The Striker Read online

  The MacLeans were formidable warriors, he continued, and despite their ties of kinship with the Bruces, they were still giving signs of indecision on whether they would fight for him if war came.

  Her gaze might have turned too speculative. For although her father might not have much schooling and he had as much idea on how to play chess as she did, he was shrewd, and the look he subsequently directed to John Comyn reminded her of what was expected of her.

  He need not have worried. Margaret knew her part. She liked the young nobleman well enough, and when the dancing began, she was surprised to discover that he was a good—if slightly stiff—dancer. When another man claimed her for the next dance, he was clearly reluctant to let her go, which Margaret took as a good sign.

  Swept up in the dancing and three cups of wernage—the sweetened wine having gone to her head—it took her awhile to realize that Brigid was trying to get her attention.

  When she could finally break free, her friend dragged her outside of the Hall into a small corridor.

  Brigid looked like she was about to cry. “What is it?” Margaret asked.

  “I heard them,” Brigid answered, twisting her hands anxiously.

  “Heard who?”

  “All of them,” her voice broke. “The ladies.”

  Margaret pursed her mouth. She might have thickened skin when it came to gossip, but Brigid did not. If someone had hurt her feelings, Margaret would see them regret it. “What did they say?”

  “They called us heathens,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “Is that all?” Margaret laughed and shook her head. “That’s ridiculous, Brige. You can’t let people like that upset you.”

  Brigid shook her head. “That’s not all. They are saying . . . horrible things.”

  Margaret frowned. Clearly those horrible things must be about her, as Brigid seemed reluctant to say more. “It’s all right. You will not hurt my feelings.”

  Brigid chewed nervously on her bottom lip. “It isn’t you . . . exactly. It’s more your clan. The MacDowells do not have the, er, best reputation.”

  Margaret’s frown turned sharper. Fiercely proud, she had been raised to think of the MacDowells as akin to royalty. They’d ruled over Galloway like kings—and queens—for hundreds of years. “What do you mean?”

  “The MacDowells are thought to be . . . uh . . . a little uncivilized. A little wild.”

  Margaret was indignant. “Because we do not act like Englishmen? Because we hold true to our ancient Gàidheal culture and Brehon laws more than the feudal yoke of English kings?”

  “They see it as backward.”

  “You mean us as backward.”

  Brigid shrugged indifferently, but Margaret knew it mattered to her. As much as she just wanted to dismiss it, she knew it wasn’t so easy for Brigid to do so. “They have their ways and we have ours. Just because we do things differently doesn’t make them wrong.”

  “I know that,” Brigid said, her eyes swimming with tears. “It’s just not as easy for me to ignore them as it is for you.”

  A wry smile turned her mouth. “It isn’t always easy.”

  Brigid appeared shocked by her admission. “It isn’t? But you always appear so confident. You never take anything from anyone—even your father.”

  Margaret had always thought her friend intimidated by her father, but at that moment her voice held something more like fear.

  “I am the only girl in a home of nine overbearing—or on their way to overbearing—men,” she said. “How long do you think I would have survived if I’d shown any weakness? Appearing confident was a matter of survival. I learned early that if I didn’t assert myself, I would be lost. I had to shout pretty loudly to be heard over all those male voices,” she said with a smile. “But eventually I learned to make myself heard without raising my voice.” She paused and said gently, “You can’t let them intimidate you, Brige. People like those women, if they sense blood, they’ll dive in for the kill. The trick is to not let them see that their words have wounded you.”

  Brigid eyed her skeptically. “And how might I do that? I’m not like you. I don’t have a rebellious nature.”

  Did she? Margaret had never thought of it that way, but maybe Brigid was right. She was a MacDowell, and the MacDowells were always ready to fight. “By smiling in the face of their rudeness and remembering who you are,” she replied. “A MacCan. A proud member of an old and respected clan. You are not ashamed of your family, are you?”

