The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  Not wanting to make it worse, he didn’t tell her about Fin.

  What am I doing here?

  Margaret stood on the ramparts staring forlornly out to sea, wondering how her life could have changed so much in one year. She wasn’t the “fair maid” of Galloway anymore, she was the abandoned wife of an outlaw. She wasn’t living with a father and eight brothers who loved her, she was a pariah among strangers—most of them hostile. She wasn’t the laughing, lighthearted hostess who’d presided over her father’s table with confidence, she was the “unfortunate” mistake who sat below the salt and rarely spoke to anyone other than Tilda. And she wasn’t the lady of the castle who was busy helping to run a fiefdom for her father, she was the formerly irreverent girl who’s work at a convent was the only thing that kept her from going mad with boredom.

  And what was it all for? Was she waiting here for nothing? Where was Eoin? When would he come back? Would he come back?

  After the way they’d parted the last time, she wasn’t sure he’d want to. It had been nearly a month since that horrible night when her husband had appeared like a phantom in the dark to tell her of his plans. She deeply regretted some of the things she’d said, and the way she’d responded to his news with demands. But she’d been upset, frustrated, and desperate for him not to abandon her once more in this miserable place where she was cut off from everyone and everything that she loved—even the husband who’d brought her here.

  But it had been his words that haunted her. How could he suggest—even in anger—that she would wish for his death to escape this marriage? She loved him. She only wanted to be with him.

  But he was right. What choice did she have? She turned away from the sea to return to the tower. No matter how much it beckoned, she could not leave.

  She didn’t understand how everything could have gone so wrong. How could the marriage that had seemed so romantic and perfect feel like such a mistake? It seemed as if nothing had gone right since the moment they’d spoken their vows in the cottage. The world had turned against them. And there was nothing romantic about being married to a man whose misplaced loyalty had taken him away from her side for a year.

  All for a lost cause. She still couldn’t believe that he’d chosen to stay with Bruce. Even Eoin’s foster brother had surrendered to the Lord of Lorn. Fin, John MacDougall’s newest toady, had arrived at Gylen Castle as its keeper a week ago. With the MacLean laird and his son being declared outlaw rebels, the clan’s lands had been forfeit to the crown—the English crown. As sheriff of Argyll—the English king’s authority in the area—Lorn had given Fin command of the castle.

  At first Margaret had been horrified by the news of Fin’s return, until she’d learned the reason why. Fin had been given Marjory as a bride. The marriage that Eoin’s sister had always wanted would be hers as soon as the banns could be read.

  Margaret tried to be happy for her. She desperately hoped that she was wrong about Fin. He seemed to be doing his best to avoid her, for which she was grateful—and relieved.

  It wasn’t until the night of the betrothal celebration that Margaret learned he’d only been biding his time. Despite the happiness of the bride-to-be, there was a pall cast over the occasion by the absence of the laird and his sons—none of whom had been heard from since Eoin had left. Though the clansmen had been forced to swear to their new overlord, their loyalty was still with their laird, and they looked on Fin as something between an opportunist and a traitor.

  Fin had assured them that he’d only done it to protect them—and that Eoin understood—but Margaret didn’t fully believe him. She sensed that Lady Rignach didn’t either but had chosen to make the best of the situation by pretending to do so.

  The celebration was a stilted, awkward affair that was continuing late into the evening out of duty, not desire. Feeling the absence of her husband and finding it hard to hide her misery, Margaret slipped out of the stifling Hall into the stables to bring Dubh a special treat—an apple pilfered from the feast.

  She didn’t realize she’d been followed.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  She startled at the sound of the voice behind her, and recognizing it as Fin’s, her heart immediately started to race. Racing that spurred when she glanced around and realized he’d cornered her in the small stall and gotten rid of the stable lad who’d been sitting near the door. The door that was now closed.

  Straightening her spine, she squared her shoulders to face him. “Giving Dubh a treat. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, trying to brush by him, “I told Tilda I’d be back in a moment.”

