Probably a good ten years older than her eight and ten, he wore a dark green velvet mantle lined with fur, secured by an enormous jeweled brooch of silver. His surcoat was so richly embroidered it also looked jeweled. He was tall—about six feet—and sturdily built with dark hair and a neatly trimmed short dark beard.
“Friends of yours, Carrick?” one of the men asked with a speculative lift of his brow. He gazed at Margaret with unabashed interest, his eyes lingering over her hair. “Not the entertainment I was expecting, but I’m not complaining.”
Margaret didn’t realize what the man meant at first. She was too surprised to hear the identity of the young nobleman. This was the infamous Earl of Carrick and Lord of Annandale, Robert Bruce? From her father’s description, she’d been expecting a forked tongue and devil’s horns, not this impressive, handsome young man.
Entertainment? Her eyes narrowed back on the man who’d spoken. The man was older than the earl, shorter, and not nearly as handsome, although there was a brute strength to him. His eyes were fixed speculatively on her chest. He couldn’t think . . .
He did! The man thought they were bawds! She almost burst out laughing. Wait until her brother Duncan heard this! He was always telling her she was as wicked as a French strumpet.
Carrick shot his companion a quelling stare and turned to Margaret and Brigid. “Are you lost, lasses? Did you become . . . uh, separated from someone? One of the ladies, by chance?”
Obviously the young earl was just as surprised to find them in here, but more subtle in his wondering of who they were. If she wasn’t mistaken, he thought they were tiring women to one of the noble ladies in attendance—which offended her more than being thought a strumpet. The MacDowells were one of the oldest clans in Scotland. They been ruling this country—at least the southwest part of it—before these Norman lords crossed the channel to England.
But she had to concede that Brigid might have had a point about their gowns.
She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and met the young earl’s stare with a bold challenge. “We are not lost, my lord. We were exploring the castle before the feast. We just arrived this morning with my father.”
He quirked a brow, obviously surprised. “And who is your father?”
“Dugald MacDowell, Chief of MacDowell of Galloway,” she said proudly, knowing exactly what kind of reaction that would provoke.
She wasn’t disappointed. More than one man swore at the revelation that she was the daughter of their enemy. The earl hid his surprise well, though she could tell he was. “Lady Margaret,” he said, with a short bow.
Margaret wasn’t as adept at hiding hers. “You know of me?”
His mouth seemed to twitch, as if he were fighting a smile. “I suspect there are very few who haven’t heard of the ‘Fair Maid of Galloway.’ ”
Margaret frowned. She certainly hadn’t. And why did she have the feeling there was more than beauty that he’d heard about?
The man who mistook her for a strumpet spoke. “Ah hell, Carrick. Look at that.”
When he pointed in the direction of the game, and all the men started cursing, Margaret suspected Brigid had been right about something else, too.
She bit her lip. Perhaps touching the game hadn’t been such a good idea.
I have him! Eoin knew just what he had to do to win.
He didn’t smile much, but he couldn’t prevent the one that lifted his mouth as he strode purposefully across the courtyard and into the Great Hall of Stirling Castle.
For two days he had been locked in a fierce battle of wits with Robert Bruce, the young Earl of Carrick, over a chessboard, but the answer had come to him last night, and victory would soon be his.
A victory that would bring him one step closer to the real reward.
He still couldn’t believe it. His illustrious kinsman—his and Bruce’s mothers were half sisters—was considering Eoin for an elite secret guard that Bruce was forming in the event he made a bid for the throne.
To have been singled out and chosen by Bruce was an honor for any young warrior, let alone the twenty-four-year-old third son of a Highland laird, as Eoin’s father, Gillemore MacLean, Chief of MacLean, was quick to point out with a puff of pride.