  For the first time since they’d arrived, her friend showed a flash of the spirit Margaret knew was lurking underneath. She looked outraged by the mere suggestion.

  Brigid straightened her spine and gave Margaret a long, proud look down the length of her nose. “Of course not.”

  Margaret grinned. “Hold that look, Brige, and smile. It’s perfect. They won’t stand a chance. And once we’ve shown them they can not intimidate us with their gossip, we’ll slay them with our most powerful weapon.”

  A slow smile crept up her friend’s delicate features, as she realized she’d been tricked. “What’s that?”

  Margaret linked her arm in hers. “Why friendliness, of course. Once they get to know us, they’ll see we aren’t all that different. We might not dress the same, and our customs might not be the same, but inside, where it counts, we are all alike.”

  Brigid shook her head and laughed. “All alike? You have the oddest ideas, Maggie. I don’t know where you get them.”

  Margaret didn’t know either. But her certainty must have convinced her friend. A moment later when they re-entered the Hall, Brigid was smiling every bit as broadly as Margaret.

  4

  A WEEK LATER, Margaret’s smile had begun to falter. Discouraged, she was having a hard time following her own advice. Good gracious, these women were as judgmental as St. Peter at the pearl gates!

  No matter how hard she smiled and tried to be friendly, her efforts were rebuffed. If anything, the disapproving looks had become less veiled and more outrightly hostile, and the whispers had grown louder and more cruel.

  From her “idiotic” gaffe with the chessboard, to being mistaken for a servant and a wanton—which she’d unknowingly added to with her apparently forward attempts to “seduce” Eoin MacLean (first by asking him to teach her chess and then by “winking” at him—it wasn’t a wink, blast it), to her gowns and uncovered hair, she’d apparently played into every ridiculous misconception they had about her and her clan.

  But she refused to let them get to her. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and she would not pretend to be meek and mute for a bunch of narrow-minded, mean-spirited women. The MacDowells were not the unruly bunch of heathens everyone made them out to be. She might have been permitted more freedom than most women, being raised in a household of men so far from society—and after a week of being at Stirling with these women who made some nuns Margaret knew seem more fun, she could concede that was certainly true—but that didn’t make her immoral.

  Could they not see how ridiculous that was?

  Apparently not.

  Before every meal she had to practically get on her knees and beg to get Brigid to leave their chamber. She didn’t know why she bothered, when they were met with such cold unfriendliness by half the guests at the castle. Even her own notorious good cheer had begun to wane.

  Fortunately, if she hadn’t made an impression (at least a good one) on the women, her ostracism didn’t extend to the men. She never lacked for dance partners, and men crowded the benches at their table for every meal. They laughed at her jokes, listened to her stories, and did not seem to mind when she made a “misstep.” Men were much more accepting of differences.

  At least most seemed to be, but she wondered about the Lord of Badenoch. Her father told her not to worry, that the son was utterly “charmed,” but Margaret did not think the same could be said of his sire. She had the sense that like his wife and daughters, the Lord of Badenoch did not approve of her. She hoped she was imagining it
, but the more time John seemed to spend by her side, the more pinched his illustrious father’s expression seemed to grow. Impressing him was going to be her true challenge.

  Brigid had pled a headache for the midday meal, and Margaret was returning to the Hall after checking on her, when she stopped in her tracks at the sound of a voice. A deep voice that seemed to sink into her bones.

  Despite the crowd gathered near the entry, she picked him out right away. As it had too many times over the past week, her gaze landed right on the familiar dark-blond head.

  She felt that strange jarring in her chest—as if someone had gripped her heart and shook it—and then the blast of heat that illogically made her skin prickle as if she were cold.

  Her attraction didn’t make any sense. She liked men who smiled and jested—like Tristan. Not serious men who were as learned as a monk. But something about all that quiet, simmering intensity, something about those shrewd, nothing-gets-by-me eyes was wildly attractive. Viscerally attractive.

