The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  Shite. That was the moment Eoin knew what was wrong with him. He knew what he’d been trying to deny. He knew why instead of focusing all his efforts on impressing his kinsman for a job of which he could only dream, he was chasing down a woman to the garderobe.

  His blood drained to the floor. The truth hit him square in the chest as she stood there like a damned queen, facing their condemnation with defiance and a look on her face that told them to go to hell.

  I’m in love with her.

  Bloody hell, how could he have let this happen? It didn’t make any damned sense! He didn’t want to believe that he could do something so completely and utterly stupid.

  But he had. She was wild, outrageous, and didn’t dress or act anything like a noblewoman should, but seeing her standing there, facing those women, with more pride and dignity in her tiny slippered foot than those women could ever hope to have, he knew he loved her.

  God knows he didn’t understand it, sure as hell wasn’t happy about it, and didn’t know what he was going to do about it, but neither could he deny it.

  Regally, head held high, she walked across the small room. The women seemed stunned—and not a little shamed—and parted instinctively before her. Margaret’s pride, her bravado, never faltered. Until she turned the corner of the partition and saw him.

  Their eyes met, and he could see that she knew he’d heard every word. Her golden eyes widened. Her fair skin paled. And then her proud, beautiful face simply crumpled.

  He glimpsed something he’d never thought to see in her expression: vulnerability, and it cut him to the quick.

  He reached for her. “Margaret, I’m sorry—”

  He didn’t get to finish.

  “Oh God, please . . . please, just leave me alone!” With a soft cry and sob that tore right through his chest, she twisted away from him and fled out the Hall as if the devil were nipping at her heels.

  He’d heard. He’d heard every horrible word, every lie they said about her.

  Margaret felt the tears sliding down her cheeks as she ran across the yard. For the first time in her life she wanted to run away. She wanted to crawl in a hole and hide. Shame was a new emotion for her, but it burned through every limb, every bone, and every corner of her body.

  They thought she’d seduced Finlaeie MacFinnon. They thought she dressed like a whore so she must be one? Is that what Eoin thought? God knows with what had happened in the library he had every reason to.

  She heard him call her name, but it only made her run faster. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away. She’d headed to the stables without even realizing it. A solitary stable lad sat at the entry. He took one look at her face and made himself scarce.

  That was when Eoin caught up with her. He took her by the arm again. This time his grip was firm. When she tried to shrug away, he held fast. Blast it, he was strong, and right now, she hated all those muscles she so admired.

  “Let go of me,” she cried, in between sobs that tore through her lungs like fire.

  “Margaret—Maggie—look at me.”

  She didn’t want to, but there was something in his voice that would not be denied. Maggie? She lifted her gaze. Dark, velvety blue eyes met hers. Not with condemnation but with understanding. And something else. Something that looked like tenderness.

  “I’m not going anywhere until we talk,” he said in a voice that was both firm and gentle.

  She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl into a ball and forget any of this had ever happened.

  “Where were you going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She sniffled. “I just wanted to ride.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  She was too anxious to get away to argue with him. God knew her reputation couldn’t suffer any more. And if he didn’t mind being seen with the Whore of Babylon, she wasn’t going to stop him.

  He helped her saddle Dubh, and then saddled his own horse before lifting her up. They passed the guards at the gate without comment, and soon they were riding down castle hill to the flat stretch of land she’d raced over earlier that day. They rode past the abbey and continued along the banks of the River Forth until the castle on the rock, the narrow wynds of tightly packed stone and wattle-and-daub houses, and the town of Stirling fell behind them.

  Only then did she slow, realizing how fast she’d been riding. Dubh had sensed her urgency to get away and responded.

  It was late afternoon, which at this time of year meant the sun was already beginning to sink on the horizon. It was also, she realized too late, extremely cold and damp. Dark clouds hovered threateningly above them.

  “Here take this.”

  They were the first words he’d spoken since the stable. She turned to find him riding beside her, holding out the plaid he’d had wrapped around his shoulders.

  She shook her head to refuse, but he gave her a hard look that told her he was going to be stubborn.

  “But it looks like it’s going to rain,” she protested. “Your fine surcoat will be ruined.”

  It looked to be a costly garment, a dark blue velvet edged with intricately embroidered scroll and leaf pattern in gold thread.

  “Aye, well perhaps the next time you decide to take a ride before a storm, you could grab a cloak?”

  The slight lift of one corner of his mouth gave him away.

  “Are you teasing me?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged, as if it surprised him, too. “Take the plaid, Lady Margaret. I’ll survive.”

  “You called me Maggie before.”

  “Did I?” He gave her a sidelong look. “Very well then, take it, Maggie.”

  She did as he bid, wrapping the thick green and blue patterned wool around her shoulders. A feeling of warmth settled instantly around her. He settled around her, she realized, for the plaid still held the heat from his body. And it smelled of him, warm and cozy with just the faintest hint of heather. Drawing a deep breath, she sighed with contentment.

  “Comfortable?” he asked dryly, as the first raindrops began to fall.