But that wasn’t why Eoin was so excited by the prospect. His kinsman hadn’t given him many details, but those that he had were like holding out sweets to a bairn. A secret, highly specialized elite guard used for reconnaissance, intelligence, strategy, and special—in other words, the most dangerous—missions? For a man who had lived, breathed, even slept “pirate” warfare since he was seven years old and had helped his older brothers get back some fishing nets stolen by lads from a neighboring clan (after the lads had been good enough to fill it for them, of course), the prospect of bringing that style of warfare to a war against the most powerful army in Christendom was a challenge too great to resist. That Eoin would be fighting alongside a handpicked group of the most highly skilled warriors in all of Scotland was like sprinkling sugar on top of a trifle—heaping the sweet upon the sweet.
He was determined to win a position in the secret guard as a battle tactician, and besting his kinsman at chess—Bruce was known for his skill with the game—would help him in that regard. That the game was relatively new to Eoin, while Bruce had been playing for years, didn’t concern him. Thinking two, three, or four steps ahead was something Eoin did all the time on the battlefield. Once he’d learned the rules, he could look at the board and see the moves played out in his head. Again, just like with battle—except that in the case of Highland warfare, there were no rules.
He smiled again.
“Satan’s stones, Eoin, slow down!” His foster brother, Finlaeie MacFinnon, jogged up next to him. “I haven’t seen a smile on your face like that since MacDonald fell into the cesspit.” Eoin’s smile deepened, remembering how he’d loosened the boards of the wooden seat over the barrack latrine just enough for the tyrant who’d been given the responsibility of training them by their foster father, Angus Og MacDonald—and who’d made every minute of two years miserable—to fall in. Almost better than seeing Iain MacDonald covered in shite was the fact that he’d never known it was Eoin who’d been responsible. “What are you so happy about?”
Eoin shook his head. “Nothing.” The most difficult part about this group Bruce was forming was that it was secret. He couldn’t even confide in his closest friend. He glanced over at Fin, taking in the red-rimmed eyes, tousled hair, and disheveled clothing. Eoin’s nose wrinkled from the stiff stench of spirits. “Long night?”
Fin grinned. “You might say that. And an even longer morning. The lasses at court are quite welcoming. Not that it would interest you.”
Eoin told him to do something that was physically impossible. He liked lasses as much as his foster brother did—when he had time for them. Right now he had too many important things on his mind.
“Maybe you’re just saving yourself for that bride of yours?”
“Damn it, Fin, she’s not my bride.”
“Not yet, but don’t tell me your father isn’t working on it.”
Eoin couldn’t; it was true. His father was doing everything he could to secure a betrothal between him and Lady Barbara Keith.
“You’re a lucky bastard, Eoin. I’d give my left bollock to have the Marischal of Scotland’s daughter as my wife. With your skills and a marital connection to Scotland’s top military commander, you’ll be in a fantastic position if the war resumes.”
When the war resumes, Eoin thought. For despite Edward of England’s intentions, rather than end the Scottish “rebellion” with the brutal killing of William Wallace a few weeks ago, all he’d done was incite it.
That’s why they were here. The great lords and magnates of Scotland had gathered at Stirling to “come together” to see what could be done to respond to this latest act by Edward.
But the likelihood of Bruce and Comyn (who represented his exiled uncle King John Balliol) coming together to
agree about anything for any length of time was about as likely as the Mamluk sultan and the pope agreeing to share Jerusalem. Eoin knew the gathering was more about the two temporary allies gathering support and taking stock of potential allies when the next grab for power came. And it would come, there was no doubt about that. Hatred ran too deep between the two branches of the descendants of Prince Fergus to ever be reconciled.
The MacLeans were in a difficult position. Although Eoin’s father had every intention of fighting alongside their kinsman Bruce, he was also trying to avoid more problems from the MacDougalls—the Lord of Argyll was technically their overlord for their lands in Lorn—who were firmly aligned with the Comyns, by appearing undecided.
“Lady Barbara is a lovely lady,” he said. “Any man would be fortunate to have her as a wife.”
The words came out as rote and unthinking as they were. But they were also true. Barbara Keith was pretty, well mannered, demure, and modest. A real lady, and everything he admired in a woman—just like his mother. Were it not for Rignach, daughter of the former Lord of Carrick, his father would never have become one of the most important and respected Highland chiefs. His father liked to jest that without her they’d be just as wild and uncivilized as those backward barbarian MacDowells, who were probably still living with their animals in long houses and worshipping pagan gods.