  Holy Cross, this was ridiculous! It was getting worse. All she had to do was set eyes on him and her body reacted. Her senses suddenly heightened—the air seemed purer and the sounds sharper—and her pulse leapt with something that felt a lot like anticipation.

  As there could be nothing to anticipate, however, she’d done her best to ignore both her reaction and him. The way he’d avoided her gaze when their eyes did happen to meet made her wonder if he were doing the same thing.

  It was hard to tell. His expression was always so infuriatingly inscrutable. But something about the way the furrowed lines between his brows deepened when his gaze landed on her, and the way his eyes seemed to become a little darker blue right before he turned away, made her think he was fighting this attraction as much as she was.

  Her reasons were clear, but what about his? Did they have something to do with Lady Barbara Keith?

  She felt a strange pinch in her chest as she peered through the crowd and glanced at the pretty fair-haired young woman standing a few feet away who was so often in his company. Not his company exactly, but his mother and sister’s, who were invariably nearby. Actually, the persons most often in his company were his foster brother, Finlaeie MacFinnon, and his brothers, Donald and Neil, but something about the way the marischal’s daughter looked at him—properly, of course, out from under her lowered and demurely cast eyes—made Margaret suspect there was something between them.

  And why that bothered her so much when she could have nothing to do with him, she had no idea.

  Taking advantage of all the people standing around the edge of the room while the trestle tables were being put away for the dancing, she inched closer to where he stood to see if she could hear anything.

  He was talking to Finlaeie—probably something about old battles, as the few times she’d overheard him talking it was about war—but she couldn’t make out their words.

  Unfortunately, his sister she could hear quite clearly. “Did you see that gown? I wouldn’t have been surprised if she started brewing ale right in the middle of the meal.”

  Margaret stilled, and though she didn’t want it to, her chest pinched. She had no doubt of whom they were speaking. She glanced down at what she thought was a pretty blue woolen gown. An ale wife? Although gossip and rumor might not bother her in the same way they did Brigid, that did not mean she was completely immune to their barbs.

  “It wasn’t as bad as all that,” Lady Barbara said softly—almost kindly. Which she quickly ruined by laughing. “If that is the ‘finery’ of Galloway, then I should not like to see what the peasants look like. Perhaps they wear nothing but leaves and heather?”

  Apparently the demure little kitten had claws.

  “Maybe she just enjoys flaunting her body at anyone who will take notice,” Marjory MacLean said. “I hope we are not forced to endure another few hours of watching her dance like a heathen at Beltane. I’m surprised she has found men willing to partner her and be the subject of such an . . . exhibition.”

  Margaret had heard enough, her hurt forgotten, her face heated with anger, no longer able to force a smile on her face. There was nothing wrong with her gown or the way she danced. And she was going to tell them exactly that.

  “She was looking at you again,” Fin whispered.

  Eoin clenched his jaw and pulled his friend off to the side. He didn’t need to ask who he meant. Fin and some of his other friends had picked up on the strange undercurrent running between Eoin and Lady Margaret and couldn’t resist prodding him about it every time the lass looked at him—which was too bloody often!

  But as he found himself doing the same damned thing, he could hardly blame her. Christ, his attraction to the lass was damned inconvenient, and Fin sure as hell wasn’t making it any easier. “Shut the hell up, Fin. One of the ladies will hear you.”

  “I don’t know why you are hesitating. If she were looking at me like that, I’d give her exactly what she was asking for and swive her senseless. It’s not as if it’s the first time . . .” His friend smiled wickedly. “For either of you.”

  Eoin didn’t have a temper to lose, so when the flash of rage sparked through him, tensing every muscle in his body and leaving him a hairbreadth from sinking his fist into Fin’s gleaming white grin, it took him by surprise.

  Fin as well. He stepped back instinctively, his brows shooting together.

  “What the hell is the matter with you, MacLean? You’re acting like a jealous suitor. Christ, you can’t be seriously considering pursuing the lass.”

