone and he stumbled toward Eoin. Hopping aside, MacGregor let the swine crash into the wall.
Eoin tapped his foot and waited while MacIain regained his composure. Clearly, Aleck wasn’t concerned about raising the ire of the Lord of Glenorchy. Eoin blew a scoff out the side of his mouth. “I’m surprised Lady Helen hasn’t informed her brother of your brutish behavior toward her.”
“A man has a right to maintain order in his castle.” Bellowing, Aleck charged like an incensed bull.
Mistake.
Clamping an arm around MacIain’s neck, Eoin used the brute’s momentum to pull him into a stranglehold and angled his blade to the bastard’s throat. “No respectable knight would ever raise his hand against a woman,” he growled. Aleck squirmed and bared his teeth, but one errant move and he’d be a dead man.
Eoin clamped his arm so taut, he all but crushed the man’s voice box. “If you strike the lady again, I’ll show you no quarter. Even after I’ve sailed back to Argyllshire. If I hear rumor of your brutality…one word from any source, I’ll come upon you in the dead of night and cut out your heart.”
“Did you hear that men?” Aleck bucked against Eoin’s chest. “He threatened to murder me.”
“Aye, I promised it—should he raise his hand against Lady Helen.” Eoin pushed the sniveling maggot into the crowd.
Aleck scrambled for his sword and held it up in challenge. “Oh no, this isn’t over.”
Eoin loosened the buckle of his sword belt and let it clatter to the cobblestones. “All right then. Let’s have a real fight—no weapons—man to man.” He held up his fists.
Chuckling, MacIain passed his blade to Grant. “I’ll turn the backstabber’s face to pulp,” he gloated.
“My coin’s on MacGregor,” someone hollered from the crowd.
The men surrounded them in a circle, raucous shouts echoing between the bailey walls.