  He caught her arm. “Not so fast. We have a few things to discuss, you and I.”

  The pounding of her heart echoed in the growing pit in her stomach. She could smell the heavy scent of whisky on his breath, and his eyes were wild with a drunken haze. Every instinct in her body seemed to ring in alarm.

  Being alone with Fin always made her nervous, but being alone with a drunken Fin made her terrified.

  “How did you do it?” His eyes scanned her face, and then dropped to her breasts, where they lingered with an unmistakable glint of lust before returning to her mouth. “How did you beguile him into marrying you so quickly? You’re beautiful, but he’s never been distracted by a pretty face. It must be something else. Did you get on your knees? He’s always had a weakness for a lass who sucked his cock. But then what man doesn’t?” He laughed crudely.

  Margaret gasped, so shocked and outraged she didn’t know what to say. Did women . . . ?

  She wrenched her arm away. “How dare you! When Eoin comes back—”

  “Comes back?” He laughed harder—crueler. “Eoin’s not coming back. Haven’t you realized that yet? If he comes here, he’s a dead man. Hell, he’s probably a dead man already.”

  Anger dulled some of her fear. She hated hearing her own fears echoed by this brute. “How can you say that? He’s your friend.”

  Fin sobered just a little. “Aye, but he made his choice. I made mine. We’ll both have to live with them. I’m surprised you are still defending him, considering.”

  “Considering w-what?” Margaret hoped her voice wasn’t shaking, but her heart was in her throat. He’d blocked the only exit to the stall with his body and was now backing her against the back wall.

  He smiled, but it never reached his drink-crazed eyes. “Considering that he left you here unprotected.” He leaned down, and she shuddered as his whisky-laden breath crawled over her skin. “You are a beautiful woman. Many men would be tempted—”

  “Then they would be fools,” she said, standing up straight, refusing to be cowed. “If my husband does not return to avenge my honor, I assure you my father and brothers will.”

  That gave him pause. But then his eyes narrowed on her once more, like a hawk with its prey in sight. It seemed he was no longer biding his time. “Your father and brothers are a long way away, but perhaps if you look around there is someone closer to home whom you can rely on.”

  “Who?”

  “I might be persuaded. With the proper enticements.” If the look he swept over her body left her any doubt of what he meant, his next move did not. He reached for her, drawing her up so quickly she didn’t have time to react before his mouth was crushing hers.

  He tasted of whisky and lust, and she would have gagged had she been able to breathe. He was just as big and muscular as her husband, and the assault of such a powerfully built man filled her with terror, but she was prepared. Vowing that she would repay her brothers if she had the chance for insisting she learn how to defend herself, Margaret lifted her knee between his legs. Hard.

  He crumpled like a poppet of rags, crying out in pain. She didn’t waste time, but drew her eating knife from the scabbard at her waist and held it to his neck.

  “If you ever touch me like that again, I’ll kill you.”

  The lust was gone. It was pure hatred that glared in his eyes now. “You’ll regret that, bitch.”

  She
did not doubt he meant it. Not wanting to give him a chance to recover, she ran past him out of the stall. There was nothing to do: she had to go to Lady Rignach.

  She would have—had she not run right into a stunned Marjory who was standing just outside the stall. From the stricken look on the girl’s face, if she hadn’t seen everything, she’d seen enough.

  When she turned and ran, Margaret chased after her. “Wait,” she said, catching her at the bottom of the tower stairs. “Oh God, Marjory, I’m so sorry you had to see that. But maybe it’s better if you learn the truth now.”

  “Learn what truth?” she repeated angrily. “That you’ve betrayed my brother and tried to seduce my betrothed? I saw you kiss him.” The facade of anger crumbled like a dry wall. “How could you?”

