The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  “It is, but I wanted to make sure you both had everything you needed.”

  She smiled. “We’re fine, Eoin. You don’t need to check up on us. Enjoy your celebration. I know you must have been waiting for this for a long time.”

  Given what had happened years ago, she would not begrudge him his victory, even if it was at the expense of her father and clansmen.

  But what would become of the once proud and ancient clan of MacDowell? Eoin had her undivided loyalty, but that didn’t mean she stopped loving her family.

  He stepped closer to her, and she couldn’t prevent the resulting quickening of her heartbeat—or of her breath.

  The passion they’d shared last night only heightened her body’s reaction to him. Every nerve ending seemed to flush with awareness and not a small amount of anticipation.

  She’d forgotten everything. Forgotten how good it was between them. Forgotten how it felt to experience the kind of all-consuming pleasure that grabbed you deep down and wouldn’t let go. Forgotten how it felt to have his weight on top of her, how it felt to have him inside her—filling her. And most of all, she’d forgotten how it felt to shatter into a million tiny pieces of bliss.

  Six years of abstinence would not be sated by one night. First Tristan, and then when he’d tired of waiting for her mourning to be over, Sir John, had tried to make their relationship intimate, but it had felt wrong—disloyal somehow even to a husband she thought dead.

  Ironic, given that . . .

  She tried to push the thought away that had lodged in her head the night before, when she realized the difference in her husband’s lovemaking. He made love like a man—an experienced man. With all the confidence and finesse of someone who knew exactly how to bring a woman pleasure.

  Her chest squeezed. She had no right to expect six years of abstinence from him, but being confronted with the proof otherwise hurt.

  He stared down at her. “I have been waiting for this day for a long time, but strangely I don’t feel much like celebrating.” He smiled a little deviously for someone usually so serious. “At least not with the men below.”

  The gaze that swept over her body and lingered left her no doubt of what he meant. But Margaret was determined not to fall into the trap of passion again. She wanted to be close to him—not just physically—and she sensed there was something about the warriors he was with all the time that was important.

  She took a step back. “Tell me about them.”

  He frowned. “Who?”

  “The men you are always with. Ewen Lamont, Magnus MacKay . . .” She was about to say the good-looking man MacKay was always with, but then realized that wasn’t exactly descriptive, as she would have had to be blind not to notice his friends were all rather uncommonly attractive. “The dark-haired warrior he’s always with, Robbie Boyd, and the three scary-looking Islesmen.” There may have been one or two others, but they were the ones she could remember.

  Had she not been watching him closely, she would have missed the surprise that crossed his gaze before the blank mask dropped over his face. He’s hiding something.

  “What do you wish to know?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, you seem unusually close, that’s all. It’s odd to see men of different clans fighting together rather than with their own.” She frowned; most of the men in Robert Bruce’s retinue were well known—Douglas, Randolph, Edward Bruce, James the Steward, Robert Keith, Neil Campbell, Alexander Lindsay, David Barclay, and Hugh of Ross. “Are you part of the king’s retinue?”

  “Not exactly, although I often fight with them.” He closed the distance between them, not un-coincidentally she suspected, backing her to the most dominant piece of furniture in the small chamber: the bed. “Why are you so curious about them, Maggie?” His voice was husky as he brushed the back of his finger over the curve of her cheek. When he dropped it down her throat, over her pulse to the curve of her breasts, and leaned down closer, her breath quickened. “Do I have cause to be jealous?”

  Heat roared up her cheeks. “Of course not!”

  “Good. They’re all happily married anyway.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  He cut off her protest with a kiss. A long, slow, thoroughly distracting kiss.

  Though she suspected it was intentional, she decided to let him get away with it. She had to be patient. She wanted to know about him—about what he did—but sharing and trust would not come overnight. And in the meantime . . .

  He was awfully good at distracting.

  The muscles in the back of his neck tensed with the sound of laughter. Eoin had to force himself not to turn around again. He knew what he would see.

