The Striker Read online

  The bond held them together until the music stopped.

  The music stopped. Damn it. He released her so suddenly she gave a small, startled gasp.

  She stepped back, staring at him with a look on her face that was every bit as stunned as he was feeling. “Th-thank you,” she whispered, her breath falling unevenly from beneath her softly parted lips.

  God, they were so red and sweet looking. A fierce swell of desire rose inside him. The urge to cover them with his was so powerful—so elemental—he could think of nothing else. He lowered his head a few inches before a split second of sanity recalled his surroundings, and he stopped himself.

  Bloody hell. He might have said it aloud. What had just happened? It wasn’t a question the man who was supposed to be the smartest in the room found himself asking very often. But he couldn’t think straight—or in any other direction, for that matter. His mind was reeling.

  With a nod that was sharper than he intended, he walked away.

  While he still could.

  Margaret’s heart was beating so fast she thought it might explode. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath or stop shaking.

  What had just happened?

  Other than feel as if every one her senses had just come alive, she didn’t know. It had left her rattled—almost panicked.

  Needing to collect herself, she fled the Hall.

  She felt close to tears, as if she’d just gone through a tremendous emotional upheaval. Which maybe she had. What she’d just experienced hadn’t been a gentle awakening of emotion, it had been like a giant church bell going off in a small ambry. Loud, clamoring, reverberating . . . devastating.

  The feelings had been so intense. So powerful. So overwhelming. She’d felt bound to him. Connected. As if they were the only two people in the world.

  Her body still ached. Her stomach still flipped. Her pulse still raced. She could still feel the sensation of his hand resting on her waist, his fingers wrapped around her arm, his callused palm enveloping her hand. She could still feel the heat emanating from his body—the big, muscled body and broad-shouldered chest that had been so close, her body had strained to be pressed up against it. The tips of her breasts throbbed.

  He’d smelled so good. The pine of his soap, the mint of his breath . . . His mouth had been so close. She’d thought . . .

  She sucked in her breath with a small cry.

  How could a man who said so little make such an impact?

  She didn’t know where she was going, she just knew she had to get away. Standing there she’d felt exposed—vulnerable—as if anyone looking at her would know just how she felt. Her confidence, her bravado, had seemingly deserted her.

  She’d fled out the main entrance of the Hall and followed the corridor to the king’s donjon away from the noise. She needed quiet. Though it was only a couple of hours past midday, the corridor was already shadowed. Reaching the old tower that had once served as royal accommodation for William the Lion, but was now in disrepair, she sought out the solitude of a small room on the far end of the building. It had probably served as a waiting chamber or private solar for the king but was now a library. She had no use for the books, only for the quiet.

  Some of the men must have been enjoying the room earlier, as there were still embers in the brazier, although not enough to provide any warmth. What was in the flagon, however, would. Bringing it to her nose, she inhaled the slightly sweet but pungent scent of English brandy. She preferred good Scottish uisge beatha, but under the circumstances she could not afford to be discriminating. Pouring it into one of the goblets, she downed the contents in one long swallow. Almost instantly the calming effects of the spirits began to spread through her body.

  Her heartbeat started to slow, air filled her lungs, and her hands steadied. Most important, her head cleared.

  She’d overreacted. It was just a dance. He was just a man—an undeniably attractive one—but still just a man. She’d exaggerated the effect of his touch.

  Then why could she still feel the imprint of his fingers on her skin? Why was her body still trembling?

  She was bending over the brandy, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself, when she heard a noise behind her.

  Turning, her heart sank, seeing who it was—and his expression. She’d never noticed a resemblance to his father before, but she could see the Lord of Badenoch now in the hardness of John Comyn’s gaze and petulant twist of his mouth.

  He didn’t bother with politeness. “What is between you and the MacLean chief’s son?”

  Margaret straightened and looked him in the eye, her voice far steadier than she felt—even with the brandy. “Nothing.”

  She even meant it.

  His eyes narrowed, and he took a few steps toward her. “That isn’t what it looked like. I won’t be made a fool of, my lady.”

  With eight brothers ranging in age from ten to one and twenty, Margaret knew well how sensitive a young man’s pride could be and was quick to soothe it. “I’ve barely said more than a dozen words to the man. I told you what happened the first time we met.” She smiled. “I hardly think him calling me an idiot is going to endear him to me.”

  She’d closed the gap between them, and either her words or her closeness seemed to have mollified him. Partly. He frowned. “Then why did you dance with him?”

  I don’t know. She bit her lip, considering how much to tell him. Deciding it was best to be honest, she answered, “I overheard his sister say something unkind. He asked me to dance to stop me from confronting her and making a scene.”

  The slight flush and discomfort told her he’d probably heard something of the gossip. “You should pay them no mind. They are only jealous.”

  Margaret gave him a long look, seeing beyond the youth to the man he would become. “Thank you. That is very kind.”

  He blushed harder, and shuffled his feet. Without the anger, he was back to his uncertain self. “I should go. We shouldn’t be alone like this. I shouldn’t have followed you, but I was jealous.” His eyes met hers. “I thought he was going to kiss you, and I wanted it to be me.”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  She hadn’t meant that as an invitation, but he’d taken it as one. With more deftness than she would have thought him capable, he cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her mouth to his. She barely felt the gentle warmth of contact before it was over.

  The kiss was sweet and chaste. The look in his eyes was not. He wanted her, and although the kiss had not been unpleasant, she did not want to encourage another.

  Fortunately, she was not inexperienced at putting the reins on a young man’s passion.

  She stepped back, wanting distance between them.

  It was then that she glanced over to the mural chamber—the wide bench built into the thick wall of the castle that could be closed off with a curtain—and saw a boot.

  5

  AT FIRST EOIN thought she’d followed him. Sitting on the bench in the mural chamber with a flagon of whisky and a folio he’d grabbed without even looking at the title—The Rules of St. Benedict in Latin, for Christ’s sake!—he’d heard her enter and been about to address her when young Comyn had shown up. Realizing he would likely make the situation worse if he let his presence be known, Eoin was forced to sit there half-hidden in the shadow of the alcove and listen to their conversation.

  A conversation that was making his blood churn hotter and hotter, which to Eoin’s already on-edge state was like tossing oil on a roaring fire. What the hell was she doing? Didn’t she know that standing so close to Comyn like that, lifting her mouth to his, and telling him she wished he’d been the one about to kiss her was practically an invitation for him to do just that?

  When the pup accepted, putting his hand on her chin and tilting her mouth to his, Eoin had felt a primitive swell of emotion unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. All he could see was red. His chest burned, his muscles flexed, and every instinct he possessed clamored to put his fist through