The Striker Read online

  When she lifted those tilted golden cat-eyes to his, he felt caught in the seductive pull. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs to ravish her like one of his marauding Viking ancestors.

  Where in Hades had that come from? What was it about her that made him feel so damned primitive? For a man who’d always prided himself on rationality, this base, unthinking reaction was a bitter blow. Not to mention confusing. She was a problem he couldn’t solve, and for the first time he couldn’t see a way around it in his head.

  “And yet, you are wearing similar clothes and do not appear naked at all,” she pointed out.

  Was that a tinge of disappointment in her voice? God’s breath she was trying to kill him!

  “You’re a lass,” he said, as if the distinction should be obvious.

  “As that’s the second time I’ve had that pointed out to me today, I think it’s been established.” She laughed. “Now, if we are finished discussing my attire, I have a race to win.”

  She attempted to sweep past him but he caught her arm. He wasn’t fool enough to bring her closer than arm’s length, but it was still close enough to wreak havoc on his senses. She might be dressed like a man but she sure as hell didn’t smell like one. “That’s just it, you can’t win. Don’t you see? Even if you beat him, you lose.”

  She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ladies don’t stage a public race with men and they certainly don’t win. It isn’t done.”

  Christ, he sounded every bit as prudish and uptight as the nun Fin had accused him of being. And she knew it, too. She seemed to be fighting back more laughter.

  “Maybe not here, but I do it all the time at home and no one bats an eye. They’ll get over it. It’s a harmless bit of fun.” She smiled up at him. “You take things too seriously. It’s sweet, but I know what I’m doing.”

  Sweet? He wasn’t sweet. “Do you?” Damn it, he didn’t want to hurt her, but it needed to be said. “They will never accept you, if you do this.”

  Her smile turned wry. “I’m not sure that was likely to happen anyway. But really you are making too much of this.”

  Was he? Maybe. He was just trying to protect her because . . .

  He didn’t want to finish that thought.

  “Look, even if I wanted to, my family wouldn’t let me back out of it. It’s too late.”

  Realizing the truth in that statement, and that her mind was made up, he stepped back and let her go. What else could he do? This wasn’t his battle. She wasn’t his.

  She was already outside when he called out to her. “Fin is one of the best riders I’ve ever seen. Do you really think you can win?”

  Her family must believe she could to let her go through with this.

  “I wouldn’t have made the challenge if I didn’t.”

  He couldn’t help smiling as the lass threw him a dimply grin before darting across the yard.

  She sure as hell didn’t lack for confidence. And damned if he didn’t admire it.

  7

  MARGARET’S CONFIDENCE was well deserved. The race was over in less than five minutes. Barely had the shock died down from her unusual attire, than the crowd was stunned by her more-dramatic-than-she’d-intended finish through the portcullis gate.

  First, thank goodness.

  But it had been closer than she would have liked. Finlaeie had been ahead of her until the turn up the hill. He’d slowed at the sharp corner and she’d taken the straighter line by jumping across. She’d had to clear a few rocks to do so, but Dubh had been more than up to the challenge.

  The horse was her secret weapon, and the reason she had been so confident. Dubh had never let her down (although he did require a set of steel nerves, as he liked to hang back until the end of the race). The skill of the eochaidh, or what the English called “eochy” or horseman, only accounted for a small part of a race.

  Not that she wasn’t a skilled rider—she was. Duncan had always said she had an eerie way with horses. Even spirited stallions like Dubh, which would have been thought unsuitable mounts for a woman, seemed to quiet when she drew near.

  She smiled when she thought of Finlaeie’s shocked expression as the “spirited black stallion” had been led out for her to ride. She must admit that she had suffered a moment of doubt or two when he’d brought out his own horse. Whatever the reason for her dislike of him, she couldn’t fault his taste in horseflesh. The beast was every bit as magnificent as Dubh.

  She also could not fault his riding. They were probably equally matched in that as well. But size was her other advantage, and one of the reasons she thought women could compete with men when it came to speed—especially against big, heavily mailed warriors. Since she was a foot shorter and probably half Finlaeie’s weight—or more with all that armor—Dubh had much less weight to carry. Had Finlaeie MacFinnon been a smaller, slighter man, and removed his armor, he might have bested her.

  She’d barely come to a stop before her exuberant brothers were pulling her off the horse and hugging her. “Hell’s bells, Maggie Beag, what a jump!” Duncan said, spinning her around. “I wasn’t sure you would clear.”

  Truth be told, she hadn’t been either.

  “You nearly stopped my heart, gel,” her father said sternly, but with undeniable pride in his eyes. “I thought I told you to stop jumping or you were going to kill one of us.”

  “You did, Father, and I promised to stop.” She dimpled. “I just didn’t say when.”

  Brigid came over and gave her a quick hug. There were a few more congratulations from her father’s men and some of his allies, but after the initial excitement wore down, Margaret realized it was rather quiet—especially compared to similar occurrences at Garthland. She frowned, glancing around the courtyard and realizing that the crowd had already dispersed.

  She felt the first prickle of uncertainty, but quickly brushed it away. It was to be expected. The people were much more reserved at Stirling, and much less inclined to prolonged celebration. At Garthland something like this would send them feasting into all hours of the night.

  She felt a pang in her chest, acknowledging only for a moment how much she missed her home and the life she knew. A life where she didn’t feel as if she were treading on eggs all the time.

  She supposed there was also the delicacy of the situation that could explain the lack of excitement, given the tendency of everything in Scotland to boil down to Bruce or Comyn. Though the race had nothing to do with that, some would see it as a victory for Comyn over Bruce. Finlaeie MacFinnon, like Eoin, might not be publicly aligned in Bruce’s camp, but he’d been part of the earl’s hunting party. Too much cheering for one side might be taken the wrong way at what was supposed to be a gathering to come together.

  She finally glanced at the much less ecstatic group standing a short distance away. Finlaeie was staring at her with an expression on his face that chilled her blood. Dark, thunderous, and seething with resentment, it wouldn’t be too fanciful to say that he looked as if he wanted to kill her. Eoin had his back to her and was clearly trying to say something to his friend, but Finlaeie wasn’t listening. He was glowering at her too hard.

  With what he’d said to her before the race, she shouldn’t care. “When I win, maybe you’ll give me some of what you gave MacLean last night.” She’d been furious and even more intent on seeing him humbled. But she would have been a fool not to be a little scared. She’d seen men angry at loss of pride before, but never had she been the recipient of such virulent animosity.

  Whatever satisfaction and joy in victory she’d been feeling a few moments ago fled. She’d won, but she’d made a dangerous enemy in doing so. One she didn’t want. She might not like Finlaeie, but he was Eoin’s friend. And for some reason that mattered to her.

  Finlaeie said something harsh to Eoin—if she read lips she might say it was a curse about what he could do to himself—and pulled away. Mouth white, he marched toward her, leading the magnificent chestnut palfrey