The Striker Read online

  “And for churchmen,” Eoin said dryly. “Wonder where she gets it?”

  Margaret put her hand on her swelling stomach. Their third child would be born in the summer. If it was a boy, Margaret was threatening to name him after Viper, whom for some God-only-knew reason she’d taken a liking to. “Perhaps you will be luckier with the next, and Eachann will find some new competition.”

  He gave her a hard glare. “He only beat me one time. I told you it was an aberration.”

  Their eyes met and they both started to laugh. It hadn’t been an aberration. Eachann was almost eerily bright. A problem solver, Eoin called him. He was convinced the lad would invent something great one day. “It’s a boring child’s game anyway,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  She laughed, took their daughter from his arms, and set her back down on the box bed that had been provided for her. “Come,” she said. “Marsaili will watch over her.”

  “Like she watched over you?” Eoin lifted his eyes. “God help me.”

  He rubbed his upper arm when a fist socked him. “Ouch!” he said. “That hurt.”

  “Good,” she replied primly. “But as one of Bruce’s fabled warriors, I would think you would be a little tougher.”

  “Didn’t you hear? The war is over. Now I’m just the keeper of a royal castle at Sael.”

  She made a sharp scoffing sound. “And tánaiste of the MacLeans.” His father had made it official a few months ago. Eoin knew how unusual it was for a third son to be named as heir and had been honored. “Besides,” she added shrewdly. “I saw you huddled with Erik and Lachlan earlier. You don’t fool me. I know you’re up to something. And I’ll have it out of you later.”

  He lifted a very intrigued brow. “And how do you intend to do that?”

  “I have my ways,” she said smugly.

  She sure as hell did, and he couldn’t wait till tonight when she inevitably brought him to his knees. So many things had changed between them, but the passion burned just as hot as it had all those years ago. Hell, thinking about how he’d woken to the feeling of her bottom pressing against him insistently this morning, maybe even hotter.

  He followed her down the stairs, through the Hall, and out into the courtyard.

  “I thought we could walk,” she said.

  He nodded, and they started toward the gate. He looked over his shoulder, and she must have sensed his thoughts.

  “They’ll be fine,” she said. “Duncan will take good care of them while we are gone.” He must have made a face, and she shook her head. “Don’t forget, we are all one big happy family now.”

  Although Margaret’s brother had made his peace with Bruce after the end of the war and been made keeper of Garthland Castle in return, Eoin being the guest of his former enemy still took some getting used to. But he knew how important it was to Margaret to be here, especially after the death of her eldest brother in battle last year. Her father still stubbornly refused to accept Bruce and was fighting in Ireland.

  “How can I forget? You’ve reminded me every day for the past six months to try to get me to agree to come here.”

  She squeezed his hand, suddenly serious. “Thank you. I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but I wanted to do something.”

  A short while later when they arrived at the loch he discovered what she meant. He turned to her in surprise. “You did all this?”

  She nodded, her eyes roaming his face uncertainly as she tried to gauge his reaction. He was stunned, and then incredibly moved by what she’d put together.

  His brethren stood along the edge of the water, flanking two men in the center. The first wore a crown, and the second a bishop’s mitre: King Robert the Bruce and the most important churchman in the country (and Bruce’s longtime ally), William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews. Behind them, the calm waters of the loch were filled not with the red that he’d seen last time he’d been here, but tiny white flowers. Snowdrops, or as they were known due to their use at Candlemas, Our Lady’s Bells.

  “There must be thousands of them,” he said aloud.

  Margaret shook her head. “Seven hundred eighty-four. I counted every one.”

  Their eyes locked in shared understanding. His throat tightened at the significance. Each flower represented a man who’d died as a result of the failed mission at Loch Ryan eight years ago today.

  “It’s time, Eoin,” she pleaded. “It’s time to let them rest in peace.”

  He nodded. She was right. It was time to say a prayer for the men who’d died here, and let go of the ghosts of the past—all of them. He would never forget what had happened here, but he’d forgiven Maggie, maybe now it was time to try to forgive himself.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice tight. He squeezed her hand, fighting back emotion. “I love you.”

  She gave him one of those smiles that rivaled the sun. “And don’t you forget it.”

  He never would. With a nod, Eoin let his wife take his hand and lead him forward where his friends waited to help him bury the past forever.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE CHARACTER OF Eoin is loosely based on John Dubh MacLean, who was the third son of either Gilliemore or Malcolm MacLean and the grandson (or great-grandson) of the famous Gillian of the Battle Axe, who is considered the first chief of Clan MacLean.

  John Dubh (Black John) fought with his father and two brothers for Bruce. His mother, Rignach, was said to be a relation of Bruce’s. One theory—and the one that made the most sense to me—was that she was a daughter of Neil of Carrick, and thus a half sister to Bruce’s mother, Marjory.

  The MacLeans were shown favor by Bruce after the war for their loyalty, with John Dubh being named keeper of the royal castle of “Sael” (Seil Isle?), his brother Donald named as commander of the king’s galleys, and his brother Neil also named keeper of a royal castle, this one probably Tarbert. Unusually, however, despite having two older brothers, John Dubh is named chief when his father dies. No explanation is given, but the idea for my brilliant strategist was born.

  John Dubh’s two sons, Hector (Eachann Reaganach or Hector the Stern) and Lachlan (Lachainn Lubanach or Lachlan the Cunning/Wily), are the famous progenitors of the two branches of MacLeans/Maclaines. As readers of my Highlander Unchained might remember, they will also cause endless name confusion—a recurring problem for me—by providing the first name for countless generations of chiefs. It will be over three hundred years after John Dubh before the Duart MacLeans have a chief who is not named Hector or Lachlan.

  John Dubh is said to have designated his lands of Lochbuie for Hector, and Duart for Lachlan. The MacLeans grow further in importance when Lachlan marries a daughter of John MacDonald, the first Lord of the Isles. Hector, interestingly, marries Christina, a daughter of the MacLeod of Harris. Those of you who have read The Chief might be smiling right now; I know I couldn’t help but wonder whether this Christina was a descendant of Tor and Christina. I love when fact and fiction serendipitously intertwine like that.

  As with most of the books, I take a lot of inspiration from genealogical charts. There is always tons of great fodder in the notes. Although citations are sometimes thin, and there are usually discrepancies, it’s often the place I find information that I can’t find elsewhere. Case in point was when I was trying to figure out where the MacLean lands were before the war (after they are associated with the Isles of Mull, Tiree, Coll, and Morvern and Lochbuie on the mainland). They were generally thought to have been from Lorn, as vassals of the Lord of Argyll, but it wasn’t until I came across a genealogical record for “Eoin Dubh Mac Gilliemore” (John Dubh) that I found a reference to Gylen Castle on the Isle of Kerrera as the place of his birth. Since Gylen Castle was a MacDougall castle, this seemed to fit.

  This same record also provided the inspiration for the character of Fin, as the notes refer to an attempt by the MacKinnons (formerly MacFinnons) to kill John Dubh’s sons, making the clans, not surprisingly, hardened enemies.

  Finally,