  Their eyes met. She probably should have felt guilty, but something about his teasing made her happy. She sensed that he did not reveal this side of himself very often. So instead her mouth quirked. “Very.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “You might at least feign a little concern for my suffering.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And if you decide to play knight errant again, you should try not to whine. It rather ruins the effect.”

  “Not to mention a good surcoat.”

  This time it was she who laughed. It took her a moment to realize what he’d done. He’d made her feel better. “You’re very clever, aren’t you?”

  His mouth quirked. “Not always apparently.”

  It took her a moment to realize he was referring to her, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. Did he regret being here with her?

  “We can return now, if you’d like,” she said.

  He shook his head, eyeing the dark clouds. “I think it’s better if we get out of the storm.” He pointed to a dilapidated stone building nestled along the river up ahead that appeared to be a fisherman’s cottage. Long abandoned by the looks of it. “We can try in there. Half a roof is better than none.”

  It was actually more than half. Only the far corner of the roughly eight-by-eight-foot stone building had lost its turf. Enough to let in the chill and damp, but at least they would be relatively dry.

  While Eoin tended the horses, Margaret did her best to sweep away some of the dust and cobwebs with an old straw broom that, although a tad moldy, was still serviceable. There was little in the way of furniture. A table, a few stools, and a bed box stuffed with straw and covered by an old threadbare, dusty plaid. The floor was dirt and stone, but also covered by a thick, well-beaten-down layer of slightly moldy straw. She was grateful for it. Mold was vastly preferable to standing in mud.

&nb
sp; Eoin entered not long after she sat on one of the stools. He stood in the doorway, scanning the small cottage. “I wouldn’t call it comfortable, but it’s better than I expected.”

  Closing the door behind him, he stepped into the room. Nay, he dominated the room. The already small cottage grew even smaller.

  Chill? What chill? It felt like someone had lit a fire. Inside her.

  The air seemed to shift, and every tiny hair on her arms and neck stood on edge. Her heart was pounding, and her stomach had that sink-to-the-floor feeling again.

  She didn’t know where to look, what to say, feeling suddenly awkward—almost shy. What was it about this man that made her feel so . . . uncertain? So tumultuous? So confoundingly vulnerable?

  He pulled up a stool and sat beside her. “Are you ready to talk?”

  Her chest pinched. She didn’t want to talk about it at all. “What is there to say? You heard them.” She gave a harsh laugh. “But it must have come as no surprise to you. God knows after what happened in the library, I’ve given you no reason to think differently.” Suddenly, her bravado vanished. When she looked at him it was with her feelings exposed. “But I don’t want you to think that of me.”

  He looked almost mad at her. “I don’t. Of course I don’t. How could you think I could?”

  “How could you not after what happened in the library? I let Brigid’s brother kiss me a few times, but I swear I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  He held her gaze, his jaw seemed to clench a little tighter. “What happened was my fault.”

  Her mouth curved. “I thought we established that no one was at fault.”

  But this time she could not elicit a smile from him. His expression was painfully serious as he stared at her in the growing shadows. “Don’t jest, Maggie, not about this.”

  She had to jest. What else could she do? God’s mercy, what did he want from her? Hadn’t she had enough blood drawn from her today? “Why are we here, Eoin?”

  He seemed startled by her question. After a moment he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “I doubt your family would approve.” She paused. “Or Lady Barbara.”

  “Probably not.”

  She felt another pinch. This one deeper and more persistent. It wouldn’t let go until her chest started to ache. Had a small part of her hoped he would disagree?

  She looked away. “I think maybe you should go.”

  “That would be the smart thing to do.”

  The pinch was twisting now in pain. She stared at the damp toes of her soft leather shoes that were peeking out beneath the edge of her grayish-blue gown, and waited to hear him push back the stool.

  Instead she felt the rough calluses of his fingers on her chin as he tilted her face to his. “But that isn’t what I want.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You.”

  There was something warring in his eyes she didn’t understand. Torment? Indecision? Resolve?

  Whatever it was, it was lost when his lips touched hers.

  8

  EOIN KNEW this was a bad idea. If he hadn’t had any control when he’d been a hundred feet away from a castle full of people, how the hell did he think he was going to find it when they were alone in a secluded cottage?

  But as he was to discover, knowing and stopping were two very different things. He’d been wanting to take her in his arms since he’d caught her in the stables, and the moment he’d walked into this cottage and seen her sitting there, he’d known he was fighting a losing battle not to touch her.

  He needed to touch her. Needed to show her how much he cared about her. And needed to let her know it would be all right.

  So for the second time in as many days, he didn’t do the smart thing. He didn’t think. He let himself feel . . . and it was incredible.

  The passion that had exploded between them in the library had not dulled; if anything it had only grown hotter. Their tongues knew exactly how to find each other, their bodies how to fit, and their hands how to touch.

  Well, maybe not exactly how to touch, because if he had his way, she wouldn’t be gripping the hard muscles of his arms right now, she’d be gripping another hard part of him.

  Just thinking about her hand wrapped around him made him throb, made him deepen the kiss, and bend her back into the curve of his body.

  He loved the taste of her, the soft feel of her lips, and the passionate thrusts of her tongue circling against his.

