The Striker Read online

  Shite. That was the moment Eoin knew what was wrong with him. He knew what he’d been trying to deny. He knew why instead of focusing all his efforts on impressing his kinsman for a job of which he could only dream, he was chasing down a woman to the garderobe.

  His blood drained to the floor. The truth hit him square in the chest as she stood there like a damned queen, facing their condemnation with defiance and a look on her face that told them to go to hell.

  I’m in love with her.

  Bloody hell, how could he have let this happen? It didn’t make any damned sense! He didn’t want to believe that he could do something so completely and utterly stupid.

  But he had. She was wild, outrageous, and didn’t dress or act anything like a noblewoman should, but seeing her standing there, facing those women, with more pride and dignity in her tiny slippered foot than those women could ever hope to have, he knew he loved her.

  God knows he didn’t understand it, sure as hell wasn’t happy about it, and didn’t know what he was going to do about it, but neither could he deny it.

  Regally, head held high, she walked across the small room. The women seemed stunned—and not a little shamed—and parted instinctively before her. Margaret’s pride, her bravado, never faltered. Until she turned the corner of the partition and saw him.

  Their eyes met, and he could see that she knew he’d heard every word. Her golden eyes widened. Her fair skin paled. And then her proud, beautiful face simply crumpled.

  He glimpsed something he’d never thought to see in her expression: vulnerability, and it cut him to the quick.

  He reached for her. “Margaret, I’m sorry—”

  He didn’t get to finish.

  “Oh God, please . . . please, just leave me alone!” With a soft cry and sob that tore right through his chest, she twisted away from him and fled out the Hall as if the devil were nipping at her heels.

  He’d heard. He’d heard every horrible word, every lie they said about her.

  Margaret felt the tears sliding down her cheeks as she ran across the yard. For the first time in her life she wanted to run away. She wanted to crawl in a hole and hide. Shame was a new emotion for her, but it burned through every limb, every bone, and every corner of her body.

  They thought she’d seduced Finlaeie MacFinnon. They thought she dressed like a whore so she must be one? Is that what Eoin thought? God knows with what had happened in the library he had every reason to.

  She heard him call her name, but it only made her run faster. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away. She’d headed to the stables without even realizing it. A solitary stable lad sat at the entry. He took one look at her face and made himself scarce.

  That was when Eoin caught up with her. He took her by the arm again. This time his grip was firm. When she tried to shrug away, he held fast. Blast it, he was strong, and right now, she hated all those muscles she so admired.

  “Let go of me,” she cried, in between sobs that tore through her lungs like fire.

  “Margaret—Maggie—look at me.”

  She didn’t want to, but there was something in his voice that would not be denied. Maggie? She lifted her gaze. Dark, velvety blue eyes met hers. Not with condemnation but with understanding. And something else. Something that looked like tenderness.

  “I’m not going anywhere until we talk,” he said in a voice that was both firm and gentle.

  She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl into a ball and forget any of this had ever happened.

  “Where were you going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She sniffled. “I just wanted to ride.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  She was too anxious to get away to argue with him. God knew her reputation couldn’t suffer any more. And if he didn’t mind being seen with the Whore of Babylon, she wasn’t going to stop him.

  He helped her saddle Dubh, and then saddled his own horse before lifting her up. They passed the guards at the gate without comment, and soon they were riding down castle hill to the flat stretch of land she’d raced over earlier that day. They rode past the abbey and continued along the banks of the River Forth until the castle on the rock, the narrow wynds of tightly packed stone and wattle-and-daub houses, and the town of Stirling fell behind them.

  Only then did she slow, realizing how fast she’d been riding. Dubh had sensed her urgency to get away and responded.

  It was late afternoon, which at this time of year meant the sun was already beginning to sink on the horizon. It was also, she realized too late, extremely cold and damp. Dark clouds hovered threateningly above them.

  “Here take this.”

  They were the first words he’d spoken since the stable. She turned to find him riding beside her, holding out the plaid he’d had wrapped around his shoulders.

  She shook her head to refuse, but he gave her a hard look that told her he was going to be stubborn.

  “But it looks like it’s going to rain,” she protested. “Your fine surcoat will be ruined.”

  It looked to be a costly garment, a dark blue velvet edged with intricately embroidered scroll and leaf pattern in gold thread.

  “Aye, well perhaps the next time you decide to take a ride before a storm, you could grab a cloak?”

  The slight lift of one corner of his mouth gave him away.

  “Are you teasing me?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged, as if it surprised him, too. “Take the plaid, Lady Margaret. I’ll survive.”

  “You called me Maggie before.”

  “Did I?” He gave her a sidelong look. “Very well then, take it, Maggie.”

  She did as he bid, wrapping the thick green and blue patterned wool around her shoulders. A feeling of warmth settled instantly around her. He settled around her, she realized, for the plaid still held the heat from his body. And it smelled of him, warm and cozy with just the faintest hint of heather. Drawing a deep breath, she sighed with contentment.

  “Comfortable?” he asked dryly, as the first raindrops began to fall.

  Their eyes met. She probably should have felt guilty, but something about his teasing made her happy. She sensed that he did not reveal this side of himself very often. So instead her mouth quirked. “Very.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “You might at least feign a little concern for my suffering.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And if you decide to play knight errant again, you should try not to whine. It rather ruins the effect.”

  “Not to mention a good surcoat.”

  This time it was she who laughed. It took her a moment to realize what he’d done. He’d made her feel better. “You’re very clever, aren’t you?”

  His mouth quirked. “Not always apparently.”

  It took her a moment to realize he was referring to her, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. Did he regret being here with her?

  “We can return now, if you’d like,” she said.

  He shook his head, eyeing the dark clouds. “I think it’s better if we get out of the storm.” He pointed to a dilapidated stone building nestled along the river up ahead that appeared to be a fisherman’s cottage. Long abandoned by the looks of it. “We can try in there. Half a roof is better than none.”

  It was actually more than half. Only the far corner of the roughly eight-by-eight-foot stone building had lost its turf. Enough to let in the chill and damp, but at least they would be relatively dry.

  While Eoin tended the horses, Margaret did her best to sweep away some of the dust and cobwebs with an old straw broom that, although a tad moldy, was still serviceable. There was little in the way of furniture. A table, a few stools, and a bed box stuffed with straw and covered by an old threadbare, dusty plaid. The floor was dirt and stone, but also covered by a thick, well-beaten-down layer of slightly moldy straw. She was grateful for it. Mold was vastly preferable to standing in mud.

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