  Bloody hell, he thought with not an insignificant amount of irritation. Maybe they should have ridden to Kerrera after all. When Hawk had offered to sail them to Gylen on his way to Spoon Island to see his own family, Eoin had jumped at the chance to avoid the drudgery of overland travel and long days in the saddle—especially with his sore knee. By ship, the journey that could take weeks depending on the roads would be only a matter of days. Although the sea roads between Dumfries and the Argyll coast could be dangerous—and Eoin would not have chanced it on his own—with the best seafarer in a kingdom of seafarers at the helm, Eoin was confident that they would be able to outrun any trouble.

  MacSorley had saved their hides more times than he could count, and Eoin trusted the brash West Highland chieftain with not only his life, but his wife and son’s. But why the hell did he have to be so damned likable?

  MacSorley was wickedly funny, could charm the habit off a nun, and never took anything too seriously. In short, he was everything Eoin wasn’t. Which was why watching his son—the son who’d barely said three words to him—hanging on his friend’s every word, spellbound by the big Gall-Gaedhil (who looked more Viking than Gael), grated. Margaret wasn’t helping matters any; she was laughing at Hawk’s jests just as hard as the lad, damn it.

  Why was he surprised? Hawk and Margaret were two sides of the same coin. He frowned. At least they used to be. When he’d first met Hawk, Eoin had been struck by their similar personalities. But Margaret had changed, he realized. She no longer walked into the room with the brash, swaggering confidence of a pirate taking over a ship; she didn’t say outrageous things or make irreverent jokes; and she dressed as fine as any English noblewoman, with her bold, dramatic locks tucked neatly and modestly behind a veil—although she was having a devil of a time with the wind. He smiled, watching her struggle to tame the red strands from whipping wildly around her head.

  She was far more quiet and reserved, and although her beauty would always set her apart, she no longer stuck out like a peacock in a flock of wrens. She was the type of decorous noblewoman who would make any man proud. Which was exactly what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?

  Turning around, he caught sight of her face twinkling with laughter, and it clobbered him in the chest with the force of a taber. He was a bloody fool. He’d been drawn to her precisely because she was so different—because she was so special. She’d brought out a side of him no one ever had before. He’d felt lighter when he was with her. Happier. The world hadn’t seemed quite so grave and not everything so dire. His life had felt broader than the narrow field of battle.

  No wonder she’d been so unhappy at Kerrera. He’d forced her into a mold of conventionality and made her feel as if she wasn’t good enough for him the way she was. But she’d been perfect.

  He wanted the girl he’d married back. He wanted her to be happy again. He wanted her naughty and a little outrageous. He wanted to see her hair flowing down her back and her head bent over a horse as she tore uninhibited across the countryside. He wanted her to look at him as if she couldn’t wait to swive him senseless.

  The way she was laughing right now made him think that it might not be too late.

  But as soon as their eyes met, she seemed to catch herself. The girlish smile fell from her face and her laugh seemed suddenly more restrained.


  Guilt stabbed, and he swore he would do what he could to make it up to her. “Get your family in order,” the king had said before he left. Eoin intended to do just that.

  But it would be a hell of a lot easier if he could confide in her about his role in Bruce’s army. He hated keeping her in the dark, and if her questions about the Guard were any indication, her perceptiveness was going to make it difficult.

  As the coast of Galloway disappeared into the morning mist, he took his turn at the oars, focusing on the steady rhythm of the blade cutting through the waves, rather than the goings-on at the back of the ship. But he could hear them.

  “I have a son about your age,” MacSorley’s deep voice rang out.

  “You do?” Eachann asked. “How old is he?”

  “He’ll be five just after midsummer.”

  “I’m already five,” Eachann said proudly. “My birthday was on All Saints’ Day.”

  Eoin’s gut stabbed; he hadn’t even known that.

