The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  “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
th horses involved.”

  “Why?” Finlaeie asked. “She won by trickery.”

  Duncan started to explain, but Margaret held him back with a look that told him to wait, this might be amusing. She turned to Eoin’s foster brother. He was undoubtedly a fine-looking warrior. Tall and well built like Eoin, but with wavy, dark auburn hair and deep green eyes the color of emeralds. At first she’d even considered him as a possibility for Brigid. Brigid hadn’t shown much interest—in anyone actually—and now she was glad. There was something about him that rubbed her wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but she didn’t like him. “You do not think I could have bested him another way?”

  There was a layer of steel beneath the lighthearted tone. Brigid recognized it, even if Finlaeie did not. She put her hand on Margaret’s arm. “It’s nearing time for the midday meal. Perhaps we should go—”

  “Of course not,” Finlaeie said, cutting off Brigid’s attempt to pull her away.

  “And why’s that?” Margaret asked.

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

  She looked at Duncan and Dougal, both who seemed to be enjoying themselves, guessing where this was headed. “How kind of you to notice,” she said with more amusement than sarcasm.

  Eoin attempted to intervene, as if he, too, realized something was brewing. “Fin means you no disrespect, Lady Margaret. I’m sure you are an excellent horsewoman.”

  She was. But why did she have the feeling she was being humored? She smiled, thinking the joke might end up being on them.

  She forced her gaze from Eoin back to his foster brother. “It might surprise you to know that women can be just as good as men—even better—at some things.”

  “Maybe things like having babes, sewing, and making sure a man’s meal is on the table,” Finlaeie said with a patronizing smirk. “But at more uh . . . physical and mental tasks women are inferior.”

  She crossed her arms. “According to whom?”

  “God. The church. The weaker vessel, you know.”

  This time she couldn’t prevent her eyes from rolling. Not the “weaker vessel” and “the fall of man was Eve’s fault” argument again? It was listening to things like this that was the reason she avoided church as much as she could, which admittedly was far harder to do here than at Garthland. It seemed that all women did at Stirling was go back and forth from the chapel.

  “It seems to me that the weaker one wasn’t the one who was deceived by Satan but the one who could be led into eating the apple.” She grinned in the face of their shock. This time at least she didn’t have to wonder at why. Irreverence was irreverence, even at Garthland. “But in the case of riding—and maybe sailing—I can say with certainty that they are wrong.”

  King Edward was reported to have a menagerie of animals at his tower castle in London, where his guests could stare and gape at the strange, exotic creatures from faraway lands. Margaret suspected she knew exactly how those animals felt right now. She wasn’t sure whether it was her pronouncement itself or the heresy of questioning church doctrine, but the men in the earl’s party, including Eoin, were undeniably gaping.

  She shrugged unapologetically. It was the truth. “I’ve bested many men in a race.”

  Eoin’s foster brother spoke without thinking. “Perhaps you’ve never faced adequate competition.”

  As Margaret could only pick one brother to step in front of she chose the more hotheaded one, Dougal. But both he and Duncan had made a low, threatening sound in their throats and instinctively gripped their swords.

  Knowing she had to act quickly to prevent bloodshed, she said, “What a wonderful idea! I accept your challenge.”

  Finlaeie, who didn’t seem to recognize the danger he was in from her brothers, whom he’d so casually slurred, looked at her as if she were mad. “Me race you?”

  He sounded so appalled she had to smile. “Why not? It will be fun.” She shot a pointed look at the brother she hadn’t been able to block, who had taken a step toward him and was leaning forward ever so slightly as if ready to attack. “Don’t you agree, Duncan?”

  They exchanged a long look. Eventually she got through to him, and her brother eased back, releasing his sword. She could feel the threat behind her dissipating from Dougal as well. What she planned would more than adequately avenge the blow to the MacDowell pride, without disrupting the peace of the talks.

  “Aye, I think that is a brilliant idea,” Duncan agreed. “We could all use a little excitement around here.”

  Eoin seemed to be aware of the potential conflict she’d just avoided. He glanced at her brothers, as if making sure the threat was gone, before he returned his gaze to hers. “Fin meant no offense. He was only jesting. But I’m afraid he wasn’t completely forthright with you—he’s probably the best rider here.”

  She lifted a brow, eyeing the auburn-haired warrior speculatively. “Is he? Then this shall be even more fun than I thought. I like a challenge.”

