The Striker Read online

  Margaret sucked in her breath, staring at him in shock. He thought she’d . . .

  Dear lord! What was bothering him was the same thing that she’d been trying to force from her mind. Maybe he was right: some secrets could only hurt.

  But he was wrong about her. “I learned from Fin.”

  “What?” he exploded. “Why did you not tell me? God’s breath, I’ll kill him—brother by marriage or not.”

  She grabbed him by the arm before he could leap off the bed. “I simply meant that he told me you enjoyed that. He asked me if that’s how I persuaded you to marry me.” He eased back—marginally. “I’ve never done that to another man, Eoin.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment. She could see some of the anger waning. “I let you think I was dead. You were a free woman. You do not owe me any explanations.”

  “Perhaps not, but you shall have one. Unlike my first marriage, I was waiting until I was actually married to share a bed with my second husband. Had you arrived one day later I may not have been able to say this, but there is only one man I have ever been intimate with, and that is you.”

  His eyes held hers searchingly. “You don’t need to tell me this. It would not change anything if you had. I would hate it, but I would get over it.”

  She understood that too well. “Maybe so, but it’s the truth anyway. My memories of you were too strong. I was almost scared to try. I’d loved you so much.” She smiled sadly. “It was different for you. You hated me.”

  He frowned, and then seeming to understand what she meant shook his head wryly. “Not all that different. Besides, unlike you, I knew we were still married.”

  Margaret didn’t understand. “But you broke your vows anyway?”

  “I was trying to tell you that I didn’t.”

  “But you must have!” she blurted.

  He looked at her as if she were crazed. “Why?”

  “Because . . .” She could feel her cheeks flush. “Because you’re so different.”

  At first he didn’t seem to understand what she meant, but then he smiled. “I had a lot of practice.”

  Her heart sank, as the color washed from her face. “I thought you said—”

  “Not that kind of practice. The kind of practice I taught you.” Suddenly, she understood: he’d thought of her while touching himself. “I thought of how I wanted to touch you—where I wanted to touch you—in vivid detail. I practiced with you over and over for six years.”

  Her breath held, not daring to hope. “You never . . . with another woman?”

  He shrugged, almost as if he were ashamed to admit it. “I wanted to. I hated you, and it infuriated me that I still wanted you. I tried—once. But it didn’t get very far.”

  Margaret didn’t know what to say. She was surprised—stunned—and undeniably relieved. She’d been willing to accept what she must, but she was glad she didn’t have to. “I’m glad.”

  He shot her a glare. “It was humiliating.”

  “You don’t expect me to feel sorry for you?”

  His mouth twisted. “Under the circumstances, maybe not.”

  “Do you have any other secrets you want to confide in me?” She said it jestingly, but his face drew up in the blank mask she hated. The mask that shut her out.

  He’s hiding something.

  “Like what?”

  Her gaze fell to his arm, where she could just make out a dark shadow under the thin linen. “Like what you are hiding under that shirt, and why you won’t let me see you without it in the light?”

  He swore under his breath and raked his fingers back through his hair. “It’s nothing.”

  “Then why won’t you let me see it?”

  He didn’t answer her directly. Was he embarrassed? Was that what this was about?

  “It’s just something I did awhile back. It’s a marking.”

  Her brows drew together. “You mean a tattoo?”

  He nodded. “It was something some friends of mine did.”

  Was it some young man’s lark? Something he now wished he hadn’t done? Good lord, what did he have tattooed on himself? Her mind filled with all kinds of silly possibilities.

  “May I see it?”

  He drew off his shirt and she gasped—not even looking at the tattoo. Good gracious. Seeing him in the shadows was nothing like seeing him in the light. Her eyes gorged on the impressive display of bulging muscle before her. He was so big. Strong.

  His chest . . .

  His arms . . .

  God in heaven, he was beautiful. She wanted to run her hands over every inch of those sculpted muscles, she wanted to—

  He cleared his throat, clearly amused, reminding her of what she was supposed to be doing. Not that looking at his arm was any hardship. He’d bent his arm to show it to her, and the flex of muscle made her breath quicken and her body warm with unmistakable arousal.

  Truth be told she barely noticed the lion rampant and strange weblike markings that surrounded his upper arm like a cuff. She did, however, notice the same words that were engraved on his sword—Opugnate acriter—since they were right on the edge of the biggest bulge of muscle, the sharp demarcations of which had her quite fascinated.

  “Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and Eachann is going to get a very different kind of education when he walks in here in a few minutes.”

  She blushed. “What do the words mean?”

  “It’s Latin. The rough translation is strike with force.”

  She thought for a moment. “It’s what you do on the battlefield.”

  He seemed surprised. “In a manner of speaking.” He bent over to kiss the top of her nose. “Now, if your curiosity is appeased for the moment, I should go.” He stood and reached for his sporran. “Will you hand me that?”

  She picked it up, feeling some kind of small, hard object inside. “What do you have in here?”

  “Nothing.” He tried to snatch it from her, but she was already pulling the object out.

  Realizing what it was, she held it in the palm of her hand and stared at it in disbelief.

  “Bloody hell, Maggie. Can’t you follow any of my rules? I told you no snooping.”

  She ignored the reference to his ridiculous rules (he couldn’t honestly have thought she would really follow them), feeling her chest swell with emotion as she took in the chess piece that she’d stolen all those years ago from Stirling Castle.

  “You kept it.” Her eyes met his. “All this time you kept it.”

  He may have hated her, but he’d loved her, too. He’d kept a part of her—a symbol of their love—with him always.

  He grumbled something, clearly embarrassed by the sentimentality, and then, as if in acceptance, shrugged and dug something else out of the sporran. “And this. I read it every time I went into battle.”

  She recognized the wrinkled parchment right away as the note she’d left him. Glancing at the crude writing and misspelled words, it was her turn to be embarrassed. “You should have thrown that away.” She tried to laugh it off. “Or perhaps it was a reminder of the ignorant girl you mistakenly married and how fortunate you were to be rid of her.”

  His reaction was both instantaneous and fierce. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. “It was a reminder of what a damned fool I was. It was a reminder of the girl who’d loved me so much that she’d withstood rumor, gossip, and innuendo to learn to write and read because she thought it would please me. Because I made her think she wasn’t good enough. But I was wrong, Maggie. You were perfect just the way you were, and I hate that I made you think you needed to change for me. Reading, writing, none of that mattered. It was never what was important.”

  She looked away, cringing at the memories. “I was a wild, backward little heathen. I don’t know what you saw in me.”

  He forced her gaze back to his. “You were strong and beautiful and funny and outrageous and sensual as sin, and I loved you from practically the first moment I saw you.”

  “You