The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  She glanced around, seeing that as in previous nights, the others were giving them space. “What will you do if war breaks out again?” she asked in a low voice.

  It might have been a trick of the torchlight, but she swore he stiffened defensively. “What do you mean?”

  “My father wants you to fight with him. He said your abilities would be valued by those loyal to King John.”

  This time she was not mistaken: his expression went rigid. There was a steely glint in his eye she’d never seen before. “My duty is to my father.”

  “And his is to his overlord, Alexander MacDougall, the Lord of Argyll, and to his king. Not to his kinsman,” she added, referring to Bruce.

  She waited for a reaction, but there was none. His expression betrayed not a hint of his thoughts. He wore the same serious, intense expression on his face that he always did when he was with everyone else. But not usually her.

  “My father knows well where his duty lies, Margaret.”

  Hope sprang in her chest. “Does that mean you will—?”

  He stood. “It means this is a pointless conversation. When the time comes—if the time comes—he will do what he must. As will I.”

  He started to walk away, but she stood and stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Wait, why won’t you talk about this with me?”

  “There is nothing to discuss, and it has nothing to do with you.”

  “I’m your wife! Of course it has something to do with me.”

  He held her gaze, saying nothing but challenging all the same. She didn’t understand. Why was he doing this? Why was he shutting her out? Did he not value her opinion? She might not be as smart as he was, or know how to read and write, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t understand.

  “I have to go,” he said impatiently.

  She let her hand drop, not knowing or understanding how the conversation could have gone so wrong. “Where?”

  “It’s my night to be on guard duty.” He paused. “I won’t be to bed until midmorning. Perhaps it would be best if you slept in the tent the last night?”

  She was stricken. “Why are you acting like this?”

  His expression changed, and once again he was the man she loved. He drew her into his arms. “Ah hell, I’m sorry. But it is your fault.” She looked up at him questioningly. “You have pushed me to the edge of madness. I can’t take another night of it.”

  He was teasing her, but only partially. Suddenly, she scowled. “You volunteered for guard duty, didn’t you?”

  He winced, not bothering to lie. “It’s only one more night.”

  Or so he thought. But the next night, after they’d finally retired to the private chamber that had been arranged for them (his mother had insisted on showing her every room of the beautifully decorated tower house), Margaret had a surprise for him.

  “Your what?”

  “Shhh,” she said. “Do you want the whole castle to hear? My flux. It will only be a few days.”

  She thought he’d find the timing amusingly ironic, but apparently he didn’t. He was strangely quiet, his expression almost pained.

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t exactly have much control over these things, Eoin.” She grinned wickedly and slid up against him, covering him with her hand. “Besides, there is plenty of privacy here, and no reason for you to be quiet.”

  He jerked her hand away. “Damn it, Margaret. Stop it. You don’t understand.”

  More than a little hurt by the rejection, she moved back a few steps to look at him. “Then why don’t you explain it to me,” she said softly.

  A strange sense of doom settled around her like a thick gray mist.

  He moved to the glazed window, staring out for a few minutes before turning to answer her.

  “I’m leaving.”

  For a moment she didn’t think she heard him correctly. Her heart was beating too loudly in her ears. “You are what?”

  “There is something I have to do. I must leave by Saturday.”

  Margaret just stared at him, dumbfounded. Saturday was in two days. “When will you be back?” she managed chokingly, a ball of hot emotion seeming to have stuck in her throat.

  “I don’t know.”

  She flinched as if struck. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t know’? A few days? Weeks?” He didn’t say anything. “Christmas?” she could barely breathe.

  “I hope so.”

  He hoped so? There were still almost two weeks until All Saints’ Day! Christmas was more than two months away. This wasn’t happening. Please let someone tell her this wasn’t happening. The room seemed to be swaying as if they were still on the ferry. “Where are you going?”

  “I . . .” He dragged his fingers through his hair, the way he did when he was anxious or uncomfortable. “I can’t explain. It’s just something I have to do, all right?”

  “Of course it’s not all right. How could it be all right? We have been married barely over a fortnight, have not yet shared a roof, let alone a bedchamber for the night, and you are leaving me in two days, telling me nothing about where you are going, what you are doing, and how long you will be gone, and it’s supposed to be ‘all right’?” Hearing the rising hysteria in her voice, she forced herself to try to calm. But how could she be calm? How could he do this to her? “How long have you known about this?”

  He had the shame to look away. “Since the day before we left Stirling.”

  Her chest stabbed. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

  “I intended to, damn it, just not like this.”

  “Then when? After you’d made love to me, until I was too exhausted to argue?” She gasped, her eyes widening at his guilty expression. “Good God, that’s exactly what you intended, wasn’t it?”

  “Ah hell, Maggie, I know I should have said something earlier. But I knew you’d be upset, and . . .”

  She straightened her spine, her anger the only thing that kept her from collapsing into a ball and sobbing. “And you thought it would be easier this way.”

  “Nay, that isn’t what I was going to say. You were so happy. I didn’t want to do anything to ruin that.”

  “And you thought this would be better?” He didn’t say anything. She stared at him. “Please don’t do this. Don’t go.”