  Finlaeie had obviously warmed to the idea. He smiled, a slow, smug smile that made her eager to see it wiped away. “When?”

  “Now if you’d like. Unless you are too tired and would prefer to wait.”

  “Now is fine.” His gaze grew calculating. “What should we wager?”

  She shrugged indifferently. The win would be enough. “Whatever you’d like.”

  The lewd glint in his eye made her want to call back her words. It was clear what he wanted. He must have read her distaste because his gaze hardened. “The spirited black stallion your brother Duncan was just riding.”

  There were a few gasps of shock. The palfrey Duncan had been riding was worth what a knight made in a year.

  Eoin looked like he was about to explode.

  She stiffened, and Duncan started to object. “It’s not my—”

  “Fine,” she agreed, cutting him off. Finlaeie didn’t need to know that she and Duncan had switched horses before the race. The palfrey was hers. John Comyn wasn’t the only one to receive a prized horse for his eighteenth saint’s day. “And if I win, I shall claim the horse you ride in the race.”

  It was clear he didn’t take the threat seriously; he smiled. “Whatever the lady wants.”

  Yes, she was going to enjoy wiping that smug smile off his face quite a lot.

  Eoin watched the preparations for the race with growing frustration. Bruce refused to intervene, claiming that Fin was lucky the lass had prevented her brothers from challenging him instead. Eoin also suspected his kinsman didn’t mind seeing the MacDowells humbled, even if a lady was involved.

  Fin wouldn’t back down, intent on making some kind of point to Eoin about Lady Margaret and her unsuitability—something Eoin was well aware of even without the race. She was outrageous even when she didn’t mean to be. “On my knees” and “open your throat” . . . God in heaven, was she trying to kill him?

  And the lady herself seemed bent on a course of destruction from which nothing—and sure as hell not rationality—would intervene. Still, he had to try. The yard was already filling with gawkers as Eoin went in search of her. She’d claimed she needed something from her chamber and had gone racing into one of the towers, while her brother Duncan finalized the details of the race with Fin.

  It would be a sprint of about ten furlongs on the road from the abbey at St. Mary’s to the castle, starting on the flat, fertile grounds of the Forth riverbed, and finishing with the steep climb up castle hill. The first one across the drawbridge and through the portcullis would be the winner.

  When Eoin reached the tower, he had to push his way through the crowd of people flooding out.

  Bloody hell, it was already a damned spectacle! Word of the wager must have raced through the castle like the plague. The vultures unable to resist the scent of death. Lady Margaret’s—though she seemed oblivious to the threat of condemnation—if she didn’t put a stop to this.

  He waited at the bottom of the stairwell for her to emerge. When she did, he feare
d his eyes were in danger of popping out of his head.

  She stopped in her tracks when she saw him and quirked her mouth in a smile that managed to look adorable and enticing at the same time. The knot that formed in his chest whenever she was around tightened.

  “If you are here to ‘talk me into my senses’ like you started to say earlier, you are wasting your time.”

  Eoin was too shocked by her attire to form a proper response. “You can’t wear that!”

  She glanced down at the snug brown leather breeches, a linen shirt stuffed into the waist, and the equally snug sleeveless leather surcoat that was fitted at the waist. She’d exchanged soft leather boots for the slippers she’d been wearing earlier, and for once her flaming locks were tamed in a thick coiled plait at the back of her neck.

  She was dressed like a lad, but never had she looked more feminine. She was more slender than he’d realized, the fitted breeches and surcoat revealing the dips and contours of the curvaceous figure that were hidden by the full skirts of her gowns. Her legs were sleekly muscled and long, her hips gently curved, her bottom rounded, and her waist small. Her breasts were generous but well rounded and firm over the flat plane of her stomach.

  He didn’t need to imagine very hard what she would look like naked, and once formed, the image would not be dislodged.

  Eoin was in trouble, and he knew it.

  “I know it’s unconventional, but you can’t expect me to race in heavy skirts? They’ll be in the way, and I’ll fall and break my neck.”

  “You shouldn’t race at all, and certainly not in that. You might as well be naked!”

  She lifted a brow in amusement—probably because he sounded as flustered as he felt. “I didn’t realize so many men walked around in such a state of undress. I will have to pay more attention.”

  She let her gaze drop from his eyes over the planes of his chest and down his leather-clad legs, lingering one cock-hardening instant on the heavy bulge between his legs. She might as well have stroked him, the heat enflamed every nerve ending in his body. He went as hard as a damned spike.