  “I should have guessed,” MacSorley said, laughter in his voice. “You are much bigger than Duncan.”

  “I am?” Eachann couldn’t hide his surprise. “My grandfather said I had to eat more or I would never grow big and strong enough to be a warrior.”

  “You can be whatever you want, Eachann,” Margaret interjected firmly. “You don’t have to be as tall as the captain to be a warrior—if that is what you want to be.”

  From the way that Margaret hastened to respond, Eoin sensed the lad’s size was a tender spot. Was he small? Eoin didn’t have much experience with boys his age, but supposed he could be. Eachann was built like his brother Donald. Donald was two years older than Eoin, but Eoin had been a head taller than him by the time they were thirteen. Donald was lean and wiry, as opposed to muscular like Eoin and their eldest brother, Neil. It had bothered Donald, too, until he’d found his strength. Like MacSorley, his brother excelled at seafaring.

  MacSorley must have picked up on the sore spot as well. “Your mother is right, lad. In fact, I even know a lass who can flip me on my backside. And she has . . . more than once,” he grumbled.

  “She must have been a big lass,” Eachann said, clearly not sure whether to believe him.

  MacSorley laughed. “I’m afraid not. She’s about Peter’s size.” He pointed to the youth, who was only a few inches over five feet and probably seven stone soaking wet.

  “Now I know you’re jesting,” Eachann said.

  “Her name is Cate and she’s betrothed to a friend of mine.” He paused. “At least they were betrothed until . . .” He waved it off. “No matter. She also happens to be the king’s daughter.”

  “But the king’s daughter is in an English convent,” Eachann said.

  “I think he means the king’s natural daughter,” Margaret said.

  “You mean she’s a bastard?” Eachann asked.

  Eoin’s mouth tightened. He didn’t need to turn to feel the boy’s gaze land on his back. Damn Dugald MacDowell to Hades!

  “Eachann . . .” Margaret started.

  But MacSorley only laughed. “Aye, I suppose she is. But I wouldn’t call her that if I were you, or she might put you on your backside.”

  Eoin had heard about how Gregor MacGregor’s intended had been trained in warfare and had managed to flip the big, always-ready-with-a-jest Viking while practicing. The other Guardsmen had been needling MacSorley about it ever since. Eoin would have given a month’s wages to have seen it.

  Tired of watching from afar while Hawk entertained his son, Eoin moved off the oars. He was going to see if Eachann wanted to help him with the navigation, when he heard MacSorley ask, “Would you like to hold the ropes for a while?”

  “Me? Really? You mean it?”

  Eoin quickly sat back down at the excitement in his son’s voice. Rough maps of the shoreline and a sun compass could hardly compete with holding the riggings.

  He didn’t realize he was frowning until Margaret sat down beside him. “Your friend is amusing. He reminds me of someone, although I can’t think who.”

  Eoin hid a smile, wondering how long it would take her to figure out it was herself.

  She lowered her voice. “Eachann is scared. He isn’t deliberately trying to hurt you. He just doesn’t know what to say. Your friend MacSorley is easier—there is nothing at stake with him.”

  Christ. Was he that easy to read? He didn’t bother denying it. “I tried talking to him this morning before we left, but he couldn’t seem to get away quickly enough.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing in particular. I asked if he had a favorite weapon he liked to practice with and mentioned that I was looking forward to his training when we arrived at Kerrera.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  She bit her lip as if debating something. After a minute, she reached a decision. Her gaze held a hint of challenge when she said, “I don’t think Eachann is very interested in warfare.”

  Her words took him aback. “I thought every little boy was interested in warfare.” He hadn’t thought of anything else.

  Her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “Not Eachann.”

  He sensed a slight defensiveness and guessed that like the boy’s size, the subject was a sensitive one. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why. Dugald MacDowell only raised warriors. But frankly, given that was all Eoin thought about—at least until he’d met Margaret—he’d assumed he would as well.

  He thought for a moment. “What is he interested in?”