  Seeing the devastation in the other woman’s eyes, Margaret fought for patience as she tried to calmly explain. Marjory was hurt, but there was no interpretation that could have construed the events that had just occurred as Margaret’s fault. “Fin attacked me, Marjory. He was drunk. When he tried to kiss me, I was forced to defend myself. You must have seen the knife?”

  “Attacked? You mean provoked. What do you expect when you’ve been taunting him, seducing him for weeks—months? Then when he finally decides to take you up on your offer, you play the innocent and pull out your knife.” The tears had started to fall, and Marjory was sobbing uncontrollably. “God knows, you’ve done your best to confuse him. But Fin loves me, and everyone knows you’re a whore.”

  The sound of a slap shattered the cool night air. Margaret didn’t know which one of them was more shocked. But she wasn’t going to let anyone say something like that—even a woman who was supposed to be her sister.

  They stared at each other in the torchlight. “I hate you,” Marjory said, holding her cheek in her palm. “Everyone hates you. No one wants you here. I wish my brother had never married you, so you could just leave.”

  This time when she ran away, Margaret didn’t chase after her.

  Stonily, she climbed the steps to her chamber, donned a dark cloak, packed a few belongings in a bag—including the chess set she’d worked so hard on—and slipped out of the postern gate in the crowd of revelers without anyone noticing.

  She left behind a broken heart, her cherished horse that she could not sneak away without being seen, and a note for her husband should he ever return. He’d done what he had to do, and now so was she.

  Margaret MacDowell had had enough: she was going home.

  14

  Near Garthland Castle, Galloway, Scotland, St. Valentine’s Day, 1307

  THE WIND TORE the bindings from her plaits, sending her hair streaming out behind her, as Margaret lowered her head to the palfrey’s neck and raced through the shadowed trees.

  She could hear the shouting of her companion behind her, but he didn’t catch her until she drew up at the loch. “God’s bones, Maggie Beag, what the hell do you think you are doing?” He reached over and grabbed the reins from her, forcing her mount to come to a complete stop. “Are you trying to kill yourself, riding through the trees like that? I should take you over my knee.”

  Margaret stared at the familiar handsome face, although it wasn’t often turned toward her with such fury. Lord, she almost believed all those stories she heard of his fierceness on the battlefield when he looked like this. But Tristan MacCan had been her friend for as long as she could remember; it would take more than a dark look to send her cowering.

  She narrowed her eyes right back at him. “I was racing—and winning I’ll point out. And last time I looked you are not my father or my husband, Tristan MacCan, so don’t try to order me about.”

  With a toss of her head, she dismounted—hopping down with a loud exclamation. She strode to the water’s edge.

  But he was right behind her. Catching her by the arm, Tristan swung her around to face him. “Not yet, maybe. But when I am, I will take you over my knee, if you ever do anything like that again. You could have ridden into a limb in the darkness going that fast. You scared my heart right out of my chest.”

  He always did this, blast it. He took the anger right out of her when he said sweet things like that. She’d frightened him, and his reaction had been out of concern.

  But it was more than that. Tristan cared for her—more than she’d realized. It wasn’t until she’d returned home from Kerrera that she’d noticed the subtle changes. The way he stared at her with longing, and maybe a slight edge of possessiveness when he didn’t think she was looking. The way he no longer followed every pretty lass who fluttered her lashes at him out the door. The way he’d tried to ease the transition of her return home with her father and brothers.

  Tristan had always assumed—as she had—that her marriage would be a political one. Her marriage to Eoin had changed everything. Now that she was back, he thought he’d been given a second chance—thanks to her father. But she cared about him too much to give him hope where there was none. Her heart belonged to one man, and until she learned differently, she would wait for him.

  Four months after returning home, Margaret wondered if she’d made a mistake. The episode with Fin and Marjory had shaken her to the core; her only thought had been to escape. Had she given up too easily? Would Lady Rignach have listened to her? Had Eoin come home for her only to find her gone?

