The Striker Read online

  The king’s mouth twisted wryly. “That won’t be necessary. I do not mean to sound ungrateful, indeed I am very appreciative of everything you have done.”

  Margaret nodded. Suddenly, the exhaustion of the past few days overwhelmed her. “If we are finished, I should like to return to my tent. I’m afraid I haven’t had much sleep the past few nights.”

  There was definitely a sound this time. A sharp, harsh sound of outrage that made her heart pulse erratically and her breath hitch shallowly. She didn’t look in his direction this time, perhaps a little scared of what she might see.

  The king nodded, and it took everything she had to maintain her dignity and not run out of the tent.

  He would have caught her anyway.

  She could feel his presence behind her as she wound her way through the camp. She was practically running, but his footsteps were ominously slow and even. Thump. Thump. Good lord, the ground couldn’t be shaking. She’d listened to too many faerie tales about hungry giants.

  Wasn’t he supposed to be hobbling? How could he be walking so quickly with a stick to brace himself?

  She knew there was no escape, but she still wished the tent had a door—preferably one with a big iron bar. Although somehow, she didn’t think that would keep him out tonight.

  The mouse was cornered.

  She feared she was squeaking when she finally turned to face him to explain. “Now, Eoin, I know you are upset—”

  Something that sounded suspiciously like a growl cut her off.

  He was standing near the opening of the tent seething at her like a madman clenching his fists. Actually, he was clenching everything. Every muscle in his body seemed taut and flared like a beast waiting to pounce.

  She bit her lip. Perhaps she didn’t know him as well as she thought she did. He didn’t seem quite as civilized as she remembered. Actually, he looked rather uncivilized. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept or eaten much the past few days. Neither had he found time for a razor, although she must admit the dangerous brigand look sent a little pulse of excitement shooting through certain parts of her.

  But there was no denying her nervousness; her voice was shaking as she said, “Perhaps we should save this discussion for the morning, when we are both rested and a little more rational.”

  Where was that brilliant mind when she needed it?

  It was the wrong thing to say. He was on her much faster than a man with an injured knee ought to be. He loomed over her, threatening but not touching her—almost as if he didn’t trust himself to do so.

  “I don’t think so, a leanbh. Rest isn’t what I have in mind for you right now.”

  The dark huskiness of his voice made her shudder, leaving her no doubt what he meant.

  “I thought we both agreed that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “To hell with a good idea, Maggie. Take off your damned clothes because I’m about two seconds from ripping them off you, and five seconds from being inside you. If you’re lucky, we’ll make it to sixty before we’re both crying out.”

  Oh dear, that shouldn’t make her so hot and tingly, should it? “Eoin . . .”

  He leaned closer, fixing his gaze on hers, leaving her no doubt he meant what he said. “One.”

  “Won’t you try—?”

  She didn’t finish. The sound of her ripped bodice was muffled by the low groan in his throat as his mouth came down on hers.

  One taste of her, and he was gone. All Eoin could think about was being inside her.

  He needed to be inside her. Needed it more than he’d ever needed anything in his life.

  He kissed her like a starving man—or maybe like a man who’d spent the past three days worried out of his bloody mind.

  He tore off her clothes, stripping her bare so he could look at every damned inch of her and assure himself there weren’t any other bruises she was hiding from him.

  When he thought of the one on her face . . .

  He kissed her harder, deeper, letting the feel of her tongue sliding against his take the edge off the burning rage.

  He moaned as heat and sensation drowned him. He’d forgotten how incredible this felt. How incredible she felt.

  With more gentleness than he thought himself capable at the moment, he eased her down on the bed, breaking the kiss for long enough to look at her.

  He muttered a curse. A fist locked around his heart and squeezed. She was so damned beautiful she took his breath away.

  How many times had he pictured all that smooth, creamy skin? Those long, slender limbs? Those incredible breasts. Aye, those he’d pictured most of all. He’d pictured his hands on them, squeezing, his mouth on them, sucking, and his face buried between them, inhaling that sweet scent of her skin.

  But the memories of the girl paled in comparison to the woman before him. She was a little softer, a little fuller, and even more sensually curved than before.

  He didn’t know whether to curse or get on his knees in gratitude. How could he blame men for panting after her? She was an enchantress with a body ripe for pleasure.

  His pleasure, damn it. She was his.

  And he proved it—in only a few more seconds than he’d promised.

  He pulled his clothes off with marginally less impatience than he’d given hers and lowered himself down on top of her. The next instant her legs were wrapped around his waist and he was thrust up deep inside her. It was as if their bodies had come together on their own. Instinct, memory, he didn’t know. All he did know was that it felt perfect and natural, as if six years hadn’t come between them.

  He looked into her eyes and felt an overwhelming sense of quiet. Of peace and fate.

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His emotions were raw and there on the surface for her to see. He loved her. He’d always loved her and always would.

  The flurry of emotions that had sent him into a frenzy the past few days began to unfurl as he thrust. Slow at first and then faster as her moans urged him on.

  Pressure pounded at the base of his spine like a sledgehammer. Insistent. Demanding. Hard.

  Sixty seconds might have been ambitious—for both of them. The only salve to his pride was that she cried out first.

  When Eoin rolled off her, he took her with him, tucking her into his side. It took a few minutes for the breath to find Margaret’s lungs again before she could speak. Propping her chin on his chest, she stared up at him. “Better now?”

  He lifted a brow. “Sweetheart, if you think that came anywhere near to making me feel better, you’re in for a rude awakening. That barely took the edge off.” His hand skimmed down over her naked bottom, pressing her closer to his leg.

  His leg! She jumped up. “Your knee! I forgot about your knee. Oh God, did that hurt?”

  His mouth quirked. “I can assure you the last thing I was thinking about was my knee. But it’s fine.” He paused, leveling his gaze on hers. “Helen’s potion worked its magic.”

  She blushed, realizing what he was getting at. “I’m sorry, but it was the only way I could think of to prevent you from stopping me.”

  “By drugging me?”

  She shrugged. “I knew you weren’t telling me everything—which you weren’t—and I knew I didn’t have much time. It was only a little more than you were supposed to take.” When it looked as if his temper might flare again, she added, “Besides, it’s not as if you were being rational about the matter.”

  “With good reason, damn it.” He took her chin, tilting her face to the light from one of the oil lamps. “I’ll kill him.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. He’s my father, Eoin. I’m not making excuses for him. Well, maybe I am, but he isn’t exactly in the best frame of mind. He hasn’t eaten in days, giving all his food to his men and Eachann. I came on too strongly, telling him what he didn’t want to hear, and he reacted without thought. I was more in the way than anything else.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “No, it’s not,” she