  “I have to.”

  “Then wait a few more days. At least give me that.”

  “I can’t. I’m late already.”

  He reached for her, and for the first time, she flinched from him. Also for the first time, she didn’t want him to touch her. “Then go, Eoin. Just go.”

  And to her utter despair and misery, two days later he did exactly that.

  11

  CHRISTMAS CAME and went. But Eoin was hopeful he’d be able to leave the Isle of Skye, where he’d been training with the other elite warriors recruited for Bruce’s secret guard, and return to Margaret for a few days in January.

  When he’d ridden away from her all those weeks ago, he’d had his anger to hold on to. For two days he’d tried to explain to her that this was what he did. He was a warrior. He went where and when his chief told him to. But she refused to listen to any explanations. When it became clear that he would not delay or change his plans—or explain them—she’d turned as cold as ice and would barely even look at him.

  He’d expected tears and pleading, but maybe he should have known better. Margaret MacDowell might not be as refined and sophisticated as the noblewomen he knew, but she had the steel in her spine and iron in her blood of royal ancestors and generations of the proud Celtic chiefs who’d come before her.

  Frustration at the situation, and her reaction, had turned to anger. But over the long weeks of training, including almost two weeks of hell that had been aptly named “Perdition,” that anger turned to guilt. The hurt in her eyes—the look of betrayal—haunted him. He couldn’t escape the feeling that each day they were apart, he was losing her more and more.

  And then there were the tortured dreams of her turning to another m
an in his absence—Fin, his brothers, even the infamous Tristan MacCan whom he’d never met. She’d only let MacCan kiss her, damn it . . . hadn’t she? It got so bad he didn’t even want to close his eyes to sleep.

  He’d heard nothing from his wife since the day he left. He’d written to her, but either she’d refused to avail herself of his father’s clerk or had decided to ignore him. Only the occasional mention in the missives from his father or mother did he have word of her. “Margaret traveled to Oban again on Monday—borrowing your father’s skiff without permission.” He could hear his mother’s disapproval all the way to Skye. It grew worse with, “Mathilda follows her all over the Isle.” His sixteen-year-old sister was something of an imp; he supposed it wasn’t surprising that she’d taken a liking to her new sister-in-law. It also wasn’t surprising that his mother didn’t approve.

  No communication coupled with the frequent mention of trips to Oban to help the nuns at the convent (Margaret?) played on every doubt and fear he had in his head. But that was where he kept it.

  Some of the other guardsmen, especially Erik MacSorley (whose personality reminded him quite a bit of Margaret’s) and Eoin’s partner, Ewen Lamont, were curious about his wife. But other than the fact that she was a MacDowell, from which they probably drew their own conclusions, he refused to speak of her. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to give them a reason not to trust him—Bruce’s caution around him was difficult enough—but how the hell could Eoin explain how a marriage could work between them, when he didn’t even know himself?

  By the end of Hogmanay, he was chomping at the bit to go home. But everything changed when Christina MacLeod was captured by the English and Tor MacLeod, the leader of the secret guard, launched an attack on the English garrison at Dumfries Castle to get her back.

  It was Eoin’s first opportunity to prove his place among the elite warriors, and his plan had been a resounding success.

  It had also set off a chain of events no one could have seen coming. Within a month of freeing Christina MacLeod and taking the castle, John “The Red” Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch, was dead at Bruce’s hand, and his kinsman had launched a bid for the throne.

  After weeks of gathering support, and putting down skirmishes with Comyn supporters, by early March—March, damn it!—preparations were under way for Bruce’s coronation in Scone. Edward of England had already ordered the arrest of Bruce for the slaying of Comyn, but every one of Bruce’s men knew that the coronation would be an act of rebellion that would bring Edward and his army to their doorstep once more.

  War was coming, and Eoin knew that if he didn’t go home now, it could be months before he had another chance.

  The problem was Bruce was refusing to give him leave. Eoin could not be spared this close to the coronation. And if the MacDougalls had noted his absence and suspected his involvement with Bruce, a trip to Kerrera in Lorn could be dangerous as well.

  Eoin broke his silence where his wife was concerned and took his case to the one man who might be able to change Bruce’s mind.

  There weren’t many men who gave Eoin pause, but Tor MacLeod was one of them. Known as the greatest swordsman in Scotland—and probably the fiercest—he was as tall as Eoin with six years of added muscle on him, every pound of it earned on the battlefield.

  If there was anyone more difficult to read than Eoin, it was MacLeod. As Eoin stood across the table from the proud island chief and presented his case, it was impossible to know what the other man was thinking.

  “We did not part on the best of terms,” Eoin explained. “My wife is young—only eighteen—and we’d been married less than three weeks before I left. A week is all I am asking. I will return before we leave for Scone.”

  “Do you intend to fly? It would take at least four or five days of hard riding to reach Oban from here.”

  They’d been at Bruce’s Lochmaben Castle since the rescue of Christina MacLeod from Dumfries Castle.

  “I’ll find a ship.”

  “You’ll also find the English navy,” MacLeod said bluntly. “They are patrolling up and down the coast to Ayr.”

