The Striker Read online

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have changed gowns and veils? The nun’s habit would have certainly discouraged the blatant staring. But when the package arrived yesterday at the convent, Margaret assumed the gown and veil were a gift from her husband—an apology for his high-handed attitude at the convent a few days ago.

  All right, she didn’t really believe the gown was an apology (Eoin had been far too assured in his “lord and master” role), but it was as good as an excuse as any to come find him.

  Goodness knows how he’d been able to procure something so fine in such a short time. She would have thought the mossy green velvet gown trimmed in gold embroidery and matching gold silk veil had been made for her, were it not a smidgen too small in the bodice and hips.

  In any event, she thought it the least she could do to wear the gift, given that he wasn’t going to be pleased to find her here. But if he thought she would meekly stand aside and do his bidding . . .

  She fisted her hands at her sides and tightened her mouth, recalling his imperious order to stay put. She hadn’t changed that much.

  Still, she hadn’t thought it would be so difficult to find him—the camp was much larger than she’d realized. Hundreds of men had gathered for the siege, turning the grassy moorlands of the countryside around Dumfries Castle into a makeshift village of tents, carts, stalls, kitchens, and pens for the livestock and horses.

  She was forced to walk a gauntlet of men—rather big men, she couldn’t help noticing—as she wound her way through the bustling camp.

  Though her impulse was to bite her lip, look down, and try not to make eye contact with the rough-looking bunch of warriors sitting outside the tents, Margaret knew better than to show weakness. Instead, she met the bold stares and tried to pretend she didn’t hear the suggestive comments that followed her. As Eoin had warned her, it was clear from the “invitations” being hurled in her direction what type of woman typically frequented an army’s camp.

  Bruce’s men had a reputation for being brigands, and she must admit they looked the part. Most of them appeared not to have seen a razor or a bath in months and looked far more familiar with a barber’s cauterizing iron than his scissors. Fierce, scarred visages, and hard, unsmiling mouths were half-hidden behind scruffy beards and long, unkempt hair. They were big, imposing men made even bigger and more imposing by the abundance of armor and weaponry surrounding them. Most wore leather cotuns, some of which were studded with mail, and she seemed to have arrived at weapon preparing time, as many men were sitting outside their tents sharpening or otherwise tending to their various swords, axes, pikes, and hammers.

  Too bad she couldn’t have arrived at nap time instead.

  Truth be told, they didn’t look all that different from her father’s Gallovidian warriors; the difference being that her father’s men all knew who she was and wouldn’t look at her so rudely—or crudely for that matter.

  Licentious stares were nothing she hadn’t had to deal with before—if on a smaller, less intimidating scale. Still, she was looking rather anxiously for the leaders’ tents. Eoin might have been a regular man-at-arms for his father when she’d met him all those years ago, but it was clear he’d made his way up through the ranks in the intervening years. She couldn’t say she was surprised. Even her father had been aware of his promise. This was always what had been important to him—maybe it was all that had been important to him.

  Catching sight of larger tents on the ridge, she started to walk in that direction when an arm snaked around her waist from behind, and her breath jammed as she was jerked against a hard, mail-clad body. She got a quick glance of the grizzled face of a thickset, dark-haired warrior, and a not so quick whiff of pungent days’ old male sweat. The stench was overwhelming, and instinctively she tried to break free.

  His hot, ale-laden breath rang in her ear. “Not so fast, lass. Damn, you’re a fine-looking piece.” Good lord, he was drunk. She could feel his hand moving toward her breast and tried to twist to evade the touch, but he managed to get in a good squeeze anyway. “Malcolm and I could use a little company. Isn’t that right, Malcolm?”

  A taller, leaner soldier stepped in front of her. He was no less grizzled in appearance, and was missing a few teeth, but he seemed to smell marginally better. Or maybe it was that the first warrior smelled so terribly, he drowned out everything else. Her stomach was rolling, and she was in danger of losing its contents if she didn’t breathe fresh air soon.

  “Aye,” Malcolm said appraisingly. “Been a long time since I’ve had company like you. Christ,” he said with a glance down her chest, which was no longer hidden behind her cloak thanks to the first warrior’s groping. The new gown with its too-tight bodice displayed her breasts rather . . . prominently. “Would you look at the size of those tits!” He frowned. “That’s a fine gown for a whore.”

  “That’s because I’m not a whore,” Margaret said angrily, trying to use her elbow to wrench away from the brute. But it was like trying to dent steel. “Let go of me,” she said.

  “What’s going on here?” a deep voice said. “I think the lass isn’t interested, Captain.”

  “Stay out of this, MacGowan. It’s none of your business.”

  “I’m making it my business.” The man came into view, stepping between Malcolm and the man he’d identified as a captain. Margaret had seen her fair share of handsome men, but her breath still sputtered a little. If she weren’t partial to dark-blond hair, midnight-blue eyes, and mysterious, this man might have persuaded her to consider dark—almost black—hair, steely-blue eyes, and dangerous. Good lord, he was a handsome devil, possessing the dark good looks that conjured up all kinds of wickedness. Perhaps a couple of inches taller than Eoin with a heavily muscled build, this man could no doubt hold his own on the battlefield. “Let her go, Captain.”

  “You forget who you are talking to, MacGowan. I give you the orders, not the other way around. Get out of here, before I see you tossed in the stocks or flogged for insubordination.”

  The man’s eyes met hers. “Are you willing, lass?”

  “Most assuredly not,” she said.

  No doubt hearing the refined tones of her speech, which in their drunken lust the other two had apparently missed, MacGowan frowned. “What is your name, my lady?”

  She almost proudly belted out that she was Margaret MacDowell, daughter to the MacDowell chief. Realizing this might not be the best audience for that information, she quickly changed her response. “The wife of Eoin MacLean.”

  The captain let her go so quickly she almost stumbled.

  “MacLean isn’t married.”

  MacGowan must have heard the same uncertainty in his voice that she had and responded to the captain, “You better hope he isn’t.”

  Malcolm’s face had taken on a decidedly ashen hue. “We meant no offense, my lady. It was a misunderstanding.”

  Margaret would have been inclined to let it go, if the captain hadn’t decided to take his foiled plans out on her rescuer. Without warning, the captain’s fist plowed into MacGowan’s jaw. A second landed in his ribs. And then a third. In between shots, the captain was mumbling about “knowing his place,” and “peasant get.”

  As it was clear, MacGowan wasn’t going to fight back, Margaret tried to put a stop to it herself. Unfortunately, the captain was too angry, too belligerent, and perhaps too drunk to notice that his next punch was headed toward her face and not the young warrior’s shoulder.

  She cried out as her head was slammed back with the force of the punch and pain exploded in her head. The last thing she heard before she fell back was a great roar.

  19

  THE SOUNDS OF a disturbance outside interrupted their meeting. “What in Hades is going on out there?” Edward Bruce asked his squire. “Find out.”

  The lad ran out and Eoin tried to get the king’s brother back on track. Of Bruce’s four brothers, Edward was the only who still lived and the only one whom Eoin had never liked. His dislike had only grown after fightin