The men all surrounded him with welcoming claps on the back and ribs about the length of time he’d been away. It appeared some had appreciated their sennights of sparring lessons with the big warrior. Laughing, he seemed not to notice the wet hem of his surcoat, dripping from beneath his hauberk—or the water sloshing from his boots. As he neared, he looked up the incline. His gaze met Helen’s and he grinned while the others chortled around him. He surged ahead of his retinue and strode straight toward her.
Helen’s heart fluttered.
“Lady Helen.” He stepped in and grasped her hand. Though he’d just been walking through the icy surf and sailing in a chilly May breeze, the fingers surrounding hers were ever so warm and welcoming.
Her breath caught, but she maintained her poise. With the current between their gazes connecting them like lightning to the earth, her insides fluttered in an alarming rhythm she would never reveal through her expression.
Time stilled. Everything surrounding them faded into oblivion, as if they were the only two people on the shore. Her every breath rushed with the sound of waves hitting the beach.
Eoin’s eyes twinkled, reflecting a glint of sunlight. His lips parted in a broad grin, revealing a row of straight, healthy white teeth. A dark beard had grown in during their absence. If anything, it made his eyes bluer, his teeth whiter. She chuckled to herself. The black hair shadowing his face gave him a devilish look.
Blinking, Helen realized he was staring at her, as if expecting her to say something. “Sir Eoin, we thought you and your men would have returned days ago,” she managed in a higher pitch than normal.
With a halfcocked grin, he lowered his gaze, shading his eyes with dark lashes—far too long to belong to a man. “We had a bit of fun following a pair of MacDonald galleys down the coast.” He plied the back of her hand with a kiss, so warm it scorched.
Certain his lips had left a mark, Helen glanced at her hand. “How is your wound?”
Eoin pressed his hand to his ribs to the side of the injury. “’Tis coming good. I had Fergus take out the stitches a couple days past.”
Recalling the undulating muscles over his abdomen, Helen’s gaze drifted down. With a start, she remembered the shirt in her hand—the one he hadn’t kissed. She held it up. “I mended this for you.”
His eyes brightened. “That’s my shirt?”
“Aye. I stitched it trying to mirror the weave. ’Tis not perfect. I’m afraid my eyesight isn’t as keen as it once was.”
“I’m impressed.” He peered closely at the seam. “It looks as good as new. Thank you, m’lady.”
When Aleck moved in beside them, Helen took a step back. She feigned her usual demure expression. “Sir Eoin has returned, m’laird.”
“I see.” Aleck frowned and regarded Eoin’s wet boots. “What took you so long, MacGregor? Can you not navigate?”
A muscle in Eoin’s jaw twitched. He motioned toward the sea gate. “I’ve news.”
Following the men into the courtyard, Helen half expected Eoin to finish his sentence with a scoffing comment akin to, “you daft Highlander.” She’d often heard the MacGregor Chieftain and her brother rib each other with such remarks, but that had all been in fun. Perhaps, Eoin was wary about pushing back when Aleck MacIain issued an insult. Unfortunate, she would have enjoyed hearing how he’d really wanted to respond—but then again, such a rebuttal could have set off another inordinately-serious courtyard sparring session.
Aleck stopped by the well and crossed his arms. “My spies reported seeing MacDonald galleys on the move—said they appear to be transporting items south.”
Helen had no idea her husband had dispatched spies.
Eoin nodded and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “The galleys were indeed heading south. We followed them all the way to the Isle of Colonsay.”
“Close to the Isle of Islay—MacDonald’s greatest holdings in southern waters.” Aleck scratched his whiskers. “The king’s concerns about a stir to the south must be founded.”
“Aye. That’s what took me so long. I sailed to Dunstaffnage to alert Lord Duncan and dispatch a missive to the king.”
“We must set sail and join them,” Aleck said, spreading his arms wide.
“Not yet.” Eoin held up his palm. “I counted fifty-two galleys moored alongside Dunskeath in Sleat.”
Aleck nodded as if he actually paid heed to the MacGregor Chieftain’s words. “’Tis a good place to hide if you’re building an army.”
“My thoughts as well.” Eoin narrowed his gaze. “You ken Clan Donald. My gut is