His jaw scratched the tender skin of her chin, but she didn’t care. Closer . . . Harder . . . She wanted to be consumed. She wanted to melt into him. To become one.
His hand was no longer in her hair. It was on her bottom, lifting her . . .
The floor dropped out of her stomach. A rush of liquid warmth flooded between her legs. She could feel him, the hard column of his manhood fitted intimately against her. It felt . . . big. Powerful. And really, really good.
Especially when he started to move his hips in insistent little circles. Her stomach dropped again, and the place between her legs grew even warmer and more needy. Her body trembled. She ached to press back. And she would have, had the sound of the door opening not torn them apart.
He released her so suddenly she stumbled and might have fallen had she not hit the stone support of the wall behind her.
“MacLean, are you—” The man stopped, and seeing them, he swore. Still in a lust-induced daze, it took Margaret a moment to recognize Eoin’s foster brother standing in the doorway. “Oh hell, I didn’t meant to . . . interrupt.”
Though there was nothing overtly lascivious or suggestive in his tone, the way his eyes slid over her bruised mouth and still-heaving chest when he said the last made her stiffen.
Eoin recovered faster than she did. He stepped in front of her. The instinctively protective gesture—as if he could shield her from the embarrassment of being discovered in such an intimate embrace—was surprisingly sweet. She felt a strange swell of warmth fill her chest.
“I will join you in a moment, Fin,” he said sharply.
Fin gave him a slow smile. This time there was no mistaking the suggestiveness. “Take as long as you need.”
Margaret couldn’t see Eoin’s expression, but from how fast his friend left the room, she suspected it had been threatening.
By time he turned back to her, however, the look was gone, replaced by the inscrutable mask. “I owe you an apology. That never should have happened.”
Looking at his hard, implacable features, it was hard to believe this was the same man who’d been kissing her so passionately a few minutes before.
What was it about Eoin MacLean that drew her? She’d known handsome men before, and even a few who were as tall and powerfully built. She’d also met serious men—although maybe none who were quite so intense. But she’d never met a man whose gaze could level on hers and make her feel as if he knew what she was thinking.
She tilted her head, studying him contemplatively. “What did happen?”
For one brief moment their eyes connected and she felt the force of it like a steel vise around her ribs. “I don’t have any idea.”
The blunt admission charmed her, and she couldn’t resist giving him a teasing smile. “Well, in case you were wondering, I think that signifies as ‘liberties.’ ”
He surprised her with a sharp laugh, and then a smile—a crooked half-curl of his mouth that hit her square in the chest. The furrowed lines between his brows disappeared, and the smile transformed his features, making him look boyishly charming and so handsome she thought she might just be content to stare at him forever.
“Ah, yes, I can see the difference now,” he said dryly.
“I thought you might. And I can see what you meant about pups.” Her smile turned wry. “Although I didn’t mean to offer quite that big of an invitation.”
He sobered instantly. “I didn’t mean what I said. I spoke out of anger. You did nothing wrong. What happened was my fault.”
“What happened happened. It was no one’s fault.” She fought back a smile. “I’m glad to hear I didn’t do anything wrong though. In case you are wondering, I don’t have any complaints on your end either.”
He bit out a sharp laugh and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe she was teasing him about something so intimate. “Good to know.”
They shared a moment of silence that was surprisingly comfortable. She liked him, she realized. This quiet, serious, intense young warrior. She liked seeing the cracks in his reserve and the dry sense of humor that emerged. She liked making him smile, and seeing those lines between his brows disappear. She liked the way he looked, the keen intelligence in his eyes, the way he held her as he kissed her, and the way he’d jumped to protect her both on the dance floor and when Fin had interrupted them.
She liked him . . . a lot.
Maybe her thoughts were more transparent than she realized. His half smile fell, and his eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “Fault or not, it cannot happen again.”
She wanted to argue, but how could she? He was right.
“You should go,” he said. “Comyn is probably wondering why you haven’t returned to the Hall.”
