The Striker Read online

  He made a sharp sound of disbelief. “What in Hades made you think I changed my mind?”

  She pushed back the edges of the cloak to hold out the dress and beamed. “Why this beautiful dress, of course. I assumed it was your way of apologizing for being such an ars—” She stopped, as if the word had been a slip, which they both knew it wasn’t. She smiled. “Such a bully.”

  He didn’t seem to appreciate the amended word any better than the first. “You know very well it wasn’t an apology.”

  “It wasn’t?” She quirked a brow in mock surprise. “Well, it should have been.” She gave him a long look. “Is everything all right? You seem to be a little tense.”

  His eyes flared, and she almost regretted baiting him. But she hadn’t had this much fun in . . .

  Her heart squeezed. Almost seven and a half years. Since those first days of their marriage.

  “I should have let you stay dressed as a nun. Maybe you wouldn’t have every man within a hundred yards panting after you.”

  She shrugged indifferently. “Maybe.” There was only one man she’d ever wanted that kind of attention from. But he no longer wanted her.

  Or did he?

  Glancing over his hard-wrought control and tautly held body, she wondered.

  “I’m taking you back to the convent.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll just keep coming back. You’ll have to have them lock me in.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he snapped.

  Margaret had taken a quick glance around the wood-framed canvas tent, scared of what she might see. She drew a deep breath and forced herself to take closer inspection and was more relieved than she wanted to admit to see no signs of a female presence.

  Simple was an understatement. On opposite sides of the room there were two basic wood-framed beds, she assumed tied with ropes for a mattress, with a few wool plaids and animal skins on top for warmth and comfort. In one corner, which she assumed belonged to Eoin, was a desk laden with rolls of parchment. Aside from two trunks, another table, a couple of stools, a handful of stone cresset oil lamps, and a brazier, there was little else in terms of comfort or decoration.

  His mother would be appalled.

  “You aren’t sharing your tent with a woman, are you?”

  She didn’t think he was going to answer, but eventually his mouth fell in a hard line, and he shook his head. “With Lamont.”

  She brightened. “Please let me stay, Eoin. I promise I won’t be in the way. I can help, if you let me.”

  She didn’t realize she was touching him, until his eyes looked down at the hand that had fallen on his arm. “How?”

  Did she imagine the huskiness in his voice? Something had made her skin prickle. “Let me talk to my father. I know I can convince him to let Eachann go.”

  “Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous.”

  She drew back. “My father wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Your father is desperate. There is nothing I would put past him.”

  Maybe it was too soon to press him, but the opportunity was too tempting. “I wouldn’t think you would care if something happened to me. It would make it easier for you to be rid of me.”

  The tic jumped in his jaw, his reaction visceral, even if a moment later he hid it. “It’s the added danger to the boy that I’m worried about.”

  She held his gaze for a moment and nodded. “Of course.” But she didn’t believe him. He did care about her—at least a little—even if he didn’t want to.

  For more reasons than one, she had to stay. “Please, Eoin, you can’t send me back to the convent.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment, but just studied her carefully. “If I were smart that’s exactly what I would do.”

  Her hope soared. “But . . .”

  He finished for her as she hoped he would. “But God knows what kind of trouble you will get in if I don’t keep an eye on you.”

  Without thinking what she was doing, Margaret threw her arms around him. “Oh Eoin, thank you!”

  The moment her body pressed against his, Eoin knew he’d made a mistake. How the hell was he going to share a tent with her for God knows how many days without touching her, without kissing her, without making love to her, when every bone in his body was clamoring to do exactly that?

  God, she felt good. He’d forgotten how good. Warm and soft, her body molded against his like a tight glove.

  He cursed inwardly. It was the wrong thing to be thinking about when his cock was pressed up against another tight glove.

  But he’d been down this path before. His desire for her had clouded his reason. He wouldn’t let it happen again. No matter how much he wanted her.

  Very purposefully, he set her away. “There are going to be a few rules.”

  She blinked up at him, apparently still suffering from the delusion that he’d been moments away from kissing her. “Rules?”

  “Aye. You won’t interfere, you won’t snoop, you’ll do everything that I ask you, and you won’t throw yourself at me. I told you I wasn’t interested in redheads anymore.”

  Her eyes flared. “I wasn’t throwing myself at you!” Her gaze narrowed and moved down his body with familiarity that belied a six-year separation, lingering for a moment on the place that proved him a liar. “And you didn’t seem all that uninterested.”

  His mouth flattened. “I hear the nuns calling, Margaret.”

  She looked like she wanted to hurl something at him. But for once, discretion prevailed. Her smile was far too pleasant for his liking. “I promise I won’t ‘throw’ myself at you, interfere, or snoop. I’ll be the perfectly biddable wife and do whatever you ask.”

  He didn’t believe her for an instant, but smiled, knowing how much that must have cost her. He smiled. Hell, how long had it been since he’d done that? “Then welcome to your new lodging. I shall send for your things from the convent.”

  “Don’t bother. I will not wear that dress again, and I had nothing else that belonged to me.”

  He didn’t comment on the dress, but just thinking about it made his back teeth grind. “Make a list of anything you need, and I’ll send a lad to town and see what can be procured.”

  “I don’t have much coin with me. Only what I was carrying in my purse for the church offerings.”

  He waved her off. “I will see to it.”

  “Thank you. I will pay you back.”

  Like hell she would.

  She looked around the tent. “Where shall I sleep?”

  He pointed to his bed on the right. He would sleep in Lamont’s. He wasn’t going to analyze why he didn’t want her in his partner’s bed.

  She frowned. “What about your friend?”

  “He will bed down in one of the other tents.”

  She bit her lip contritely. “I didn’t mean to force him from his bed.”

  “Lamont won’t mind,” he assured her. “I do the same when his wife is with him.”

  “He is married?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  She shrugged. “He doesn’t say much.”

  Eoin couldn’t help smiling, thinking of Lamont’s wife, Janet of Mar. The lass hadn’t met a word she didn’t like. “His wife makes up for it. When you meet her—”

  He stopped, suddenly realizing that was very unlikely. Part ways permanently. That’s exactly what he wanted.

  An awkward pause followed. Eoin didn’t miss the flash of hurt in Margaret’s eyes, before she broke the silence by asking, “Is there any word on Eachann?”

  Grateful for the change of subject, Eoin shook his head. “Nay.”

  “How do you plan to get him back?”

  He was surprised by the question. “Why do you think I have a plan?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I might not be able to keep up with it all the time, but I know the way your mind works. You always have a plan.”

  “Aye, well little good it will do me this time.” He couldn’t hide his bitterness. “Carrick has refused to con