The Striker Read online

  “With whom?” Fin asked.

  “My brothers,” Margaret replied with a glance in Fin’s direction that seemed oddly cautious. “I even gave them a five-minute head start.”

  The two women exchanged glances again, and this time both of them burst into laughter.

  Eoin could tell that Margaret was up to something, but Fin seemed confused. “You mean they gave you a five-minute head start.”

  Her gaze hardened almost imperceptibly. “Nay, I spoke correctly.”

  Fin didn’t hide his incredulity. “And you won?”

  “Well, I am a fast rider.” Her mouth twisted. “We were on the road from Cornton a few miles from the ford at Kildean when we decided to race.”

  Eoin frowned. “But that ford isn’t passable until low tide. You’d have to cross the Forth at Stirling Bridge to reach the castle from there.”

  She turned on him with pure mischief sparkling in her golden eyes. “Is that so? Now that I think about it, I do recall someone mentioning that. I wonder if my brothers know? I do hope they didn’t ride all the way to the ford before realizing they would have to turn around.”

  He couldn’t help it, he laughed. As did Bruce and the others. The lass wasn’t just beautiful and outrageous, she was clever.

  God help him.

  Margaret looked back and forth between the two kinsmen. Her heart was still thudding from that laugh. Deep and rough as if from disuse, it had swept over her skin like a callused caress, setting every nerve ending on edge. She thought it the most sensual sound she’d ever heard and feared she’d do almost anything to hear it again.

  “Perhaps you aren’t the only one good at this ‘game,’ cousin,” Robert Bruce said. “Maybe I should ask the lass to play?”

  “Game?” she asked.

  Bruce explained what they’d been talking about, and she shook her head. She’d wondered why Eoin had appeared so animated when she and Brigid had first ridden up. She should have guessed. The older she got, the more she realized men were simply grown-up little boys content to play in the dirt, construct forts, and devise ways to kill each other.

  She lifted her brow and turned to Eoin. “When I was young my brothers and I used to play a game called Christians and Barbarians. Perhaps you’d be interested in a contest?”

  The slight lift of Eoin’s mouth—only the hint of a smile—shot right to her heart. “We used to call it Highlanders and Vikings.”

  She grinned back at him. “Same concept, I’d wager.”

  “And which side did you play, Lady Margaret?” the Lord of Carrick asked.

  From the twinkle in his eye, she suspected he could guess her answer. Though her father would be horrified, Margaret had to admit, she liked the young nobleman. His sense of humor that was every bit as wicked as hers.

  “Why a Barbarian, of course.” She gave him a knowing smile. “They have much more fun.”

  He chuckled. “Better not let Father Bertram hear you say that or you’ll be on your knees saying Hail Marys for the rest of the week.”

  Margaret gave a not-so-exaggerated shudder. From her brief exposure to the dour castle priest, she did not doubt it. “I must admit, I’ve spent more time on my knees than most.”

  There seemed to be a sharp moment of silence. The Lord of Carrick gave her an odd look, as if he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her correctly. She frowned and glanced at Eoin, who looked away uncomfortably. His face was slightly red, almost as if he were in pain or maybe embarrassed, she couldn’t tell which.

  She was about to ask what horrible gaffe she’d committed this time, when Dougal and Duncan came galloping through the gate.

  She took one look at her brothers’ disgruntled expressions and broke out into a broad grin. “Have a nice ride, laddies? Brige and I wondered what had happened to you. Hope you didn’t have any problems . . . at the ford perhaps?”

  Dougal, who never had much of a sense of humor, looked like he wanted to throttle her, but Duncan, who shared her more easygoing temperament, appeared more annoyed than angry. He prided himself on being the clever one in the family and didn’t like being tricked.

  Both men hopped down and came toward her. Though not as tall and with darker hair than Eoin, her brothers were both grim of visage, thick with muscle, had the rough and gritty look of brigands, and were undeniably formidable warriors. But she stood her ground, used to their attempts at intimidation. Which had worked until she’d been about five and realized they’d never hurt her.

  “You aren’t too old to be bent over my knee, Maggie Beag,” Duncan said in a low voice. Wee Maggie. When she was young, she used to hate when he called her that. Now that she was older she didn’t mind so much. Of all her brothers she was closest to Duncan.

  “Try it and you’ll feel my knee,” she replied sweetly. As he was the one to teach her that particular method of defending herself, he knew it was not an idle promise and grimaced. “By the way that will be one shilling for each of us.” She held out her hand. “And don’t attempt to renege on our wager this time. I was careful with my wording. We reached the castle before you, so we won.”

  Duncan turned to Dougal for help.

  “Don’t look at me,” their eldest brother said. “I told you not to accept the challenge—even with the horse and head start.”

  Duncan dug into his sporran, retrieved the coins, and with a look that promised retribution dropped them into her open palm.

  Margaret turned to hand one to Brigid, but realized her friend was staring at Dougal with an odd look on her face, who in turn was glowering at the men behind her.

  Margaret cursed silently, having forgotten that she was cavorting with the enemy—at least that’s how her family would see it, despite this purported gathering of temporary allies.

  She hastened to dispel some of the brewing tension. “The earl and his party returned to the castle from their hunt just before we did. I’m afraid Brigid and I interrupted them with our excitement over the race.” She gave the Earl of Carrick a conspiratorial look. “Although fortunately the game we interrupted this time did not involve carved figures.”

  Robert Bruce smiled, which neither of her brothers seemed to appreciate.

  “Game?” Dougal asked.

  “A jest.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand.

  Duncan looked back and forth between her and the earl a few times and seemed satisfied. He relaxed and faced Robert Bruce with slightly less outward hostility. Dougal, however, was looking at Bruce as if he couldn’t decide whether to run him through with a sword or battle-axe.

  “I wouldn’t bet against her,” Duncan said conversationally. “Not if you want to leave here with any silver in your sporran. Our Maggie Beag hasn’t met a challenge she doesn’t like. She took ten shillings off John of Lorn last time he was at Garthland.”

  “For what?” the Earl of Carrick asked, clearly impressed by the amount.

  “He said a woman couldn’t drink a tankard of ale faster than he could—he was wrong.”

  Margaret grinned. Although the MacDougalls were important allies of her father, she didn’t much like John of Lorn and had enjoyed seeing him choke on his words—literally.

  Although Robert Bruce lifted a brow in her direction, there was nothing impressed in Eoin MacLean’s expression. Though inscrutable as usual, she sensed he did not approve of her wager.

  She refrained from rolling her eyes . . . just. He really needed to relax and have more fun. Wagering was almost as much fun as winning.

  “That’s quite a . . . feat,” Bruce said gamely.

  She shrugged. “It’s easy if you know how to open your throat.”

  For some reason, Duncan burst out into hysterical laughter, Dougal winced, and Bruce and Eoin had that pained, discomfited look again. She gazed at Duncan for explanation, but he just shook his head between guffaws, as if to say he’d explain later.

  Duncan finally managed to get himself under control. “It was my fault. I should have known better than to accept a challenge wi