If there had been anything in his voice to suggest he cared, she might have hesitated. Instead, she nodded and did as he’d bade. But her chest ached as she walked away. There was something about Eoin MacLean that called to her, that felt special, that made her want to hold on to him and never let go.
She told herself she was being as foolish as Annie, the thirteen-year-old butter girl, who’d followed the sixteen-year-old stable lad, Padraig, around moon-eyed for nearly a month last year, thinking she was in love.
Daughters of powerful lairds didn’t fall in love.
She bit her lip. At least she hoped they didn’t.
6
EOIN KNEW he should be trying to think of ways to impress Bruce, but he was too distracted. As the hunting party of a dozen men rode through the forested valley to the southwest below castle hill known as the King’s Park on a cool, gray morning, he wasn’t thinking about traps, strategies, terrain, or even the stag he’d just brought down. He couldn’t think about anything but the kiss he was supposed to be forgetting.
What the hell had come over him? His physical weakness for the lass was unsettling. It wasn’t like him at all. He’d never done anything like that in his life. He’d been moments away from pushing her back onto that bench in the mural chamber and doing something stupid. Something very stupid. Something that could have brought him a whole shite heap of trouble. From Bruce, from his father, and from MacDowell.
And she would have let him. That was what he couldn’t get out of his blasted mind. He could have had her, and the knowledge taunted him—and tempted him—far more than it should.
He still didn’t know how it had spun out of control like that. One minute he’d been kissing her and she’d been responding—in a way that made it clear that it wasn’t the first time she’d been kissed—and the next he’d had his cock wedged between her legs and they’d practically been swiving with their clothes on. The feel of that softly curved bottom in his hand and the press of her hip as she rode against him was not something he’d soon forget.
Hell, it was not something he’d ever forget. He’d probably go to his grave thinking about that kiss and those sweet little insistent moans.
He adjusted himself for what felt like the dozenth time as they’d ridden this morning as he swelled with the memory.
As the track through the forest widened, Fin rode up beside him.
“What’s the matter with you?” his foster brother said in a low voice. “You’ve barely said a word all morning.” He shot him a knowing sidelong glance. “Or maybe I don’t need to ask. From your dark expression, I take it you didn’t finish after I interrupted yesterday? The way the lass was moaning, I thought she wouldn’t be able to wait.”
Eoin’s jaw hardened, his mouth clenching with anger and distaste. He sent Fin a dark glare. “I told you last night nothing happened. What you saw was a mistake.”
Fin laughed. “It might have been a mistake, but if that was ‘nothing,’ I wouldn’t mind a taste of it. Where do I get in line?”
If they hadn’t been riding, Fin would have been on his back. As it was, Eoin contemplated leaning over and wrapping his hand around his neck. Instead, his fingers tightened around the reins until his knuckles turned white. “Stay away from her, Fin. I mean it.”
Fin gave him a long look through narrowed eyes, as if he knew how close Eoin was to striking him. “You’re acting a little possessive for ‘nothing.’ Are you sure there isn’t more to this than you are letting on? God’s hooks, don’t tell me you actually like the lass?”
Eoin’s teeth hurt, his jaw was clenched so tight. He did like her. That was the problem. She was . . . different. Confident, good-natured, and charming with a wry, self-deprecating, slightly wicked sense of humor that made him wonder what outrageous thing was going to come out of her mouth next. “I don’t have any complaints on your end either.”
The lass was incorrigible. And amusing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that with a woman. Probably because he never had.
