The Striker Read online

  Five of Campbell’s men had been killed in the first few minutes. Campbell had taken an arrow in the back, but the thick leather and providentially located steel studs of his cotun had prevented it from sinking into his flesh. Eoin had been lucky to be wearing a steel helm and mail coif, or the arrow that struck him just below the ear would have killed him.

  Despite their small fighting force being cut by over a third those first few minutes, they’d rallied and fought off the attackers, who outnumbered them by at least two-to-one. The MacDougalls had eventually fallen back, but with three more of Campbell’s men dead and another four wounded, giving chase was not an option.

  Not all MacDougalls, a voice reminded him. He wished that voice would shut the hell up. He didn’t need reminding to recall seeing Margaret’s brother Duncan and at least a dozen MacDowells fighting alongside their distant kinsmen.

  It didn’t mean anything. It could hardly be considered a surprise that the MacDowells had joined the MacDougalls. They’d all known the MacDowell submission wouldn’t last.

  He and Campbell had gathered their men and sailed back to Gylen, if not in defeat then in something coming damned close to it.

  How the hell had it gone so wrong? Had someone warned them? But that wasn’t possible. No one had known their plan. Except for . . .

  Eoin knew what Campbell was thinking—because he’d thought the same thing, damn it—but Margaret couldn’t have betrayed them. Even if he thought her capable—which he didn’t—unless she’d sprouted wings and learned how to fly, there hadn’t been time for her to tell anyone.

  There had to be another explanation. He would find it. As much for Campbell as for his own piece of mind.

  His father must have had his men watching for him, as the locked gate was opened by the time Eoin reached the top of the stairs. He would have gone straight to the kitchens to rid himself of all the grime and blood of battle, but his father was waiting for him in his solar. He wasn’t alone—Fin was with him.

  His father’s gaze swept over him, taking in every detail of Eoin’s appearance. “Are you hurt?”

  Eoin shook his head. Pain in the knee was to be expected, and it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He’d fought with much worse. “The blood isn’t mine.”

  His father nodded, his face turning grim. “From your expression, I’m assuming your trip was unsuccessful?”

  Eoin frowned, with a glance toward Fin. “It was.”

  His father’s grimace deepened. Understanding Eoin’s silent communication, he explained, “Fin is here for a reason. He has some . . . distressing information.”

  Eoin turned to his foster brother for an explanation.

  “You aren’t going to like it,” Fin said bluntly. “Maybe there’s an explanation.”

  Sleeping a few hours in a cave, being ambushed, and nearly killed weren’t exactly conducive to patience. “Whatever it is you have to say, Fin, just say it.”

  “Your wife was seen talking to a monk yesterday.”

  Christ, what the hell was Fin getting at? “And?”

  “There was something odd about the man. I followed him into the village kirk, but he hit me from behind. By the time I woke, he was gone.” From the way Fin and his father were looking at him, Eoin knew he wasn’t going to like what Fin said next. He didn’t. “I caught a glimpse of him before he hit me. It was Duncan MacDowell.”

  Eoin’s expression gave no hint of the blow Fin had just dealt him, but inside he felt as if every bone had shattered, splintering into a million pieces. He remained standing by sheer force of will, but they could have toppled him with a nudge.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  Unless it did.

  Margaret woke to the warmth of the sun streaming through the shutters. She stretched lazily, feeling a little bit like a well-satisfied cat, and opened her eyes.

  She gave a sudden start at the man sitting in the corner watching her, but then smiled when she realized who it was. Relief swept over her. “Eoin! You’re back!” She frowned, peering at him in the shadows. “Why are you sitting there like that? You startled me.”

  He remained perfectly still, not reacting to her words. “Watching you sleep. You look like an angel.”

  There was something strange—almost accusatory—in his voice that made her skin prickle.

  He stood and walked toward the bed.

  She gasped at his appearance and sat up quickly. Blood and dirt were splattered and streaked all over his face and clothing. He looked like a man who’d just climbed from the pits of hell. “My God, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  She attempted to reach for him, but he took her wrist and brought her hand firmly back down to the side. “I’m fine.”

  Her heart jumped. For despite his words, she knew by the intensity of his gaze that something was wrong—very wrong. Margaret was used to being caught in the hold of those dark, piercing blue eyes, but this was different. She felt like a bug under a magnifying lens, as if every move was being scrutinized. “What happened?”

  “That’s exactly what I want to know.”

  “Did you find the MacDougalls?”

  “You might say that. And what of you, Margaret?” He changed the subject. “What did you do while I was gone?”

  There seemed to be a purpose to his question that she didn’t understand. She answered tentatively—everything about him made her tentative. He was drawn as tight as a bow—the muscles in his arms and shoulders taut and straining.

  “Your mother asked for my help with the steward yesterday, while Eachann worked with his new tutor. I think he was in heaven.” She laughed, but he was oddly silent.

  “Anything else?”

  The question seemed innocuous, but she knew it wasn’t. She tried not to think of the note that had been reduced to embers in her brazier. “I spoke with Marjory. She apologized. I think she is truly sorry for what she did.”

  Again, no reaction except he continued to watch—scrutinize—with unsettling intensity. Her heart started to beat faster. Did he know something or was guilt making her imagine it?

  Blast her father for putting her in this position! Duty and loyalty to her husband warred with that to her brother. She wanted to tell Eoin about Duncan, but she didn’t want to put her brother at risk.

  Could she trust Eoin to do nothing with the information that Duncan was in the area?

  She knew the answer. If she told Eoin he would be in the same position as her: caught between divided loyalties. If he used the knowledge he would betray her, but if he didn’t, and Duncan did something against Bruce, he would feel as if he’d let down the king.

  Margaret wouldn’t put him in that position of having to choose between two loyalties. She would tell him, but only once Duncan had gone.

  “Nothing else?”

  Whether it was his persistence or his tone, she didn’t know, but every instinct flared. Still, she didn’t heed the warning and shook her head.

  His eyes never left her face. “We were set upon by Lorn’s men last night.”

  “Oh, Eoin!” She moved to her knees, wanting to throw her arms around him in relief that he’d not been injured or worse, but he pulled back stiffly.

  “I think they were warned.”

  Her eyes widened. “But how? I thought you said no one knew your plans.”

  “No one did.”

  It was then that she understood his cold greeting. She pulled back, looking at him in horror. “You don’t think I said something?” But it was clear that was exactly what he thought. A wave of hurt crashed down on her, threatening to drag her under, but she forced herself to stay calm. “It wasn’t me, Eoin. I know the danger—I would never betray your confidence.”

  His eyes scanned hers. “I want to believe that.”

  She lifted her chin. “Then do. It’s the truth.”

  “And what about your brother’s visit yesterday? The visit you failed to mention. What’s the truth about that, Margaret?”

  The blood slid from her