The Striker Read online

  “Not your husband,” he assured her. “He was killed on the battlefield.”

  Her mind screamed, refusing to believe it. She had to see for herself. “If he is in that pyre, I need to see it, Duncan.”

  He must have heard the desperation in her voice. After a moment he let her go. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She should have listened to him. She reached the edge of the crowd just in time to see the executioner’s sword take its deadly arc across the neck of a man she recognized: Duncan of Mar, the former Earl of Mar’s younger brother, and Robert Bruce’s brother-in-law twice over. Bruce had been married to Duncan’s sister, Isabella, and Bruce’s sister, Christina, had been married to Duncan’s brother Gartnait, the former earl. She looked away, but it wasn’t soon enough.

  Margaret had seen men die, but this was different. This time she’d played a part in it. Nausea rose anew. Dear God, had these men died because of her?

  She pushed through the crowd until she saw her father. He was watching from the side as Duncan of Mar’s body was tossed onto the pyre and another man was brought forward. This one looked to be an Irish chieftain.

  Her father didn’t look surprised to see her, but she could tell he wasn’t pleased by the interruption. “Daughter,” he said sharply as she drew near. “Next time I will lock you in the garret.”

  She ignored the threat. She would have escaped that as well, although admittedly using the iron poker for the brazier as a bar across her window, tying one of the bedsheets to it, and only having to drop fifteen feet had been much easier. “Where is he, Father? Where is my husband?”

  The reddish orange of the flames was reflected in his dark eyes as his gaze turned to the fire. “Halfway to hell, if the fire has done its job.”

  He pointed to a body consumed in flames near the top of the pile. Near it she saw the helm that must have fallen off. A blackened nasal helm just like Eoin had been wearing.

  Margaret stared into the flames and felt the light inside her go out. The world turned dark. She sank to her knees, a soft, broken cry the only sound of the searing pain that her father’s words had unleashed.

  Eoin was dead. Because of her.

  God forgive me.

  16

  St. Mary’s Church near Barnard Castle, Durham, England, January 17, 1313

  EOIN HADN’T expected her to faint. And he sure as hell hadn’t expected to be the only one with the presence of mind to catch her before she hit the ground.

  But there he was holding his wife in his arms again, wondering why he hadn’t let her fall. It was no more than she deserved. And he wouldn’t be stuck with the scent of her in his nose, the weight of her breasts on the arm that had snaked around her waist, and the soft, erotically-curved body that had haunted his dreams for almost six years pressed snugly against him.

  Nor would he be forced to gaze up close at the face he’d never quite been able to forget, though God knew he’d tried.

  He was sorry to see that she was still beautiful, her features seemingly unmarred by the passage of time. Her lips were still the same vibrant crimson, her siren’s slanted eyes still framed with the long, dark lashes, her skin still a youthful powdery cream, and the hair peeking out from the sides of the veil still a bold and fiery red.

  She didn’t look much older than the last time he’d seen her, almost six years ago, when he’d watched from the safety of the forest where Lamont had dragged him, after the blow to the back of the head that should have killed him, as she’d sunk to her knees in apparent regret before the fire that could have well been his funeral pyre.

  Even from afar he could see her devastation, but it was too late. His heart had already hardened. He’d been glad she thought he was dead, for she was dead to him. He’d turned and never looked back.

  Or tried not to. Sometimes late at night, in moments of weakness, he wondered what had become of the wife who’d nearly cost him everything. Where she was. Whom she was with.

  Married, he thought bitterly. He was surprised she’d waited this long.

  But maybe it was partly his fault. He should have dealt with his ill-advised marriage a long time ago. It was well past time to put Margaret MacDowell behind him for good.

  But as his gaze lingered one more moment on the face he’d once thought to look at for the rest of his life, his jaw hardened at the injustice. Surely her countenance should show some of the blackness of her soul? She looked more like an angel than a treacherous bitch who’d betrayed him and sent so many men to their deaths.

  Sure, Eoin knew what Lamont and the rest of his Highland Guard brethren said. That MacDowell had been prepared for them. That rumors of Bruce’s planned attack had already reached him. That the Galwegian chief’s garrisons had been packed and his men had been at the ready. That their own intelligence had been faulty. That Eoin’s mistake was not to blame for what had happened. That it wasn’t his fault.

  When he could think rationally about it—which was rare—he probably even agreed with them, but it didn’t change what she’d done.

  Or what he’d done. His weakness for his wife had cost him. She’ll hold you back. Fin and his father had been right. He’d lost his kinsman’s trust, and his place in the Guard for a short time—although Chief had made Bruce reconsider quickly.

  Eoin would never have a place in Bruce’s government. No matter how many successful plans Eoin came up with, none could make up for the disaster at Loch Ryan. Eoin knew the king laid part of the blame for the deaths of his brothers at Eoin’s feet. He accepted that, but Dugald MacDowell would finally account for the rest.

  Reminded of his purpose, Eoin turned his gaze from the woman in his arms to the men standing before the church door, who were still reeling from the shock of his announcement and had yet to move.

  Which was exactly what Eoin had counted on. A quick scan around the yard told him his men were almost in position. A few more moments, and the churchyard would be surrounded.

  He pictured how it would play out in his head, anticipating how MacDowell and the English would react and accounting for every possible move. He could have attempted the straightforward surprise “pirate” raid for which Bruce and his men had become known—riding in with swords drawn for the fierce attack—but that would have left too much to chance. MacDowell had proved as slippery as a snake. Relying on the disguises might be more risky if someone noticed them too early, but by surrounding the churchyard, MacDowell would have nowhere to go. A quick snatch and grab, and Eoin and his men would be on the way back to Scotland before the English—and the garrison at the castle—knew what had hit them.

  Conyers and his men would have to be neutralized, but Eoin’s target was the MacDowell chief and his sons—as many of them as could be taken. Eoin recognized the eldest two standing beside Conyers and their father with a young lad. His gaze skimmed over the boy standing with his back to him, who was too young to be one of Margaret’s other brothers. The boy must be Dougal’s.

  Margaret’s eldest brother had married an English heiress not long after Loch Ryan—one of the MacDowells’ rewards from Edward of England for the service they’d done that day in capturing Bruce’s brothers and crushing the southern attack. Fortunately for Bruce, the northern prong of the attack at Turnberry had proved more successful, and despite the loss of nearly two-thirds of his army at Loch Ryan, Bruce had defied the odds against him and risen from the ashes of defeat to establish a foothold in his kingdom. A foothold that in the last few years had become entrenched. MacDowell and his Gallovidians were the last of the significant Scottish resistance.

  And Eoin would be the one to put an end to it by capturing him—as soon as he could unload the burden (literally and figuratively) in his arms. He started to push Margaret toward Conyers, who as the groom in this farce of a wedding was standing closest to him, when her eyes fluttered open.

  Their gazes locked, and not even six years of bitterness and hatred could make him look away.

  He hadn’t expected to be affec