Fin must have guessed his thoughts. “She isn’t for you, MacLean. I know you, and a brazen minx like Margaret MacDowell would drive you out of your mind with her antics. Do you really want to take the time to mold her into a proper wife—even assuming it could be done? You might be bold and inventive on the battlefield, but you are reserved and conventional about everything else. I’ll give you, there’s something different and enticing about the lass in all of her primitive splendor, but do you want a wife who runs around the countryside as wild as a heathen and looks like a ripe peach waiting to be plucked? She won’t be content to sit waiting contentedly by the home fires while you do whatever the hell you want. A lass like that demands attention. Yours is fixed elsewhere and always has been. How long do you think it will take her to find that attention somewhere else?” He paused letting that sink in. “Do you think she’ll share your intellectual pursuits? The lass probably can’t even read and write her own name.” Fin gave him a hard, unflinching stare. “Bed her if you want, but don’t lose sight of what’s important. You have a brilliant future ahead of you. The lass will hold you back. Have you forgotten about Lady Barbara?”
“Of course not,” Eoin snapped. “I don’t need a damned lecture, and you are well off the mark about my intentions.”
“Am I?” Fin challenged.
Eoin slammed his mouth shut. His foster brother might be a crude arse at times, but he knew him too well. Eoin might have harbored a thought or two in Lady Margaret’s direction after that kiss, but Fin was right in more ways than one. Lady Margaret was a temporary distraction—a beautiful one—but not the sophisticated, learned sort of woman who would content him in the long term.
For that he needed a woman like Lady Barbara. For an ambitious warrior there could be hardly better connection than with a Keith. Moreover, Lady Barbara knew what was expected of her. Demure and circumspect, she wouldn’t draw attention wherever she went. She wouldn’t make inappropriate jests or provide endless fodder for the gossipmongers at court. Fin was right. A man wouldn’t have a moment’s peace in his life with a wife like Margaret.
But there would never a dull moment.
And there would be fun.
And excitement.
And passion.
He’d never wanted that before, but she’d given him a taste of it, and he had to admit it was more enticing than he would have expected. Enticing and distracting.
Still furious with his friend, Eoin was saved from having to respond when Bruce called him forward. For the rest of the ride, Eoin concentrated on what he loved best—warfare—and on convincing his kinsman that he was the best man for the place in his secret army. This was his chance, and he wasn’t going to bugger it up.
They were locked in a fierce debate about William Wallace as they reached the top of the steep hill and rode through the main gate into the outer bailey of the castle. Perched high on a rocky hill, inaccessible from three sides by sheer rock face, Stirling had not one but two walls protecting the towers and buildings within.
“Wallace failed because he could not rally Scotland’s nobles behind him to stand as one against Edward,” Bruce said, dismounting.
“Partly,” Eoin agreed. Already off his horse, he handed off the courser to one of the stable lads who’d rushed out to meet them. “But he might have had a better chance had he stuck with his type of warfare and not relied on the nobles in battle.”
Bruce stiffened, obviously sensitive about the subject, though Eoin hadn’t been referring to him but to Comyn’s desertion at Falkirk. The Lord of Badenoch’s decision to have his cavalry retreat on the battlefield had left the infantry unprotected and led to Wallace’s disastrous defeat. Even with Badenoch’s cavalry, victory would not have been assured, but without him the loss had been all but guaranteed.
Eoin hastened to clarify. “Wallace was at his best when he avoided pitched battle, when he made the English fight on his terms. It was his unconventional warfare—the surprise attacks and ambuscade—that gave him a chance against the English militarily. Winning over Scotland—and its nobles—politically was another matter.”
Bruce’s mouth quirked. Eoin took that as a concession, as he followed his kinsman over to the wall that looked out over the town below. Most of the rest of the party did not follow them, retreating to the barracks or Hall, but Fin, Campbell, and a few others lingered.
“You speak of furtive ‘pirate’ tactics,” Bruce said. “Yet here we are in the shadow of Wallace’s greatest victory, and the one for which he will always be remembered.” He pointed to the bridge in the distance below to the northeast. “The pitched battle of Stirling Bridge.”
