The Striker Read online

  She heard Eoin’s voice shout from behind her. “Shoot him, now, damn it. He’s getting away.”

  Margaret’s face drained in horror. She turned around and saw Eoin and another man a few feet away.

  The other man was holding a bow, with an arrow pointed at . . .

  She didn’t think before she reacted. “No!” she screamed and lurched forward, putting herself between the arrow and her father’s fleeing form.

  The archer couldn’t have stopped the shot if he wanted to. Her movement had been well timed. He was already releasing his fingers as she lurched.

  By all rights the arrow should have slammed into her chest an instant later. But with a vile curse, Eoin knocked the bow to the side, causing the arrow to skid off harmlessly to the ground.

  He was on her a moment later, lifting her up by her arm to shout at her furiously. “You little fool! I should have let him kill you. What the hell did you think you were doing?” He turned back to the archer before she could respond. “Fire again. Don’t worry about the others, get MacDowell before he disappears.”

  “No!” She’d never seen Eoin so angry—and given the circumstances she probably should have shown more sensitivity. But her heart was still hammering with panic, and she felt her own temper rise. Her gaze blared right back at him. “What was I doing? I was stopping you from possibly shooting your son, that’s what I was doing!”

  As a member of the most elite group of warriors ever assembled in Christendom, handpicked by the Bruce for the most dangerous and difficult missions, Eoin had suffered his share of devastating blows that had left him stunned and reeling—most of them on the practice yard at the hands of Chief and Raider. But no knock in the head or slam across the chest had ever left him so completely poleaxed.

  He felt as if the mucky ground had just been pulled out from under his feet, as if the world had tilted, as if everything he knew—or what he thought he knew—had changed in an instant.

  Your son.

  The boy was his? He tried to recall what he’d looked like, but the memory was a blur. Eoin hadn’t paid much attention, never considering . . .

  He stared down into those flashing, golden eyes, saw the challenging tilt of her chin and furious purse of her mouth, and felt such a wave of fury rise inside him he had to fight to keep his fingers from clenching harder around her arm. “Say it again,” he gritted out slowly.

  If he’d thought to intimidate her, he’d forgotten to whom he was talking. Margaret MacDowell didn’t get intimidated—even when she should. She thrust that chin up higher and narrowed her gaze right back at his. “The boy your archer could have killed is our son, Eachann.”

  Eachann. The boy was named after one of the greatest warriors of all time, Hector of Troy, who was also known as a tamer of horses. The perfect ode to . . . them?

  He hauled her up to him, their faces only inches apart. “If you are lying to me, Maggie, I swear by all that is holy, I’ll make you regret it.”

  She pushed away from him with a hard shove. “Of course I’m not lying to you. Eachann turned five last November. I assume that brilliant mind of yours can count back easily enough, but your visit that night left me with more than a broken heart. Ironic, isn’t it? All that trouble to avoid a child and one lapse was all it took.” She made a sharp scoffing sound. “It’s no secret who his father is. Ask anyone.”

  She looked around, obviously realizing what he already knew: her brothers were gone. They’d left without her.

  A son? Devil take it, a son who was five years old? How could she have done this to him?

  If he could think rationally, he might realize that this was not a sin he could lay at her feet, but he was too angry to be rational. “Your father used my son as a shield so that he could get away? I’m going to tear the bastard apart with my own hands.”

  Margaret looked outraged. “He wasn’t using him as a shield, he just wanted him with him to keep him safe.”

  Eoin was so furious he didn’t realize he was bellowing at her. “Safe? By putting him in the way of my archer? He was counting on the fact that I would not shoot with the boy behind him.”

  She shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that. He loves Eachann. He is his only grandchild. He would never hurt him. I know you have cause to hate my father, but whatever else you may say of him, he is no coward, and he would die before letting anything happen to that boy. I was there, I saw what happened. He wanted him with him, nothing more.”

  Eoin heard the conviction in her voice and gritted his teeth. Even if she was correct in the estimation of her father’s actions this time, they would never see eye to eye on the subject. There was little of which Dugald MacDowell wasn’t capable, and Eoin wouldn’t put anything past him.

  But he was done arguing with her. He needed to focus on salvaging the mission. Not only had he let MacDowell slip through his net—how the hell had they missed the back door to the church when they’d scouted the area last night?—he had a son who’d been stolen from him for five years.

  Failure wasn’t an option. He’d get them both back, damn it.

  Forgetting about Margaret, he told Douglas’s archer to follow him, and they returned to the churchyard, where Hunter and the rest of the men had just finished subduing the English.

  They’d already overstayed their welcome. Eoin kept one eye on the castle that he knew at any moment could open to release a flood of more soldiers.

  “What happened?” Hunter said.

  “I’ll explain later,” Eoin said. “We need to get to the horses. MacDowell and his sons”—and my son—“rode into the forest.”

  “They’re headed for the castle?”

  Eoin shook his head. He’d prepared for that, posting a few men on the road in case MacDowell had managed to slip away from the churchyard. But he hadn’t planned on that back door. Eoin didn’t make mistakes like that. At least he hadn’t in about six years. “I suspect he’s heading for the coast.”

  Lamont swore, knowing as well as Eoin did that if MacDowell made it to a ship they wouldn’t be able to catch him. If they were in Scotland with Hawk, they might have a chance of slipping through the heart of the English naval forces, but without the famed seafarer it would be suicide.

  “Don’t worry,” Lamont said. “We’ll get him.”

  Eoin didn’t need to nod, his grim look said it all. Damn right, they would get him.

  Lamont whistled and motioned for the men to follow.

  He would have gone after them, but Margaret stopped him.

  “Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm.

  He looked down at it and told himself the coiling and twisting in his chest, the feeling that he was coming out of his own skin, was because he was angry. Her touch had lost the power to affect him years ago. But there was no denying the heavy drum of his heart.

  Perhaps sensing the dangerous emotions boiling inside him, she dropped her hand. “I’m going with you.”

  He almost laughed. Glancing over, he noticed Sir John starting to stir. “I don’t think your fiancé will like that very much. Besides, I lost the taste for treacherous redheads six years ago.”

  She flushed angrily but refused to be baited. “This has nothing to do with you. My son needs me.”

  His gaze turned as wintry as his blood. “My son will have his father.”

  “He doesn’t know you, Eoin. He’ll be scared. I know you hate me, but don’t take your feelings for me out on our son. He’s only little boy. Please, he needs me. I swear I won’t get in the way.”

  He gave a harsh laugh. As if that were possible. She’d been in his way since the first day he’d met her.

  “You need not worry that I won’t be able to keep up,” she persisted. “I know how to ride.”

  He gave her a long look. “I remember.”

  And bloody hell, it infuriated him.

  She flushed again, realizing to what he was alluding.

  His jaw hardened, refusing to let her sway him. “The boy will be fine. Though the same c