  She’d heard nothing from him directly, only rumors of Bruce and a handful of men fleeing to the Western Isles. It was as if they’d vanished into the mist five months ago. Recently, she’d heard rumblings of the “king’s” return—and her father was certainly being secretive about something with messengers coming and going at all hours—but the soldiers who’d garrisoned the nearby castles had been idle for months. For which she was relieved. God knew she had no love of King Edward, but neither did she want the war to resume. She just wanted Eoin to come home safely. No matter what her father said, she refused to believe he was dead.

  She turned to Tristan, who’d relaxed his hold on her arm but still was standing close to her. “I know what my father wants, Tristan. But I will not go along with his plans to dissolve my marriage with the claim of a precontract. You and I were not secretly betrothed, and I will not say we were.”

  It wasn’t yet dark enough to mask Tristan’s expression, and she could see the glint of annoyance in his ridiculously green eyes—Lud, they would put emeralds to shame! “I can’t believe you are still holding on to a man whom you barely know, who deserted you among strangers, and then expected you to sit by the hearth waiting for him. If you were my wife, I would have taken you with me. Nothing would have kept me from having you by my side.”

  Margaret felt a pang in her chest, knowing that Tristan spoke true. He would have taken her with him, and she couldn’t escape the thought that if Eoin had really loved her, he would have done so, too.

  He held her gaze. “He’s probably dead, you know.”

  She didn’t say anything, but looked away. She would know if he was . . . wouldn’t she?

  He forced her face back to his with a hand on her chin. “But even if he’s somehow survived the past few months, you don’t think he’ll come for you here, do you? You left him, Maggie.”

  The pang intensified, Tristan’s words an echo of her fears. “I told you why,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Aye, but I doubt he’ll bother to come around and ask questions. You made your choice clear when you came back to your family—where you belong.”

  But that was just it. She wasn’t sure she belonged anywhere anymore. Garthland was the same, but it was also different. Or maybe she was the one who was different. She laughed and jested, she spoke her mind, and did what she wanted without asking permission. Her days were busy and filled with purpose. She’d slipped right back into her role as chatelaine and had hosted countless feasts since she’d returned. She was no longer miserable.

  But neither was she happy. How could she be when Eoin was somewhere out there in danger? And just like at Gylen, there was no one s
he could talk to at Garthland about her fears for her husband. Not even Brigid. The distance she’d felt from her friend before leaving Stirling had widened since Margaret’s return. Normally Brigid would have accompanied Margaret and Tristan on the ride to the loch, but all Brigid seemed to want to do since she and her brother had arrived was to sit by the window and watch the men in the yard as she sewed. Margaret was even more convinced that Brigid had fallen in love, but every time she asked her friend about it, she got a pained look on her face and refused to talk about it.

  Just like at Gylen Castle, Margaret was caught between two loyalties. She didn’t fit in anywhere anymore, belonging to neither clan completely and distrusted by both.

  “Eoin loves me,” Margaret said to Brigid’s brother, trying to twist out of his hold. “He’ll come for me when he can.”

  She must have sounded more certain than she felt, because Tristan’s expression hardened. “And how long will that be?” He drew her closer, so their eyes were only inches apart in the darkness. “You are a beautiful, young woman, Maggie. Are you prepared to wait years for it to be safe enough for MacLean to try to sneak back here to fetch you? For sneak is what he will have to do. As long as your father lives—as long as any of the Lord of Badenoch’s kin live—it will never be safe for Bruce and his men in Scotland. He killed him before an altar, for God’s sake.” Ignoring his own blasphemy, he lowered his voice huskily. “And you forget, I’ve had you in my arms before. I know how passionate you are. Do you want to go months—years—without this?”

  He’d always been good at surprising her, and he did so again when he bent his head and kissed her. His lips were warm and soft, and his mouth tasted of cloves. It was instantly familiar, but it was also instantly wrong.

  He tried to cradle her head in his hand and bring her mouth closer to his to slide in his tongue as he used to do, but she pushed him forcefully away. He stumbled backward, swearing.