The Striker Read online

  But maybe most of all she missed the freedom. She missed galloping across the countryside with the wind tearing through her hair. She missed being able to go where she wanted and say what she wanted without having to worry about offending someone or doing something wrong.

  She was wild, she realized. And now she felt caged. Margaret didn’t know how much more of this she could take. She was dying on this island. Each day she was losing more and more of herself.

  Her only escape was at night. At night she held tight to the memories of her husband and the love she felt for him, as she touched her body as he had. At that moment he seemed closer. But when she woke, the loneliness was even worse.

  The only bright spot in the weeks that followed after Eoin left was the day not long after May Day, when Fin rode out with Eoin’s father and brothers to join the call to rally to Bruce’s banner. He hadn’t followed her again since the day Eoin had come home, but she was still relieved to see him go.

  Marjory, on the other hand, was heartbroken. Thinking that perhaps their shared grief and fear over the men who’d gone off to battle might bring them closer, Margaret had made yet one more overture to her sister by marriage. But it was harshly rejected. It seemed Margaret wasn’t the only one aware of Fin’s unwanted attention toward her. Marjory, however, suffered under the illusion that the attention was solicited. She accused Margaret of “flirting” and “toying” with Fin in her boredom and “need to have all the men fawning over her.”

  Margaret had protested and gently tried to warn her about Fin, but Marjory was blinded by love and refused to countenance any criticism of the handsome young warrior. Margaret left her to her illusions, but hoped for Marjory’s sake that she learned the truth before tying herself to a man who Margaret was certain would only bring her heartbreak.

  Even Tilda seemed different. Margaret found out why about a week after Eoin left, when she asked Tilda if she wanted to go out on the skiff—the girl loved sailing almost as much as Margaret did—and she’d shaken her head without meeting her gaze. Eventually she’d squeezed an explanation from her. “My brother said well-brought-up young ladies don’t sail boats by themselves.”

  Margaret argued with her, until she realized it wasn’t Neil or Donald, but Eoin who’d spoken to her. Apparently, Lady Rignach had threatened to marry Tilda to the son of a nearby laird if she continued in her “wildness.”

  It shouldn’t have hurt so much, but it did. Was Margaret such a bad influence that Tilda had to risk being sent away rather than spend time with her? Is that what Eoin thought, too?

  But by far the worst part of intolerable weeks that passed was not knowing what was happening, and the constant fear that came from knowing that her husband was in danger. With no word from him since he left, she had no idea where he was, what he was doing, or whether he was lying somewhere injured—or, God forbid, worse.

  He’d told her nothing about his plans, and if Lady Rignach knew more, she did not share it with her son’s MacDowell bride. News of “King” Robert’s movements was sparse and took an interminable time to reach them. It was early July by time they heard of Bruce’s disastrous defeat at Methven two weeks before. Bruce’s forces had been decimated, crushed under the mighty English king, Edward I, the self-described Hammer of the Scots. And it was another agonizing week of waiting and imagining before Lady Rignach received word from her husband telling her that they had all survived, although Neil had suffered a serious arrow wound to his shoulder.

  For weeks Margaret stared out the window, looking for a ship, praying that Eoin would see the uselessness of Bruce’s cause and return to her. No one—not even the charismatic knight she’d met at Stirling—could defeat Edward of England. And certainly not with only half of Scotland behind him.

  It wasn’t until late August that she saw a birlinn of warriors approaching from Oban. She ran down the stairs of the tower house into the bailey just as the men started stumbling through the postern gate from the dock like the walking dead. Although not all were walking. Some were limping, some were being helped by marginally more able men, and a few were being carried on litters.

  Heart in her throat, Margaret scanned the grimy, bloodied faces of the men for someone familiar. But it wasn’t until she saw the bloodied face of the man speaking to Lady Rignach that she recognized one of the laird’s captains. He’d lost part of his arm, which was wrapped in a bandage that was bloody and dirty enough to make Margaret’s stomach lurch.

  But it was her heart that lurched a moment later, when Eoin’s mother paled and gave a pained cry that rose above the din of chaos.

  Margaret reached her just as Lady Rignach’s legs gave out. The look on the proud lady’s face was not one Margaret would ever forget. Her formidable mother-in-law looked shattered and suddenly very fragile.

  Margaret helped Lady Rignach inside, called for wine, and sat her on a bench in the Hall. Marjory and Tilda joined them at some point. Eoin’s sisters stood to the side, looking as anxious and scared as Margaret felt. For once, Marjory was happy to let her take charge.

  As soon as the housekeeper brought the wine, Margaret asked her to gather the servants and start preparing beds, food, and to send for anyone with knowledge of healing. The men flooding the bailey would need to be cared for.

  By the time she returned to Lady Rignach, the other woman had stopped shaking and looked marginally more composed. Steeling herself, Margaret forced herself to ask the question. “What has happened?”

  Tears seeped from the corner of Lady Rignach’s eyes. “It’s over. My nephew’s cause is lost.” She drew a deep, shaky breath. “Bruce’s army was all but destroyed yesterday at Dal Righ by the MacDougalls.”

  Tilda and Marjory cried out in despair, as Margaret fought to steady her wobbly knees. Oh God, Eoin! Please don’t say . . .

  Her chest, her eyes, her heart burned.

  “Father? Our brothers?” Tilda asked.

  Lady Rignach shook her head. “Connach isn’t sure. He believes they escaped with the king, but it was chaos as they were forced to flee the battlefield and disappeared into the hills. The men who were too injured to follow were left to make their way home. The army has been disbanded, and the MacDougalls and their allies are hunting for what is left of Bruce and his supporters.”

  “Fin?” Marjory asked breathlessly.

  Lady Rignach shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Something in Marjory seemed to snap. She turned on Margaret, her eyes blazing fury. “I hope you are happy. You and your traitorous family have won. Maybe your father is dancing on my brother’s grave?”

  Margaret gasped, looking at the girl in horror.

  “Marjory, that’s enough!” Lady Rignach said. “Margaret is your brother’s wife. It is not her fault her clan chose to side with our English enemies.”

  The subtle dig masking as a defense snapped the last threads of her control. “My father chose to fight for his king—the rightful King John—and not for the man who murdered his kinsman.” She turned from a stunned Lady Rignach to her daughter. “I love your brother, and when I married him I gave him my loyalty. Have you ever thought for one moment how difficult this is for me? Can you imagine what it is like to know that my husband is fighting my father and brothers, and the torture I live with every day wondering if they are meeting across some battlefield? I chose none of this, and I’m doing the best I can under difficult circumstances. I know you hate me and think I’m not good enough for Eoin, and maybe you’re right, but he chose me. He wanted to marry me, whether you want to accept that or not, and maybe if you can’t give me the benefit of the doubt, you should give it to him.”

  They stared at her in shock, even Tilda.

  Margaret knew she’d probably made a mistake, but she could not stand there another minute and hold her tongue. She was never going to fit in here anyway. No matter what her husband wanted to think.

  Without another word, she turned and walked away. The men in the bailey needed her, and it would help her kee