  “Books. He reads everything he can get his hands on. He likes to build things.” She gestured toward the compass. “He’d probably be interested in that. He likes to know how things work.”

  The beginnings of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Perhaps his son was like him in other ways. “The lad is clever?”

  Her mouth twitched. “You could say that. He’s already beating me at chess.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly saying much.”

  “Eoin!” she shoved his shoulder. “That isn’t very nice.”

  He laughed. “Maybe not, but it’s true. Patience has never been your forte, but you do have other . . . uh, talents.”

  The meaningful look he gave her sent a blush roaring up her cheeks, but she drew up primly. “Aye, well you’ve never been very patient either when it comes to certain things.”

  He laughed again. She was right. He still wasn’t patient when it came to her. They had six years of catching up to do, and he couldn’t wait to get her back to Kerrera to start.

  Their laughter had caught the attention of their son. As soon as Eoin’s gaze met his, the little boy turned away. Eoin sighed, realizing he was going to need quite a bit of patience when it came to his son.

  Margaret was sad to have to say goodbye to the strapping seafarer. It wasn’t just that she liked Erik MacSorley—which she did (she hadn’t laughed like that in years)—it also meant that they’d arrived at their destination.

  As the flat, green hillsides and dark, rocky seashores of the Isle of Kerrera came into view, she had to admit she’d felt more than one pang of apprehension and doubt. But any worries that she was doing the right thing had faded when she remembered seeing those two dark-blond heads bent together for the first time. Her throat still grew tight just thinking about it.

  As they’d left the small island off the shore of Ireland where they’d spent the night, Eoin had taken her advice and asked Eachann if he wanted to learn how to navigate the ship. Though hesitant, their too curious son had been unable to resist the temptation of the flat piece of wood with curved marks drawn from the sun’s shadow on a vertical pointer. He’d asked dozens of questions, which Margaret quickly lost interest in, but which Eoin didn’t seem to mind. She had to admit it was nice to have someone else to answer Eachann’s never-ending questions, with increasing focus on the minutest details, that sometimes taxed Margaret’s motherly patience.

  She
could almost see the boy’s mind working as he tried to figure out a way to improve the accuracy of the crude instrument. Eachann liked to build things. Not forts and castles out of mud and sticks like the other boys, but useful things. Things that made tasks easier for people. She’d never forget when he read about the great horologe at Canterbury Cathedral that sounded the time with bells. It used weights rather than water, and before her failed wedding the boy had been experimenting with building his own cloc, the Gaelic word for bell. He’d been so excited, he’d talked nonstop about it for days.

  He was that way now. The difference this time was that he had an equally intrigued audience. Her mouth twisted with a smile. Maybe not an audience but an enthusiastic cohort.

  Eoin had been surprised to hear that his son didn’t seem to have much interest in being a warrior, but he’d recovered faster than she expected. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem disappointed. Actually, as the conversation intensified, Eoin’s pride in the boy became readily apparent.

  She was doing the right thing. Her son needed this. A father who was proud of him—who understood him—no matter what he chose to do was worth any risk to her heart.

  Buoyed by the first signs of softening in her son’s attitude toward his father, Margaret bid farewell to the handsome seafarer with the devilish grin, who was eager to return to his wife and children, and held Eachann’s hand tightly as they followed Eoin up the sea-gate stairs to the square stone keep of Gylen Castle, which sat perched on the cliff overlooking the sea. She needed all of that encouragement as she gazed up and saw the couple waiting to greet them. Her heartbeat quickened, and a familiar dread draped over her like a soggy plaid, the uncomfortable weight of it dragging her down.

  Margaret knew Eoin had sent a missive to his parents, apprising them of Eachann’s existence, but there hadn’t been time to inform them of their arrival. She harbored no illusions on her own account—Eoin’s parents were hardly likely to welcome her with open arms—but for Eachann’s sake, she hoped they would hide their disdain.