Shouts from the crowd grew louder, driving Eoin deeper into the frenzy of attack. A fist connected with his jaw, but he didn’t even feel it.
Aleck stumbled and dropped to his knees.
Eoin advanced.
Someone caught him by the elbows.
“Enough,” Fergus growled in his ear.
Eoin blinked, suddenly aware of the beating he’d unleashed. Rarely did he lose control. He nodded and took in a calming breath. Fergus was right. They were allies. It was time to stop.
Eoin held out his hand. “Shall we call it a draw, Sir Aleck?”
MacIain eyed him, blood oozing around his teeth and from the jagged cuts on his face, then he grasped Eoin’s palm. “No one makes me look the fool,” he said with a low snarl.
Eoin should have expected a traitorous move.
Before he could pull away, MacIain swung at him with a dagger. Bending backward, the blade sliced across Eoin’s abdomen. Hot blood oozed down his gut. Nostrils flaring, Eoin advanced and pulled the dagger hidden in his sleeve. Hands clamped around his arms. He fought to break away, throwing his left, then right. “Release me you mongrel varmints.”
“I’ll murder the bastard,” MacIain bellowed from across the circle. He too was being pulled away by his men.
“He’s nay worth the king’s ire,” Fergus hissed in Eoin’s ear.
“What is this commotion about?” Lady Helen dashed into the midst of the mayhem.
“Get back into the keep woman,” Aleck bellowed.
When Helen shifted her gaze to Eoin, he stopped struggling and froze. What would she think of him now that he’d started a brawl with her husband?
Chapter Seven
When Helen saw Eoin bleeding across his midsection, her heart beat so fast, it nearly hammered out of her chest. She ignored Aleck’s command to go back inside and raced toward the MacGregor Chieftain. “My God, what happened?”
Eoin shrugged away from his men’s grasp. “’Tis a scratch.”
Fergus shook his head. “Laird MacIain drew his knife—’twas after Sir Eoin had offered his hand.”
Helen spun to Aleck. “Is this true?”
He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. “What of it?” He gestured to the cuts on his face and rising bruises. “I swear the bastard broke my nose.”
Helen stepped up and examined him. It wouldn’t be the first broken nose she’d seen on her husband’s roughhewn face—but there was little that could be done for it—or for the bruises she imagined Eoin had inflicted. After careful inspection, she determined Aleck’s injuries were superficial. “And so you pulled a dagger in a fair fight?” Yes, she’d seen and heard enough of the encounter from the kitchen window.
“Wheesht, woman. I told you to return to the keep.”
Helen turned and pointed at the MacGregor men. “Take Sir Eoin to the antechamber off the kitchen. I’ll fetch my medicine bundle and meet him momentarily.”
She started for the keep when Aleck stepped in front of her. “You’re off to tend that miserable cur when I’m bleeding like a stuck pig?”
She stopped and dabbed beneath his nose with her kerchief. “The bleeding’s mostly ebbed.” She rose up on her toes and inclined her lips to his ear, whispering, “Perhaps you should wander up the hill and have Mary ply it with a bit of ointment.”
He snapped his hand back, but Grant caught his arm. “Och, m’laird. Do you not think we’ve had enough beating for one day?”
Helen didn’t wait to hear the outcome of that interchange. Under her breath, she prayed Aleck wouldn’t start another brawl with the brave henchman. By the looks of her husband’s face, he’d certainly received his due—though his injuries were nothing compared to the quantity of blood staining Eoin’s shirt.
It took Helen no time to retrieve the basket with her healing essences and salves—something no respectable wife would be without. She hastened to the antechamber where she’d sent Eoin. The room was close to the courtyard and had a stone floor which would be easy to clean. She would have preferred to have sent him to his chamber above stairs, but it might be seen as scandalous. She also feared Aleck would balk. As it was, he might tell her she couldn’t tend Eoin—though his wound appeared far worse.
She bustled through the kitchen and Peter gave her a look of earnest solemnity. “The sparring got a bit serious today.”
She shook her head. “I ken and Sir Aleck had to be in the center of it.”
“As well as the MacGregor Chieftain.” Peter followed her across to the passage that led to the small chamber mostly used for drying herbs.
“Whatever the cause, I wish they’d behave like grown men rather than a pack of heathens.”
Peter scoffed. “Now that’s asking a bit much, m’lady.”
Helen pushed into the chamber filled with men who stank as if they’d been a month or longer without a bath. She flicked her hand through the air. “Shoo, the lot of you, and go find a basin of water and a bar of soap.”
“Bloody hell, I had a bath last year.” The cheeky lad slipped past before Helen had a chance to scold him.
As the men cleared, she found Eoin sitting on a stool. He gave her a sheepish smile. “Apologies, m’lady. I’ll see the men take a dip in the sea. That’ll fix them up.”
“My thanks.” She stood awkwardly. Now that the room had emptied, she realized they were alone—together alone—just like they’d been when he’d consoled her on the beach. Her palms perspired. Oh how heavenly it would be if she were able to offer him the same soothing embrace right now. But that would be improper and impertinent. Realizing she’d been staring, Helen drew in a breath and turned to set the basket on the table. “Why were you not wearing your hauberk?”
“I’ve been training all this time and wasn’t planning on doing any fighting. Moreover, the day was warm.” The deep hum of his voice eased her tension. She could listen to him recite passages from the Book of Job all day and remain completely enthralled.
Helen swallowed and regarded him over her shoulder. “I surmise you’ll think again before you make such a blunder.”
“Aye.” Eoin glanced down. “Had I been wearing my mail, I wouldn’t have felt so much as a pin prick.”
She agreed. It wasn’t like Eoin to be careless. “Your shirt is ruined.”
He held it out and examined the gaping hole and the stain. “I suppose it would look a bit odd with a seam across the middle, even if the blood did wash out.”
“Do you have another?”
“I’ve one in my kit.”
She gestured with her upturned palm. “Then you’d best give this one to me and I’ll see what I can do to mend it.”
“All right.” He pulled the shirt over his head and held it out.
Helen drew in a stuttered breath. She’d seen him shirtless often, but that was years ago when she and Gyllis used to watch the knights sparring from the battlements at Kilchurn Castle. And she’d never been this close. His arms were sculpted with thick, undulating muscles. The one holding the shirt flexed, defining perfection. His chest was as broad as a horse’s hindquarters with hard muscle beneath embossing each masculine breast. She ached to press her fingers against his flesh to discover if he were made of iron. Her eyes drank him in, then dipped lower. Well defined muscle rippled over his abdomen, but that’s where she stopped. Helen clapped a hand to her chest and gasped.