The Striker Read online

  “Blast it, Tristan, stop!” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him furiously. “What do you think you are doing?”

  His eyes blazed just as hotly—but with something else. “Showing you what you are missing. Proving to you that you’d be a fool to wait for a man who will never come back, when you have one right here who wants you.”

  He took a step closer to her, but she held him back. “Stop it, Tristan! I don’t want this.”

  His eyes grew fierce, he leaned toward her, as if he might draw her into his arms. “I can make you want it.”

  There was a powerful edge to his voice that she didn’t recognize. It sent a shiver of trepidation running down her spine. But Tristan wasn’t Fin MacFinnon. He would never hurt her. “No, you can’t,” she said firmly. “We have been friends for a long time, but if you persist in this, we won’t be any longer.”

  For a moment he looked as if he might press his case, but then her words seemed to penetrate. She could see the anger and frustration warring on his expertly crafted features.

  “You’re making a mistake, Maggie. I hope by the time you’ve figured it out, I haven’t grown tired of waiting. I’ll not sleep alone forever. But continue this stubbornness, and you very well might.”

  Taking his horse by the lead, he stomped off into the darkness. She wanted to call after him, but she knew it was probably best to give him time to cool his temper. The castle was only a shout away.

  A moment later she reconsidered. It had gotten dark all of the sudden, and the shadows of the forest had taken on a sinister cast. Something felt wrong.

  The sound of leaves rustling sent a shiver racing down her spine. She looked around, peering into the darkness.

  It’s only the wind, she told herself.

  But it wasn’t. The hair at the back of her neck prickled. She could feel something. Someone was out there.

  She started to scream for Tristan, when a hand slipped over her mouth, and a man grabbed her roughly from behind.

  He shouldn’t be here. Eoin had promised Lamont that he’d take a quick look at the castle and meet back at the rendezvous in an hour. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone know he was here—even his runaway wife. Too much was riding on it.

  After five months of biding their time in the Western Isles while Bruce gathered the support necessary to retake his kingdom, they were ready. Tomorrow night the king and about three hundred men would lead an attack at Turnberry farther up the coast, and the larger part of their forces—about nine hundred men—under the command of Bruce’s two brothers Alexander and Thomas, would lead an attack on Galloway on the south coast.

  Everything was ready, and the warriors of the Highland Guard had been given the dangerous task of scouting the landing areas the night before. In Galloway that meant Eoin and Lamont. In Ayrshire that meant MacSorley, MacLeod, and MacGregor. The other half of the Guard were somewhere in northwest Scotland, leading Bruce’s womenfolk to safety.

  Eoin and Lamont’s mission was simple: reconnaissance of the enemy strength and position, and to make sure no one was expecting them. The site chosen for their landing was less than ideal. Indeed, Eoin had argued against it. The deep narrow cove at Loch Ryan could enable the enemy to pick them off from the shore like fish speared in a barrel. But with the currents, it was the only place to land so many men safely, and he’d lost the argument. Their success would hinge on surprise.

  Yet here he was, on the most important mission of his life, risking everything because he was too furious—too consumed by jealousy—to heed caution.

  He’d been high in a tree just outside the castle walls, trying to see into the yard to get an idea of the number of men inside—and hoping for a glimpse of his wife—when the woman and man rode out of the gate. The light was low, and she was wearing a cloak over her head, but he’d recognized her instantly. The laugh over her shoulder and the way she’d shot out through the trees on her horse had only confirmed it. He’d scrambled down and followed after them.

  He couldn’t believe it. He’d been berating himself for months about how he’d left her, to find out that not only has his wife left him with barely an explanation (he didn’t need to look at the note—how had she learned to write?—in his sporran to recall the words, misspelled and all: “I love you, but I canot stay here withowt you any longer. I will be wating for you at Garthland. Forgive me.”), but when he finds her, she’s gallivanting across the countryside with another man.

  A man whom it doesn’t take him long to realize must be Tristan MacCan. The bastard who had probably given her her first kiss. And her second. And how many more? And how much more?

  The pernicious thoughts assailed him in the darkness. Jealousy coiled inside him like a snake, waiting to strike. It wasn’t helped by the fact that MacCan could hold his own on the battlefield and give MacGregor a contest in visage. When the bastard kissed her, Eoin went mad with rage. It had taken everything he had not to rip MacCan off her and tear him apart limb by limb.

  If she hadn’t pushed MacCan away herself, Eoin might have. But sanity intervened.

  For a moment at least. Until she sensed his presence and opened her mouth to scream. Knowing he couldn’t let her alert the castle to their presence—men swarming all over the area was a chance he could not take—he was forced to reveal himself.

  “Shhh,” he whispered in her ear. He felt the sharp intake of air under his hand, as her body stiffened with shock and recognition. “Unless you want to bring your father’s men down on me, wife.”

  Even in his anger he was aware of the press of her body against his. All those soft curves that he loved fit perfectly against him, and he reacted like a starved beast, hardening, as blood rushed to all parts of his body in contact with her.

  As soon as he released his hold, she turned and threw her arms around him. “Eoin!” she sobbed. “You came.”

  He held her away from him. “Aye, and just in time, from what I just saw.”

  Something in his voice must have alerted her. She eyed him anxiously, although it might have had something to do with his appearance. All those months on the run had taken their toll; he not only fit but looked the part of the outlaw. Remembering that he was wearing the blackened nasal helm favored by the Highland Guard, he let her go to remove it. Tossing it on the ground, he waited.

  She bit her lip, clearly embarrassed. “It was nothing, Eoin.”

  “Nothing?” he exploded, his mind racing back to that day at Stirling Castle, and how easily she’d dismissed young John Comyn’s kiss. “He had his mouth on you, Margaret, and that is sure as hell something as long as you are my wife—a fact you seem to have forgotten.”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Haven’t you?” He hauled her up against him. His senses exploded, but anger held him back from crushing his mouth to hers. “Then what the hell are you doing out here alone with him? Or maybe I don’t need to ask? You and I went riding once alone.”

  She gasped with outrage, her eyes narrowing to angry slits. “Just what are you insinuating?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything, I’m asking. Just what in the hell is your relationship with Tristan MacCan?”

  “I don’t have a relationship with him. You should know that.” She must have seen something in his expression. “What?”

  “You didn’t bleed.”

  It took her a moment to realize what he meant. She gave him a look that made him want to crawl under a rock.

  “And so I must not have been a virgin?” She gave a harsh laugh. “Jealousy has made you a fool as well as an arse. Not all women bleed their first time, Eoin. Even I know that. I was a virgin when I met you, and I’ve been faithful to you every day since, though right now I’m asking myself why.” She paused, as if fighting to calm her temper. “Tristan was wrong to kiss me, and I’m sorry you had to see that, but I am not a whore. And just because I fell into bed with you doesn’t mean I will with any other man.”

  Bloody hell, she was making him fee