Having had the misfortune of crossing paths with Dugald MacDowell once, Eoin didn’t doubt it. He could give the Vikings a lesson in ruthlessness and barbarity.
“Aye, I’m sure she’ll make you a perfect wife,” Fin said dryly.
Eoin’s gaze sharpened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Fin shrugged. “You don’t want to be bothered, and she won’t bother you. But you better wear a warm mantle when you bed her.”
He shot him a look of warning. Eoin was used to his friend’s talk about the women he bedded—or wanted to bed. Though distasteful, he usually ignored it. But speculating about the woman who might be Eoin’s future wife was another matter.
Even if he was probably right. Lady Barbara was a bit . . . frosty.
Fin put his hand up. “Don’t get all prickly. I don’t mean anything by it. One can’t have everything, I suppose. That’s why so many men have lemans. A wife for money, position, alliances, and heirs, and a pretty mistress to fuck and suck your cock. Too bad the two never seem to go together.”
Eoin winced. “Christ, Fin, do you have to talk like that?”
Fin just laughed and shook his head. “You are more of a prude than a nun in a harem, Eoin. If you ever relaxed long enough to sit around the fire at camp with us, rather than hunch over an oil lamp with those maps of yours, you’d know that is how most men talk.”
He was focused, damn it, not prudish. “I’ll relax when the war is over.”
Fin made a sharp sound. “I doubt it. All you ever think about is battle. You’ll just be planning for the next one.”
His friend was probably more right than Eoin wanted to admit. He was saved from a response, however, when they passed from the Great Hall to the solar where he and Bruce were playing and he noticed a wall of men blocking the doorway. They seemed to be gathered around something protectively.
“Wonder what that is all about?” Fin asked.
Eoin frowned. “Let’s find out.”
They pushed past the first few men when Neil Campbell, one of Bruce’s closest friends and advisors, said something to the earl and nodded in their direction. Bruce turned. There was a strange expression on his face; he seemed to be trying to prepare him for something.
“Cousin, I’m afraid . . .”
Eoin didn’t know whether it was Bruce’s expression or the fact that he called him cousin, which he didn’t usually do, that caused him to turn and look to the left where the game was set up. Or at least where the game had been set up.
Bruce was saying something, but Eoin was too busy storming across the room to listen. “Bloody hell!” He looked in disbelief at the destroyed game. The pieces had been moved. His eyes narrowed. Not just moved, they’d been purposefully positioned into the design of a heart. He turned in outrage to his kinsmen. “By God, who did this? If this is some kind of joke . . .”
He’d kill them. Two days, damn it. And he’d been a few moves away from victory. He pictured the pieces in his head, trying to remember where they’d been placed.
“It was an accident,” Bruce said.
“Accident?” Eoin picked up the piece of wood etched with the words Do Not Touch. “Did the idiot not read the sign?”
An uncomfortable silence fell across the room. Vaguely, Eoin was aware that someone had come up beside Bruce.
His gaze shifted, and he received the second blow of the morning. This one far more devastating. He felt like he’d been clobbered in the head with a poleaxe; stunned and more than a little dazed, as he stared—gaped probably—at one of the most sensual looking creatures he’d ever beheld.
She smiled, and that clobbered-by-a-poleaxe feeling dropped to his chest. “I’m afraid the idiot is me. I didn’t see the sign until it was too late.”
Ah hell. The discomfort in the room became clear. Although she did seem to be taking the offending words with surprising good humor. Most lasses he knew would be stricken with embarrassment. Instead it was he who felt the heat on his face. “I apologize for my ill-mannered words.”
She waved him off with a deep, husky laugh that made his bollocks tighten. “I’ve been called far worse by my brothers. I’d never seen the game before, and didn’t realize it was so important.”
Sensing she was amused by that fact, he frowned.
