The Striker Read online

  Not that she didn’t know the particulars of fornicating, which she did. And she knew enough from her brothers (and those people in the Hall) to know that it could be enjoyable. But she’d thought it would be embarrassing and awkward. What she hadn’t expected was the incredible closeness and bond that would be forged between them.

  He lifted his head from her mouth. “Are you all right?”

  Seeing the self-recrimination and silent apology in his eyes, her heart tugged. She would remember this moment for the rest of her life and cherish it.

  She put her hand up to cup his stubbled jaw. “I’m perfect.”

  And she was. Margaret knew this was exactly where she was supposed to be. Joined with this man in the way God had intended. She didn’t care what the priests said, this couldn’t be a sin. It was heaven.

  Eoin’s teeth clenched against the urge to thrust. The urge that was as primitive and powerful as anything he’d ever experienced.

  He’d done this before. Maybe not as many times as Fin—he was focused on other things than chasing women—but enough to know that this was different.

  And it wasn’t just because Margaret was a maid (even if he’d had to keep reminding himself of that fact with the passionate way she responded to him). Christ, he hadn’t expected that much pain. It had scared the lust right out of him. Though unfortunately only for a minute. It had come roaring back full force as he became aware of the tightness of her body squeezing around him.

  What made this different wasn’t just the sensations gripping his body, but the emotions gripping his heart. Eoin didn’t believe in bards’ shite like fate and destiny, but looking into those incredible golden eyes while seated deep inside her, the words came to mind. He felt something in his chest shift with the intensity of the emotion that rose inside him. He wanted to protect her, cherish her, and most of all love her with everything he had.

  Unfortunately, the base instincts clamoring inside him like the drum had other ideas. The pressure pounding at the base of his spine warned him that he didn’t have long. He’d just come up against the limits of his control.

  As soon as he felt her relax, he couldn’t hold back anymore. He had to move. Slowly at first, and then as her breath quickened, and soft cries filled the cottage, faster.

  Her response drove him wild. Her back arched . . . the leg around his waist tightened, and he was lost. His hips thrust, circled, and plunged. Deeper, harder, faster, until the pleasure unwound inside him.

  “Oh God, Maggie, you feel so good. I’m going to . . .”

  He couldn’t finish. He stiffened, shuddered, and cried out as the force of his release exploded from him in wave after wave of powerful bursts.

  When it was over, it was all that he could do to stand. He collapsed against her and slowly let her slide from his body as he fought to regain some of his strength—and breath.

  He was utterly drained. Spent. Wrung out of all his energy. When he was seven—just before he left to be fostered—he’d been swimming in the sea around Gylen Castle and become caught in the current. He’d nearly drowned, struggling for over an hour, before finally dragging himself to shore and collapsing in a dead heap in the sand. That was about how much energy he had right now.

  Until her muffled voice penetrated the euphoric haze. “Eoin, uh, are you all right?”

  Ah hell. He pulled back with a curse, realizing he’d probably been crushing her. He realized other things as well, like the fact that he’d just taken her maidenhead with little more finesse than an eighteen-year-old lad.

  She was probably confused—worried—wondering what the hell happened now. In other words feeling the same way he was. Divesting young ladies of their virginity wasn’t exactly something he had a lot of—any— experience with.

  He didn’t bother asking himself what the hell he’d just done, he knew exactly what he’d just done. Rather quickly. Against a wall, for Christ’s sake.

  “God, I’m sorry,” he said, raking his fingers back through his hair. “I didn’t mean it to happen that way. You deserved better.”

  She looked stricken. “You regret what—”

  He stopped her. “Nay. God knows I probably should, but I don’t.”

  It was too late for regret. Too late for self-recrimination. Too late to say he’d made a mistake. Too late to tell himself that he never should have brought her here.

  Even if he wanted to be angry with himself for doing something so incredibly stupid (not to mention dishonorable), something guaranteed to cause them both a shite-heap of trouble, and something that could jeopardize his place in his kinsman’s secret guard, he knew it wouldn’t change anything. What was done was done. Whether she was right or wrong for him no longer mattered: she was his. And damned if that didn’t make him happy.

  Reaching down, he cupped her face in his hand, gently stroking the soft curve of her cheek with his thumb. She was so damned beautiful she took his breath away, and never more than now when she bore the stamp of their passion on her swollen lips and stubble-scraped skin.

  Eoin was discovering that he hadn’t left those Viking marauder roots as far behind as he thought.

  “All I meant,” he explained, “is that you deserved far more than a wall in a fisherman’s cottage for your first time, and had I any semblance of honor and control, I would have given it to you—along with far more pleasure.”

  Relief spread over her delicate features in a bright smile. “But you did bring me pleasure.”

  He had, he realized, as surprising as that was for a maid. From everything he’d heard, the first time for a lass was always horrible. But Margaret had liked it. Just thinking about the way her body had responded to him, how she’d pressed her breasts against his chest and tightened her leg around his hip, drawing him closer, did what he would have thought impossible. Defying every law of nature, he felt himself stir.

  He looked into her eyes and continued to run his thumb over her bottom lip. “There’s more, a leanbh,” he said huskily. “Much more.”

  “Really?”

  The spark of anticipation in her eyes went straight to his bollocks. She was still standing in front of the wall, and he was remembering too well how she’d looked pressed up against it. How her eyes had slitted, her breath had quickened, and her cheeks had flushed.

  He had every intention of seeing that again, but this time, he was going to do it right. “Aye, really. But before I show you exactly what I mean, you must agree to one thing.”

  A small frown drew between her brows. “What’s that?”

  “To be my wife.”

  The look of shock on her face would have been amusing had it not been at the expense of what honor he had left.

  “W-w-what?”

  He frowned. Surely she knew as well as he what this meant. She was his, damn it. She’d given herself to him, and he had no intention of letting her go.

  “I want you to marry me, Maggie. Right here, right now.”

  Margaret’s head was spinning.

  Barely had she recovered from the fear that she might have killed him—the look on his face before he’d collapsed against her had been as close to a man glimpsing paradise as she’d ever seen—then she was reeling from the blow of thinking he regretted what had happened. Now he was proposing? And unless she was mistaken, what he was proposing was just as shocking.

  “A clandestine marriage?” she asked.

  He nodded grimly. “It’s not ideal. And if there was another way, I wouldn’t suggest it. But you know as well as I do that our families will not want an alliance between us. The church might not like informal ceremonies done without the banns, but it will be valid—and binding.”

  Their eyes met, and she knew exactly what he meant. Even if their families wanted to try to undo it, they would not be able to. If they agreed to wed right now, spoke their vows, and consummated them, in the eyes of the church they would be just as married as if they’d posted the banns for the next three Sundays and then exchanged vows before the church d