The Striker Read online

  He wasn’t the only one. Bloody hell, how could a five-year-old have him so tongue-tied?

  The boy shuffled his feet, and Eoin realized he was staring. He stood and went to the sideboard to fetch the set. “Your mother said you were a good player.” He tucked the board under his arm and gathered the pieces in his hands. “She said you can already beat her.”

  When Eachann didn’t say anything right away, Eoin turned to find him apparently mulling his words. “Aye, but . . .” He let his words fall off. “She can add more sums than me in her head. I can only remember five or six. She can do up to ten.”

  Eoin grinned. His son had the makings of a fine statesman. He put down the board and started setting down the pieces. “I don’t think your mother really ever took to the game.”

  Eachann met his gaze conspiratorially, and the tentative smile he gave him a moment later made Eoin’s chest squeeze as if it were in a vise.

  “She’s too impatient,” Eachann said. “And—”

  “Always wants to go on the attack,” Eoin finished for him.

  Eachann’s tentative smile turned into a full-blown grin, and Eoin felt like he’d just swallowed a ray of sunshine.

  “Mother made you a set, too?” Eachann said, picking up one of the beautifully carved and painted pieces.

  “Nay, I found it in . . .” Oban, he finished to himself, as the truth hit him. He’d seen the set in a shop in Oban about six months after Margaret left. It was the only one of its kind, the owner had said. A priest had brought it in to barter for some goods.

  That’s how she’d left, he realized. He’d always wondered how she’d found the money to leave so quickly.

  Eoin picked up one of the pieces, seeing every loving stroke that she’d put into it, feeling his throat tighten.

  “Aye,” he said gruffly after a long pause, noticing that Eachann was watching him with a puzzled look on his face. “She made it for me.”

  He’d just never been here for her to give it to him.

  “Is something wrong?” Eachann asked.

  Eoin took a deep breath and shook his head, trying to clear the emotion from his lungs and throat. But the regret burned. He wondered if it would ever stop. “Nay, now are you ready to show me what you’ve got? I won’t go easy on you.”

  A countenance that was every bit as grave as his own looked back at him. “I won’t go easy on you either.”

  Eoin grinned. “Good to know. I guess I’ve been warned.”

  After a dozen moves, Eoin realized it was a good thing, and he’d better focus if he didn’t want to be trounced by a five-year-old.

  “The linens are changed on Fridays and washed on Saturdays,” the maidservant said unhelpfully. “They’ll be checked for tears and mended then.”

  Margaret tried to rein in her temper, but why must every request—no matter how small—be met with resistance?

  She smiled. “I just thought that since I noticed a small tear in the bedsheet, I might borrow some of the thread that matches and tend to it now.”

  “Today is Wednesday,” the woman said obstinately.

  Margaret gritted her teeth, her smile faltering. “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Both women jumped a little at the sound of Eoin’s voice behind them. He’d seemingly materialized in the corridor out of nowhere.

  She frowned at him for sneaking up on her, but then noticed his expression. Putting a hand on his arm, she silently begged him not to interfere. “No,” she said brightly, glancing at the flushing servant. “No problem. Morag and I were just discussing the linen schedule.”

  Clearly Eoin wanted to say something more, but with a furious tightening of his mouth he deferred to her wishes. He nodded, which Morag took as a dismissal, scurrying down the stairs as if she couldn’t get away fast enough.

  “I think you frightened her,” Margaret said wryly.

  “Good,” he said with a dark glare down the stairwell, where Morag had disappeared. His gaze turned back to hers. “They really were horrible to you, weren’t they?”

  It wasn’t as much a question as an acknowledgment.

  A half smile turned her mouth. “I grew a thick skin. It was easier once I realized they didn’t hate me—they hated that I was a MacDowell.”

  “You were my wife,” he said bitterly.

  It hadn’t been enough—then. “It’s better now. Your mother is making an effort for Eachann.”

  “And for you.” He paused. “I wasn’t exactly happy when I learned you had left. When she suggested that maybe it was for the best, I let her know in no uncertain terms just how wrong she was.” He shook his head. “Christ, I’m sorry, Maggie. I didn’t want to believe it. Hell, maybe I couldn’t believe it.”

  Her brows furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I had so many things pulling me the other way, how could I have left you? I needed you to be somewhere where I thought you were safe.”

  So he could concentrate on what he needed to do. Strangely she understood. “It’s different now,” she said. “Eachann will help. We both just need to give it time.”

  He seemed to understand that she was asking him not to interfere. He nodded, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  “Speaking of our son,” he said. “You were right about his skill with a chessboard. It’s remarkable for one so young.”

  “Did he beat you, too?” She couldn’t hide her delight at the prospect.

  He lifted a brow. “Of course not. But I did have to pay attention.”

  “Which is more than you can say for me, is that it?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin that would have made her breath catch, if she wasn’t so outraged.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She scowled. “But you were thinking it.”

  He just shrugged and his grin broadened. “He liked my chess set. Actually, he said it looked like his.” He pulled something out of his sporran and handed it to her. “Does it look familiar?”

  She froze, staring in astonishment at the painted figure he’d given her. It was a piece from the set she’d worked so hard on for him all those years ago. “Where did you get it?”

  “In town. A priest had given it to a shopkeeper to sell. I thought it was magnificent. I can’t believe you did this, Maggie. The craftsmanship is extraordinary.” He took the piece—the king—and held it up, twisting it in his hand. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  He shook his head. “I should have known there was a reason the queen has red hair.”

  She laughed. “I wanted to make sure you knew who was in charge.”

  He pulled her into his arms. “Is that right?”

  She nodded, and he covered her mouth in a long kiss before releasing her.

  “Hmm. We’ll have to see about that. You can show me tonight. But first there is someone who I think will be eager to see you.”

  Margaret couldn’t think of anyone on Kerrera who would be eager to see her. Even when he led her to the stables and told her to wait, she didn’t guess. So when he led out the big black stallion, her knees wobbled and the blood slid to her feet in absolute shock. “Dubh?”

  At the sound of her voice the horse’s ears perked up. She rushed forward and threw her arms around the startled animal. She murmured soothing words against his silky coat to calm him—and herself. When she finally lifted her face to meet her husband’s amused gaze her eyes were damp. “You kept him?”

  “Actually, Fin did.” That didn’t surprise her. Fin had made no secret that he wanted the animal. “He gave him back when I returned.”

  “You mean when the MacDougalls were defeated, and he changed allegiance to Bruce?”

  He nodded, and Margaret let the matter rest. She didn’t want to talk about Fin or his opportunism. She was too happy to have her horse back.

  “Should we stretch his legs?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “Your knee is strong enough?”

  “You