The Striker Read online

  Probably a good ten years older than her eight and ten, he wore a dark green velvet mantle lined with fur, secured by an enormous jeweled brooch of silver. His surcoat was so richly embroidered it also looked jeweled. He was tall—about six feet—and sturdily built with dark hair and a neatly trimmed short dark beard.

  “Friends of yours, Carrick?” one of the men asked with a speculative lift of his brow. He gazed at Margaret with unabashed interest, his eyes lingering over her hair. “Not the entertainment I was expecting, but I’m not complaining.”

  Margaret didn’t realize what the man meant at first. She was too surprised to hear the identity of the young nobleman. This was the infamous Earl of Carrick and Lord of Annandale, Robert Bruce? From her father’s description, she’d been expecting a forked tongue and devil’s horns, not this impressive, handsome young man.

  Entertainment? Her eyes narrowed back on the man who’d spoken. The man was older than the earl, shorter, and not nearly as handsome, although there was a brute strength to him. His eyes were fixed speculatively on her chest. He couldn’t think . . .

  He did! The man thought they were bawds! She almost burst out laughing. Wait until her brother Duncan heard this! He was always telling her she was as wicked as a French strumpet.

  Carrick shot his companion a quelling stare and turned to Margaret and Brigid. “Are you lost, lasses? Did you become . . . uh, separated from someone? One of the ladies, by chance?”

  Obviously the young earl was just as surprised to find them in here, but more subtle in his wondering of who they were. If she wasn’t mistaken, he thought they were tiring women to one of the noble ladies in attendance—which offended her more than being thought a strumpet. The MacDowells were one of the oldest clans in Scotland. They been ruling this country—at least the southwest part of it—before these Norman lords crossed the channel to England.

  But she had to concede that Brigid might have had a point about their gowns.

  She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and met the young earl’s stare with a bold challenge. “We are not lost, my lord. We were exploring the castle before the feast. We just arrived this morning with my father.”

  He quirked a brow, obviously surprised. “And who is your father?”

  “Dugald MacDowell, Chief of MacDowell of Galloway,” she said proudly, knowing exactly what kind of reaction that would provoke.

  She wasn’t disappointed. More than one man swore at the revelation that she was the daughter of their enemy. The earl hid his surprise well, though she could tell he was. “Lady Margaret,” he said, with a short bow.

  Margaret wasn’t as adept at hiding hers. “You know of me?”

  His mouth seemed to twitch, as if he were fighting a smile. “I suspect there are very few who haven’t heard of the ‘Fair Maid of Galloway.’ ”

  Margaret frowned. She certainly hadn’t. And why did she have the feeling there was more than beauty that he’d heard about?

  The man who mistook her for a strumpet spoke. “Ah hell, Carrick. Look at that.”

  When he pointed in the direction of the game, and all the men started cursing, Margaret suspected Brigid had been right about something else, too.

  She bit her lip. Perhaps touching the game hadn’t been such a good idea.

  I have him! Eoin knew just what he had to do to win.

  He didn’t smile much, but he couldn’t prevent the one that lifted his mouth as he strode purposefully across the courtyard and into the Great Hall of Stirling Castle.

  For two days he had been locked in a fierce battle of wits with Robert Bruce, the young Earl of Carrick, over a chessboard, but the answer had come to him last night, and victory would soon be his.

  A victory that would bring him one step closer to the real reward.

  He still couldn’t believe it. His illustrious kinsman—his and Bruce’s mothers were half sisters—was considering Eoin for an elite secret guard that Bruce was forming in the event he made a bid for the throne.

  To have been singled out and chosen by Bruce was an honor for any young warrior, let alone the twenty-four-year-old third son of a Highland laird, as Eoin’s father, Gillemore MacLean, Chief of MacLean, was quick to point out with a puff of pride.

  But that wasn’t why Eoin was so excited by the prospect. His kinsman hadn’t given him many details, but those that he had were like holding out sweets to a bairn. A secret, highly specialized elite guard used for reconnaissance, intelligence, strategy, and special—in other words, the most dangerous—missions? For a man who had lived, breathed, even slept “pirate” warfare since he was seven years old and had helped his older brothers get back some fishing nets stolen by lads from a neighboring clan (after the lads had been good enough to fill it for them, of course), the prospect of bringing that style of warfare to a war against the most powerful army in Christendom was a challenge too great to resist. That Eoin would be fighting alongside a handpicked group of the most highly skilled warriors in all of Scotland was like sprinkling sugar on top of a trifle—heaping the sweet upon the sweet.

  He was determined to win a position in the secret guard as a battle tactician, and besting his kinsman at chess—Bruce was known for his skill with the game—would help him in that regard. That the game was relatively new to Eoin, while Bruce had been playing for years, didn’t concern him. Thinking two, three, or four steps ahead was something Eoin did all the time on the battlefield. Once he’d learned the rules, he could look at the board and see the moves played out in his head. Again, just like with battle—except that in the case of Highland warfare, there were no rules.

  He smiled again.

  “Satan’s stones, Eoin, slow down!” His foster brother, Finlaeie MacFinnon, jogged up next to him. “I haven’t seen a smile on your face like that since MacDonald fell into the cesspit.” Eoin’s smile deepened, remembering how he’d loosened the boards of the wooden seat over the barrack latrine just enough for the tyrant who’d been given the responsibility of training them by their foster father, Angus Og MacDonald—and who’d made every minute of two years miserable—to fall in. Almost better than seeing Iain MacDonald covered in shite was the fact that he’d never known it was Eoin who’d been responsible. “What are you so happy about?”

  Eoin shook his head. “Nothing.” The most difficult part about this group Bruce was forming was that it was secret. He couldn’t even confide in his closest friend. He glanced over at Fin, taking in the red-rimmed eyes, tousled hair, and disheveled clothing. Eoin’s nose wrinkled from the stiff stench of spirits. “Long night?”

  Fin grinned. “You might say that. And an even longer morning. The lasses at court are quite welcoming. Not that it would interest you.”

  Eoin told him to do something that was physically impossible. He liked lasses as much as his foster brother did—when he had time for them. Right now he had too many important things on his mind.

  “Maybe you’re just saving yourself for that bride of yours?”

  “Damn it, Fin, she’s not my bride.”

  “Not yet, but don’t tell me your father isn’t working on it.”

  Eoin couldn’t; it was true. His father was doing everything he could to secure a betrothal between him and Lady Barbara Keith.

  “You’re a lucky bastard, Eoin. I’d give my left bollock to have the Marischal of Scotland’s daughter as my wife. With your skills and a marital connection to Scotland’s top military commander, you’ll be in a fantastic position if the war resumes.”

  When the war resumes, Eoin thought. For despite Edward of England’s intentions, rather than end the Scottish “rebellion” with the brutal killing of William Wallace a few weeks ago, all he’d done was incite it.

  That’s why they were here. The great lords and magnates of Scotland had gathered at Stirling to “come together” to see what could be done to respond to this latest act by Edward.

  But the likelihood of Bruce and Comyn (who represented his exiled uncle King John Balliol) coming together to