His cousin, always the gallant knight, rushed to reassure her. “And I was just assuring Lady Margaret that it was nothing.”
Eoin hoped his eyes didn’t widen as much as it felt like they had at the word “lady.” From the look of her, he’d assumed something else entirely.
Very little about the lass conjured up the image of a lady. Her gown was plain, simple, and cut low and tight enough around the bodice to have made a tavern wench proud.
Her beauty wasn’t quiet and restrained like a lady’s, but bold and dramatic. Too bold and dramatic, the lass would draw attention, particularly masculine attention, wherever she went. Her lips were too red, her mouth too wide, her gold-hued eyes too seductively slanted, her breasts too big—not that he couldn’t appreciate that particular excess—and her hair was red. A vibrant, dark red that wasn’t plaited modestly behind a veil, but rather left loose to tumble around her shoulders in a wild disarray that was more appropriate to the bedchamber than the king’s solar of a royal castle.
Aye, the bedchamber, which is exactly what he thought about when he looked at her.
But probably the most un-ladyish thing about her was the boldness in her gaze. There was no reserve, no modesty, and in a room full of important men, she was perfectly at ease, as if she belonged there. It was bloody disconcerting.
“Lady Margaret is Dugald MacDowell’s daughter,” Bruce added.
The Fair Maid of Galloway? Christ, that explained everything. Eoin had heard of the lass, who was reputed to be every bit as wild, unruly, and outrageous as the rest of her clan. Despite her youth, she lorded over her father’s lands when he was gone like a queen and had done so for years since her mother died. “Maid” was often said with irony, as the lass was reputed to be free with her favors.
Somehow he recovered enough to bow and mumble, “Lady Margaret.”
“This is the young kinsman I was telling you about, my lady,” Bruce explained.
She responded to Bruce with a wry grin, but her eyes hadn’t left Eoin’s. “I think the game was a little more serious than you let on, my lord Carrick.”
Eoin was pretty certain his flush deepened. Bruce laughed. “Everything is serious to my young cousin here. Don’t pay him any mind. Besides, he should be thanking you.”
She broke the connection with Eoin and turned her slanted catlike eyes to Bruce. One del
icately arched brow lifted. “Thanking me?”
Bruce flashed a broad grin. “Aye, for saving him from the embarrassment of losing. I had him beaten, although he didn’t know it yet.”
Lady Margaret laughed and turned back to Eoin. It felt as if every nerve ending in his body stood on edge as her eyes fell on him again.
“Is that so?” If he’d ever heard a more husky voice in a woman he couldn’t recall it. “And do you agree, my lord?”
Margaret didn’t know what to make of the young warrior standing before her. She must admit, she’d been taken aback when he’d stormed into the room just as the other men had been doing their best to assure her that touching the game—the chess—pieces was “nothing.” She didn’t know whether it was his fury or his handsome face, but something had made her heart beat a little faster. All right, a lot faster.
He was dressed in a fine velvet surcoat like the other noblemen in the room, but he might as well have been wearing chain mail and wielding a long broadsword. Everything about this man bespoke warrior. It wasn’t just his size, which was formidable (he was even taller and more powerfully built than the Earl of Carrick), but the fierce intensity that seemed to radiate from him. When he walked, it was with the long, powerful strides of a man ready for battle. With eight brothers, all of whom were or would be warriors, and a father who’d spent the better part of the last twenty years on the battlefield, she recognized the type well enough.
Men—even fierce, angry ones—didn’t usually intimidate her. Usually. But something about seeing all those muscles bunch and the fury burning in his piercing blue eyes had made her pulse dance.
Although as she looked at him, waiting for him to respond, she realized the dancing could be a result of something else. Like maybe the surprisingly silky-looking honey-brown hair—streaked with enough sun-bleached chunks to recall what must have been the blondness of youth—that fell in careless waves to a clean-shaven, squared-off jaw with a slight dent, those striking eyes set below a seemingly perpetually furrowed brow (as if he were always concentrating), and sharp, carefully delineated features so finely carved they could have been chiseled from granite.
The Striker Page 3