She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and clung tight. “I shall pray for your safety and swift return.”
By the grace of God, her embrace felt heavenly. How much he wanted to kiss her again—to taste her succulent lips and mold her body to his.
But he steeled his resolve. “Allow me to escort you back to your chamber.”
“I think not.” She straightened and shook her head. “If anyone were to see us there would be a scandal—and that would make Aleck suspicious that I am up to something.”
Eoin nodded. Of course she was right, but it didn’t sit well with him that she would have to traverse the cold passageways alone.
He walked her to the door and placed his palm upon her cheek. “Sleep well m’lady.” She looked up at him, her lips red as rose petals, her eyes so filled with emotion. Leaning forward, Eoin had no inclination to stop himself. His tongue slipped out and moistened his bottom lip while he dipped his head and covered her mouth.
His entire body ignited with unquenchable desire. He deepened his kiss and Helen matched his fervor. They bonded like a raging wildfire—two lost souls joining in the darkest hours of the night. The incredible softness of her unbound breasts plied his chest.
God, he wanted her.
The bed was only a few short paces behind them. But heaven strike him dead, he would not sully Lady Helen’s virtue. She’d already taken a great risk by visiting his chamber. It took every ounce of control Eoin possessed to pull away and catch his breath. “I’ll peer into the hall first. Once I’m sure ’tis clear, you must haste back to your chamber.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Iona ahead, m’laird,” Fergus bellowed from the stern of the galley.
“Furl the sail,” Eoin replied. He’d opted to sail to Iona before meeting with Duncan Campbell at Dunstaffnage. Eoin had known the Lord of Glenorchy most of his life. Delivering news of the MacDonald raids in Sunart and Ardnamurchan would cause consternation. Duncan would want to act swiftly, which might prevent Eoin from delivering Helen’s missive with haste.
Honestly, Eoin knew he should rush to Dunstaffnage, but a quick detour to Iona would only set him back a day. Besides, they’d beaten the MacDonalds by land and by sea. Alexander and his kin would need time to lick their wounds before they tried another foolish attempt to regain their forfeited lands.
As the men heaved on the oars, heading toward Iona’s white sands, he thought about how Aleck MacIain would react when he discovered Eoin and his men had sailed to make a full report. Eoin had purposefully asked his men rise at dawn and set sail before MacIain had broken his fast. He couldn’t take a chance on the bastard insisting on sailing with them, even though Eoin would have been able to argue that Aleck’s arm needed time to heal. Eoin couldn’t give a rat’s arse about upsetting the damn Chieftain of Ardnamurchan, but if the moth-brained codpiece ever again released his ire on Lady Helen, Eoin would sooner kill him.
When the galley ran aground on the white sands of Iona, Eoin jumped over the side behind Fergus. “Keep the men near. I’ve some business at the abbey. We sail for Dunstaffnage as soon as I return.”
Nuns wearing black habits hastened along the path beside the nunnery as Eoin made his way toward Iona Abbey. He removed his helm and bowed his head respectfully, but the women hardly noticed him and continued on their way.
The cloistered world of nuns and monks was foreign to him. He couldn’t imagine taking a vow of poverty, chastity and obedience and then hiding from the world, praying at all hours—godly and ungodly.
When the path curved toward abbey, Eoin sped his pace. He was met at the cloister gates by a pair of sentries dressed in the uniforms of the Knights Hospitallers, with red crucifixes emblazoned in the middle of their white surcoats. They crossed their poleaxes in front of the door.
“Eoin MacGregor, Chieftain of Clan Gregor, here to see Sir John Campbell, Bishop of the Isles.”
“State your purpose,” said one.
Eoin thumped his cloak over the spot where he’d secured the missive. “I bear an urgent message from the bishop’s family.” He dared not allude to Lady Helen in any way.
“The bishop is seeing no visitors this day.”
Eoin sauntered forward, smoothing his fingers over the hilt of his sword. “Did you not hear me? Sir John’s family needs his attention straight away. Find someone to notify him of my presence before I summon my men and burn this gate to a cinder.” He eyed each man with a deadly squint. “And neither of you will live to see it.”
One nodded to the other. “Go, fetch the brother.”
In short order, an unarmed monk ushered Eoin through the gate. “The Bishop is a very busy man.” The man’s ring of brown locks shook with his head. “I’m not certain he’ll be able to see you today.”
Wearing a hauberk, helm, dirk and broadsword, Eoin was a tad over-armed for hallowed halls. “Just tell him who I am. We were good friends before Sir John joined the priesthood.”
“You may refer to him as His Worship, or Bishop Campbell,” the monk corrected, sniffing through his upturned nose. When they entered a square cloister surrounding a well-manicured courtyard, the man pointed to a bench. “Wait here whilst I inform the bishop of your presence.”
“Very well.” Sitting, Eoin glanced at the masonry of the uniform archways. He’d been in the vast nave of the church, but never in this courtyard. A mourning dove soared down and sat atop a bronze statue in the center of the courtyard. Its wings whooshed. Eoin heard the bird’s movement so clearly, he sensed that he’d stepped away from the world for a moment. Through the quiet, he could hear his own heartbeat—yet his senses weren’t heightened as they were before he stepped into danger.
He chuckled. Mayhap I should be a bit uneasy, given the message I bring.
Footsteps clattered through the adjoining passage, interrupting the ethereal tranquility. The monk stepped into view. “The bishop will see you now. You must be an important man, indeed.”
Eoin stood. “’Tis good to know Sir John isn’t too busy to visit with an old friend.”
“Please try to remember to address him as Bishop Campbell, m’laird.” The monk led Eoin to a large oak door and pulled on the blackened iron latch. The stone passageway had been rather stark, but the chamber beyond the door gleamed, alive with rich red tapestries trimmed with gold.
John has done quite well for himself. Clearly, the Bishop of the Isles is a man of abundant wealth.
Seated in a great upholstered chair, His Worship looked as if he could have been the Pope. He wore a brilliant red velvet chasuble trimmed with gold over a long purple dalmatic, and atop his head he wore a matching mitre. More affluent clothing had not the king.
Seeing him, the bishop stood and held out his arms. “Sir Eoin. My word, what a surprise.”
Eoin took John’s hand and kissed it. Every finger was bejeweled with rings bearing enormous stones. “’Tis good to see you, Bishop Campbell.”
“Please, old friend. Call me John.”
Eoin gave him a pointed look. “Not ‘Your Worship’?”
As expected, John turned red. Aside from his garb, he remained the same humble man Eoin knew well. “’Tis a moniker I abhor and a dear friend from my past will not refer to me thus.” He gestured to a smaller chair. “You are fortunate to find me at home. I’m leaving for Rome on the morrow.”