  “I’m not considering anything,” Eoin said flatly. “But I’ll not hear malicious gossip repeated about any lady.” And no matter what he’d heard, he believed Margaret MacDowell was a lady.

  The rage that had surged through him subsided just as quickly. Suddenly he was embarrassed by the display of emotion, which didn’t make any sense, since he didn’t get emotional. He must be going mad. Probably of boredom. Being locked away in long, tension-filled negotiations all day, trying to prevent Bruce and the Lord of Badenoch, John “The Red” Comyn, from killing each other, and then being forced to dance attendance on Lady Barbara and listen to his sister’s prattle at the meals, was putting him on edge.

  “I think I need that hunt more than I realized,” he added. “The walls are beginning to close in on me.”

  Fin was still studying him too intently, but he accepted the explanation with a slam on the back. “I think I like it better when all you talk about is vanguards, ambuscade, and flanking.”

  Eoin managed a quirk of the mouth at that. His friend was right. That’s what he should be focusing on. But he would have his chance to impress Bruce tomorrow. The hunt would be an opportunity to prove himself.

  He turned back to the ladies just in time to hear his sister’s snide remark about Lady Margaret’s dancing.

  His mouth flattened with distaste. The not-so-nice comments that he’d forgiven as girlish insensitivity when Marjory was six and ten, three years later were beginning to sound spiteful and mean. His sister needed to learn to curb that acid tongue of hers.

  Unfortunately, Marjory’s was not the only unflattering remark he’d heard about Lady Margaret over the past week. He felt bad, knowing that he was partly to blame for providing the fodder. She might have laughed off his unfortunate choice of words, but the rest of court had not. The gossip didn’t seem to bother her though, and he couldn’t help but admire the way she smiled in the face of their rudeness. His sister would be in tears were she subject to half the unkind words he’d heard spoken about Lady Margaret.

  He was just about to admonish his sister when he noticed the lady in question moving toward them. The heightened color on her cheeks left him no doubt that Lady Margaret had heard what his sister had said, and from the determination in her expression, he sensed she was no longer of the mind to laugh it off.

  Whether he was trying to protect his sister or Lady Margaret he didn’t know, but without thinking he stepped in front of her. “Would you honor
me with the first dance, my lady?”

  He could hear his sister’s gasp of surprise behind him. He hated dancing, and thus far had avoided it.

  Lady Margaret stared at him, her sphinxlike golden eyes burning into his. For a moment he thought she might refuse. Clearly she wanted to give his sister a tongue-lashing. And though it was deserved, it wouldn’t do for either of them.

  The last thing Lady Margaret needed was more negative attention to fuel the fires of the court gossip. Maybe she realized it as well. After a long, uncomfortable pause, she nodded.

  His sister could thank him later, for he knew without a doubt that he’d saved her from a setting down she would not soon forget.

  But the instant Lady Margaret’s soft hand slid into his, Eoin knew he’d made a mistake. He should have let his sister take the public flogging. Instead, he’d opened Pandora’s box, releasing something that would never be contained again.

  The shock that ran through him at the contact was akin to a bolt of lightning. A magnetic bolt of lightning. It drew them together in a way that could not be denied.

  Something jammed in his chest. His lungs seemed to have stopped working. But his heart made up for it with the frantic pounding. He was riveted—utterly spellbound. Eoin forgot that he was dancing—forgot that he didn’t even like dancing—forgot the music, and forgot the other people around him. As he led her through the steps of the reel, he couldn’t look away from her face. The delicate sweep of her cheek, the soft point of her chin, the slightly turned up nose.

  The sensual curve of her mouth.

  Damn it, she was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. Parts of his body did hurt. His chest, for one, and another part that had swelled with heat and was hard as a rock, oblivious to the fact that they were in a crowded ballroom.

  But he was beyond all reason, caught up in an almost dreamlike trance. A hot, dreamlike trance of powerful attraction that sent fire racing through his veins.

  Their bodies moved together as one. There was no need to talk. What was being said between them was in every glance, every touch, every heartbeat.