“Aye, it wasn’t a skirmish or chance encounter, but even then he fought his war, using unconventional tactics—trickery of sorts. He took advantage of his position and lured the English into terrain of his choosing: a narrow bridge where he could trap them in a loop in the river and then cut them down as they came across to take away the power of their numbers. That’s certainly a far cry from two armies meeting face-to-face and letting knights and strength of arms battle it out.” Eoin paused. “I’m not saying that we can never fight a pitched battle and win. I’m saying we should not fight one unless it is a place and setting of our choosing where we can even the odds. Until then, many small victories can be every bit as demoralizing and effective as one big one. It isn’t vanguards and formations, or longbows, cavalry, and schiltrons that will defeat the English, it’s our knowledge of the terrain, our ingenuity, and our ability to outthink them by using all the weapons in our arsenal, be they trickery, deviousness, or fear.”
Bruce smiled. “That’s probably the longest speech I’ve ever heard you give, cousin. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so enthusiastically about anything.”
“He lives for this shite, my lord,” Fin interjected. “Don’t let that serious, scholarly reputation fool you. MacLean might be smart, but he’s also the most devious bastard I know on the battlefield. You don’t know how glad I was to have him on my side when we were young. I almost pitied John of Lorn’s sons, when we were all being fostered on Islay. I can’t tell you how many times MacLean got the best of them after some prank they pulled. It’s like a game to him. But he’s the only one smart enough to play.”
As the MacDougalls were shared foes, Bruce seemed to appreciate the example. He also looked very intrigued—as if this were exactly the type of information about Eoin that he’d wanted to hear.
Eoin was surprised by but grateful for Fin’s praise after the near blows they’d come to earlier. He was closer to Fin than he was to anyone, and he didn’t like to have discord between them. The way his foster brother spoke of women had always made him uncomfortable, but never had Eoin felt it so personally.
It wasn’t just the crude comment about Lady Margaret, however, but also the cold, hard truth he’d imparted. Truth that Eoin didn’t want to hear.
“Well, if he plays it half as well as he plays chess, I’d like to see it,” Bruce said.
Before Eoin could ask him what he had in mind, Fin interjected, “Speaking of chess . . .” He nodded his head in the direction of the two women who’d just ridden through the gate behind him.
Eoin stiffened, almost as if he were b
racing himself.
It wasn’t enough to dull the impact.
God’s blood, she was breathtaking. Gut wrenching. Knee buckling. The Fair Maid? What an understatement. Bold Enchantress, Seductive Siren, Brazen Beauty, those were more fitting.
What had Fin said? Primitive splendor? She certainly fit that description right now. Her fiery hair was streaming around her shoulders in wild disarray, her cheeks were rosy from exertion, and her eyes were bright and sparkling with laughter. Against the background of the burnished countryside and gray walls of the castle, she looked vibrant and alive. Like a part of life that he’d been missing. He wanted to breathe her in, let her wash over him, and bask in all that joyful radiance.
She might be trouble, utterly “wrong” for him, and show none of the restraint and modesty of a noblewoman, but she made him want to bother.
Their eyes met for one long heartbeat. He told himself he was relieved when she shifted her gaze away. But the hand that had wrapped around his chest wouldn’t seem to let go.
He wanted her. So much that for the first time he didn’t trust himself to do the smart thing.
She would have turned away, but Bruce had never met a woman he didn’t want to charm—even one who was the daughter of his enemy. “Ah, it’s your little maid,” Bruce teased under his breath.
Christ, even his cousin had noticed?
Eoin tried to cover his embarrassment as Bruce gave the ladies a gallant bow. “Lady Margaret, Lady Brigid, I see that we were not the only ones to enjoy a ride this morning.” He looked behind them and frowned. “But where are your escorts?”
Margaret and her friend looked at each other, clearly trying not to break out into fresh peals of laughter.
“Behind us,” Margaret said. “Far behind us, I hope. Seeing as it was a race.”
She gave the Lord of Carrick a cheeky grin as she dismounted with the help of one of the stable lads and walked toward them. Even her walk was enticing, the gentle sway of her hips a seductive promise. Eoin couldn’t look away.
The Striker Page 7