  Eoin’s mouth clenched. “I’m an Islander—I’ll manage.”

  MacLeod eyed him carefully. “This is that important to you?”

  “It is.” She is.

  MacLeod seemed to understand—maybe better than he’d realized. Chief, too, had a young wife himself whom he’d nearly lost.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Margaret’s stomach dropped with dread as her small skiff drew closer to shore, and she made out the familiar form of the man waiting for her. After lowering the sail, she let the current take her safely into the dock, but she wished she could turn around.

  While a couple of lads helped her with the moorings, Fin stood at the foot of the rocky path that led up to the castle watching. She couldn’t avoid him, and her heart beat with not a small amount of trepidation as she walked toward him.

  She had no reason to be frightened of him, and yet she couldn’t deny that for the first time in her life a man made her uncomfortable, and yes, a little scared. She’d tried—truly she had—but in the five months since Eoin had abandoned her on this miserable rock, she could not force herself to like Fin MacFinnon.

  He’d done nothing specific she could point to—maybe it would be easier if he had—but there was something in his eyes when he looked at her that made her skin crawl. Something that made her feel that he was just biding his time . . . waiting. For what she didn’t know. She couldn’t tell whether he hated her or lusted for her—maybe both.

  He seemed to be always there, lurking in the shadows of the corridors, dark corners of the stables or outbuildings, and now, it seemed, by rocky cliff sides. She knew it was no accident that he stood in the perfect place to block her path, where she could not get around him without risking a fall down the rocks.

  “Where were you?” he demanded.

  Despite the trepidation thumping in her chest, she refused to let him intimidate her. He wouldn’t dare to hurt her physically. She hoped. “It’s none of your business.”

  He took her by the arm and drew her toward him. To anyone watching it would look like he was preparing to guide her up the path by the rocks. But his fingers gripped her just a little too hard, and he pulled her in just a little too close.

  “I’m making it my business. Do you expect me to believe you really help the nuns at the convent?”

  His gaze fell to her breasts as if their size somehow explained his reasoning.

  Her heart was thumping in her throat now. “I don’t care what you believe, it’s the truth.” Mostly. It was actually the nuns who were helping her. “How dare you touch me. Let go of me or . . .”

  She looked to the men at the dock, but they were busy with the boat and turned in the other direction. As she was sure Fin knew. He wouldn’t have touched her otherwise. Not that the men would come to her rescue. The entire isle seemed to look on her with suspicion and distrust.

  She didn’t belong here. She would never belong here. It was nothing like home. Everything she did was met with censure. She couldn’t ride, sail, or walk anywhere without someone wondering where she was going or why she wasn’t accompanied. There were no more challenges, no more whisky (apparently a man’s drink), and no more bawdy jests with her brothers. What she wore, how she ate, even how she prayed—or rather how often she prayed—were all up for scrutiny.

  God, how she hated it.

  “Or what?” Fin sneered, but at least he dropped her arm. “Who are you going to run to? Lady Rignach? The laird? I think they’ll be more interested in where you went after the convent, and what is in the purse at your waist.”

  She gaped at him in shock. “You were spying on me!”

  He smiled. “I’m only doing my duty. You are my responsibility. Eoin left you to me.”

  Margaret suspected the wording was intentional, and it made her heart beat even faster.

  Of all the grievances she had with her hu
sband—and there were many—perhaps that was the worst. He’d made Fin swear to watch over her and protect her with his life. In other words, he’d put Fin in the position to torment her.

  “I wonder what he’d make of his wife gallivanting all over town with another man, and then disappearing for hours together into a building.”

  Margaret’s teeth were gritted together so hard with outrage she could barely get the words out. “With a man of the cloth into the rectory!”

  The young priest had been kind enough to let her use his paints.

  Fin gave a harsh laugh. “It would hardly be the first time a priest didn’t hold to his vows.”

  Margaret had had enough. “I owe you no explanation. If my husband has questions when he returns he can ask me himself.”

  “After five months, I think it’s safe to say your husband has found more important things to keep him busy.”

  The words were cruel and hurtful—especially because they were true—but something in Fin’s voice told her that she wasn’t the only one feeling the sting. Fin, too, was in the dark about Eoin’s activities, and on that one point maybe they could commiserate.

  Five months. How could Eoin have left her for five months with barely a word? The two short notes she’d received from him, which the nuns had been kind enough to read to her, had offered no explanation or excuse, only vague words of regret for how “soon they’d had to part,” and even more vague promises that he would return to her “as soon as he could.” Until then he hoped she would “make an effort” to “fit in” around Gylen with his mother’s help.

  Obviously Lady Rignach had been voicing her complaints.

  Maybe if Margaret could have done so on her own, she would have responded. Maybe she would have poured out her misery, her anger, and her broken heart in dark blotches of ink all over that wretched piece of parchment.

  But she would not ask the nuns to write about how much she hated it here. How she would never “fit in.” How everyone treated her like a pariah so she had to escape to Oban to find someone to help her. How she had hoped to keep busy as she had at Garthland by helping with the household, but how his mother had made it very clear that her help was not needed or wanted.