  She was a good kisser. He pushed that thought away before it could take hold, not wanting to think about what she’d said about Brigid’s brother.

  Still, a swell of possessiveness surged inside him, and his kiss grew a little fiercer. A little rougher. And a lot more carnal.

  Was he trying to shock her? He didn’t know, but with every suck, every nibble, every rhythmic thrust of his tongue—meant to mimic another rhythmic thrusting—he savored the soft gasps of surprise that told him this was new.

  He ravished, he plundered, he claimed her mouth, and then he claimed a whole hell of a lot more. His mouth slid over her jaw, down her throat, and once he’d tossed the plaid off her shoulders, down the curved bodice of her gown.

  She’d gone lax in his arms, her head falling back, her breath heaving, as if to offer the bounty of her breasts to gorge upon. And what a feast they were. Full and generous, yet firm and perfectly rounded, they were everything he’d dreamed about at night when he was an untried lad.

  The pressure in his groin was growing unbearable. He groaned as he slid his hand up to cup her breasts, as his mouth slid over the creamy soft skin above her bodice. Just the weight of all that soft flesh in his hands sent a swell of heat deep in his groin that was nearly enough to drive him over the edge. When she arched her back and started pressing into the palm of his hand, he slid right over.

  Margaret didn’t know what was happening, but she knew she didn’t want it to stop. Eoin had taken control of her body, and she didn’t want it back. Not when he could make her feel this good.

  The feel of his hands on her breasts was unlike anything she’d ever imagined. Tristan had tried to touch her there once, but she’d kneed him in the bollocks so hard he hadn’t been able to walk straight for a week—or so he claimed. But with Eoin . . . she wanted his hand there. And the lower his lips descended on her chest, the lower his tongue danced beneath the edge of her gown, the more she wanted his mouth there as well.

  A fever had taken hold of her body. Her skin was hot, her breath uneven, her heartbeat erratic. Her limbs were so weak she could barely stand.

  But he had her. The strength of his body was like a lifeline, an anchor to hold on to as the maelstrom lashed around them.

  Still it wasn’t enough. The maelstrom wasn’t around them, it was inside her, and she needed to find a way to release it.

  Instinctively she knew what she wanted, and the pressure of her body moving against his grew more insistent. More demanding.

  And he responded. The heat of his mouth through the fabric of her gown as he covered her breast made her weak; the feel of his manhood wedged between her legs made her wet. She cried out in pleasure as his hands cupped the sensitive flesh of her breasts, as his mouth sucked, and as his hips thrust. She was falling apart. Melting. Surrendering to the pleasure racing through her veins.

  But she wanted more.

  Had she said it aloud?

  She heard him swear, the sharp curse a guttural answer to her plea. The next moment she felt the rocky wall of the cottage against her back. He lifted her skirt, wrapped one of her legs around his hips and started fumbling with the ties at his waist.

  She could have stopped him, but she didn’t want to. She wanted this as badly as he did.

  Yet as much as she wanted him inside her, it was still a shock to feel the tip of his manhood nestled at the cleft between her legs, and she gasped.

  For one moment the haze cleared, and their eyes met in silent lucidity. From the firm grip she had on his shoulders,
she could feel the tension reverberating through his body. He was shaking with it, every muscle in his body flexed with restraint.

  “Tell me you want this,” he said roughly, his blue eyes so dark they almost looked black.

  He would pull away if she wanted him to. He was giving her a chance to change her mind. But she wasn’t going to. “I want this,” she said softly.

  “Thank God,” he groaned, “I’m sorry . . .”

  She didn’t understand the apology until she felt the jar of the wall as he thrust up inside her.

  She cried out as a sharp pain sliced through her.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Oh God, a leanbh.” Little one. “I’m sorry. It will be better in a moment.”

  She hoped that wasn’t a note of uncertainty she heard in his voice. As it couldn’t get much worse, she wasn’t inclined to argue. Her body was pulled as tight as a bow. She couldn’t breathe, let alone talk. But seeing the concern in his eyes, and the gentle pleading, she did all she could do and nodded.

  He kissed her then. A slow, tender kiss like he’d never given her before. It was as if he was trying to soothe the sting—the hurt—with his mouth and tongue.

  Nay, she realized. It was more than that. He was wooing her. Showing her with his kiss how much he cared for her.

  She could feel her heart soften. Feel the love she now knew she felt for this man blossom inside her. It was the only explanation for what was happening. I love him.

  She loved this serious, handsome young warrior with all his quiet intensity who was as learned as a monk but kissed with the raw, aggressive passion of a man who knew how to be wicked. She loved the dry sense of humor that seemed reserved just for her. She loved to tease him, loved to make him smile until the crease between his brows disappeared, and loved the unexpected gentleness and tenderness in his eyes when he looked at her.

  Her body responded to that emotion. Relaxing. Releasing the tight hold she had on her pain.

  It was then that she became aware of what the pain had prevented: the feeling of him inside her. Big, thick, and hard, filling her with his heat. Possessing her. They were connected, joined in a way she’d never imagined.