The Striker Read online

  “It’s not my knee, Maggie.”

  It took her a moment, but then her eyes widened and fell on the place he meant—only causing him more pain. And a groan.

  “Oh,” she said softly. Their eyes met. He could see the questions looking back at him. Questions he couldn’t answer. “Eoin, I . . .”

  He heard her hesitation, and understood it because he felt it, too.

  “It’s probably not a good idea,” she finished.

  He shook his head in agreement, ignoring the disappointment in her voice. “Probably not.”

  “It would only confuse things, wouldn’t it?” She looked at him as if she were hoping he would disagree with her.

  But he couldn’t. “Aye.”

  It would confuse things, and he was already confused enough. But that didn’t mean that every nerve ending in his body wasn’t clamoring to disagree. To pull her down on top of him and bury himself so deeply inside her nothing could ever tear them apart again.

  Christ, she was too close. He could almost taste her on his tongue. Almost feel the softness of her skin under his hands. Almost smell the scent of her pleasure as he stroked her to release.

  He remembered the way her eyes closed, her lips parted, and her breath quickened. He remembered the pink flush of her cheeks and the cry that always seemed tinged with surprise when she came.

  He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forget. He wasn’t all that sure anymore that he wanted to.

  He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled her down alongside him on the bed. She curled into his side as if she’d never left, resting her cheek and palm on his chest.

  He stared at the ceiling, stroking her hair and thinking for a long time.

  Margaret woke before Eoin and slipped out of the tent, needing to escape for a moment. She walked to the burn on the other side of the hill and scooped up some of the cool water to splash on her face. If she hoped for sudden clarity, it didn’t help.

  What had it meant?

  Making love would have been confusing, but what had happened was even more so. The closeness from passion could be easily dismissed as lust—as a temporary moment of insanity. But the closeness—the tenderness—she’d felt from spending a night in her husband’s arms could not.

  It was hard not to let her emotions get carried away, but she forced herself to be realistic. One night of tenderness was no better than one night of passion to build a marriage upon.

  Whether more was possible would need to wait until Eachann was free. Her heart squeezed, giving way to the disappointment in the failed attempt that she hadn’t wanted Eoin to see. He was upset enough by what had happened.

  Eachann is all right, she told herself. But she couldn’t escape the feeling that Eoin hadn’t been completely honest with her. He was holding something back, and she knew she had to do something.

  She sat by the water, savoring the early morning quiet and watching the faint light of dawn brighten across the stark winter countryside. As soon as the men started to rise and the bustling sounds of camp interrupted her solitude, however, Margaret rose from the rock she’d been sitting on and walked slowly back to the tent.

  Hearing raised voices as she drew near, she quickened her step. All three inhabitants stared as she ducked through the flap. Eoin was glaring angrily, but it was Magnus MacKay who spoke. “We caught him halfway out of bed.”

  Margaret hadn’t known Eoin as a boy, but Eachann had obviously inherited the mulish, disgruntled look when he got in trouble from him.

  “Where were you?” he demanded. Perhaps realizing he’d given too much away, he tried to cover it up. “You left me alone with them.”

  Margaret glanced at the woman standing by the bed and was surprised she hadn’t noticed her before. She was lovely. Soft, floaty red hair, fair skin, green eyes, and delicate features made her look like a pixie, even if her expression made her look like a battle commander.

  The woman—the healer, Margaret assumed—gave her a decidedly cool look before turning to Eoin. She was pushing a cup toward his mouth. “Don’t be such a bairn. Just drink it. It will make you feel better.”

  Eoin pulled back disgustedly. “It smells vile, and I told you, I feel fine. You said yourself I just wrenched it.”

  The healer put her hands on her hips, looking as if she were summoning patience from up high. “I told you it didn’t appear to be torn, but I can’t be sure. And I know it hurts, so you can stop that tough warrior routine with me.” She rolled her eyes toward her husband. “Lord knows, I get it enough from him.”

  Eoin pushed it away. “Let him drink it then.”

  Magnus gave a shudder and stepped back. “Hell, no. It smells like animal dung. Every time I sniffle she tries to force one of those concoctions down my throat.”

  The healer—Helen, Margaret recalled her name—threw up her hands in exasperation. “Good lord, are you all born with some perverse predilection for suffering pain? Do you know how ridiculous this is?” She glared at Eoin. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

  Magnus cleared his throat, shooting a glance in Margaret’s direction, and his wife pursed her lips.

  Margaret frowned, wondering what she wasn’t supposed to have said, but then turned her attention to Eoin. “Do you trust this woman?” she asked.

  Eoin appeared completely taken aback. “With my life. She’s one of the best healers that I’ve ever seen.”

  Margaret didn’t say anything, she just approached the bed, took the cup from the healer, sat calmly on the edge of the mattress, and waited. Eoin was smart. He would put it together himself.

  It didn’t take him long. He cursed, grabbed the cup from her hand, and downed it in one long gulp. The face he made after was almost comical, but Margaret forced herself not to smile.

  Helen looked at her questioningly, and Margaret shrugged. “He just realized that you were the one in position to know what was best for him, and that if you wanted him to drink the posset it was for his own good.”

  Eoin shot her a glare, as if he wasn’t happy that she knew him so well.

  “I wish all my patients were so reasonable,” Helen said with a meaningful glance toward her imposing-looking husband.

  The healer’s gaze when it turned back to her was appraising, and perhaps marginally less cool. Margaret couldn’t blame the other woman for her reserve, assuming she knew about her part in the battle at Loch Ryan. She should expect hostility from Bruce’s followers and Eoin’s friends (as it was obvious these two were), but it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

  Eoin must have picked up on it as well.

  “Helen, Magnus,” he said by way of introduction. “This is my wife, Margaret.”

  The pretty healer lifted a brow, obviously just as surprised as Margaret was at the way he’d stressed wife. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you,” she said in a way that was definitely open to interpretation.

  Magnus gave his wife a chastising frown, and Eoin looked as if he were about to intervene, but Margaret shook him off. She needed to fight her own battles. “I’m sure you have. And I’m sure most of it’s true.”

  “Only most?” Helen asked.

  “It’s a matter of perspective. But I hope you will get all the facts before passing judgment.”

  Helen gave a twisted smile and turned to her husband. “I think I’ve just been very politely put in my place.” When Margaret tried to object, she waved her off. “No, you were right. I will form my own opinion, and so far from what I’ve seen you can at least be reasonable, which is more than I can say for him.”

  Eoin scowled, but Helen ignored him and proceeded to give Margaret instructions on how to care for him—which mostly involved forcing the drink down him for a few days so he would rest and not letting him put weight on the leg.

  “As for his grumpiness,” the healer shrugged. “Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about that. They’re all that way when they’re hurt.”

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