The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have changed gowns and veils? The nun’s habit would have certainly discouraged the blatant staring. But when the package arrived yesterday at the convent, Margaret assumed the gown and veil were a gift from her husband—an apology for his high-handed attitude at the convent a few days ago.

  All right, she didn’t really believe the gown was an apology (Eoin had been far too assured in his “lord and master” role), but it was as good as an excuse as any to come find him.

  Goodness knows how he’d been able to procure something so fine in such a short time. She would have thought the mossy green velvet gown trimmed in gold embroidery and matching gold silk veil had been made for her, were it not a smidgen too small in the bodice and hips.

  In any event, she thought it the least she could do to wear the gift, given that he wasn’t going to be pleased to find her here. But if he thought she would meekly stand aside and do his bidding . . .

  She fisted her hands at her sides and tightened her mouth, recalling his imperious order to stay put. She hadn’t changed that much.

  Still, she hadn’t thought it would be so difficult to find him—the camp was much larger than she’d realized. Hundreds of men had gathered for the siege, turning the grassy moorlands of the countryside around Dumfries Castle into a makeshift village of tents, carts, stalls, kitchens, and pens for the livestock and horses.

  She was forced to walk a gauntlet of men—rather big men, she couldn’t help noticing—as she wound her way through the bustling camp.

  Though her impulse was to bite her lip, look down, and try not to make eye contact with the rough-looking bunch of warriors sitting outside the tents, Margaret knew better than to show weakness. Instead, she met the bold stares and tried to pretend she didn’t hear the suggestive comments that followed her. As Eoin had warned her, it was clear from the “invitations” being hurled in her direction what type of woman typically frequented an army’s camp.

  Bruce’s men had a reputation for being brigands, and she must admit they looked the part. Most of them appeared not to have seen a razor or a bath in months and looked far more familiar with a barber’s cauterizing iron than his scissors. Fierce, scarred visages, and hard, unsmiling mouths were half-hidden behind scruffy beards and long, unkempt hair. They were big, imposing men made even bigger and more imposing by the abundance of armor and weaponry surrounding them. Most wore leather cotuns, some of which were studded with mail, and she seemed to have arrived at weapon preparing time, as many men were sitting outside their tents sharpening or otherwise tending to their various swords, axes, pikes, and hammers.

  Too bad she couldn’t have arrived at nap time instead.

  Truth be told, they didn’t look all that different from her father’s Gallovidian warriors; the difference being that her father’s men all knew who she was and wouldn’t look at her so rudely—or crudely for that matter.

  Licentious stares were nothing she hadn’t had to deal with before—if on a smaller, less intimidating scale. Still, she was looking rather anxiously for the leaders’ tents. Eoin might have been a regular man-at-arms for his father when she’d met him all those years ago, but it was clear he’d made his way up through the ranks in the intervening years. She couldn’t say she was surprised. Even her father had been aware of his promise. This was always what had been important to him—maybe it was all that had been important to him.

  Catching sight of larger tents on the ridge, she started to walk in that direction when an arm snaked around her waist from behind, and her breath jammed as she was jerked against a hard, mail-clad body. She got a quick glance of the grizzled face of a thickset, dark-haired warrior, and a not so quick whiff of pungent days’ old male sweat. The stench was overwhelming, and instinctively she tried to break free.

  His hot, ale-laden breath rang in her ear. “Not so fast, lass. Damn, you’re a fine-looking piece.” Good lord, he was drunk. She could feel his hand moving toward her breast and tried to twist to evade the touch, but he managed to get in a good squeeze anyway. “Malcolm and I could use a little company. Isn’t that right, Malcolm?”

  A taller, leaner soldier stepped in front of her. He was no less grizzled in appearance, and was missing a few teeth, but he seemed to smell marginally better. Or maybe it was that the first warrior smelled so terribly, he drowned out everything else. Her stomach was rolling, and she was in danger of losing its contents if she didn’t breathe fresh air soon.

  “Aye,” Malcolm said appraisingly. “Been a long time since I’ve had company like you. Christ,” he said with a glance down her chest, which was no longer hidden behind her cloak thanks to the first warrior’s groping. The new gown with its too-tight bodice displayed her breasts rather . . . prominently. “Would you look at the size of those tits!” He frowned. “That’s a fine gown for a whore.”

  “That’s because I’m not a whore,” Margaret said angrily, trying to use her elbow to wrench away from the brute. But it was like trying to dent steel. “Let go of me,” she said.

  “What’s going on here?” a deep voice said. “I think the lass isn’t interested, Captain.”

  “Stay out of this, MacGowan. It’s none of your business.”

  “I’m making it my business.” The man came into view, stepping between Malcolm and the man he’d identified as a captain. Margaret had seen her fair share of handsome men, but her breath still sputtered a little. If she weren’t partial to dark-blond hair, midnight-blue eyes, and mysterious, this man might have persuaded her to consider dark—almost black—hair, steely-blue eyes, and dangerous. Good lord, he was a handsome devil, possessing the dark good looks that conjured up all kinds of wickedness. Perhaps a couple of inches taller than Eoin with a heavily muscled build, this man could no doubt hold his own on the battlefield. “Let her go, Captain.”

  “You forget who you are talking to, MacGowan. I give you the orders, not the other way around. Get out of here, before I see you tossed in the stocks or flogged for insubordination.”

  The man’s eyes met hers. “Are you willing, lass?”

  “Most assuredly not,” she said.

  No doubt hearing the refined tones of her speech, which in their drunken lust the other two had apparently missed, MacGowan frowned. “What is your name, my lady?”

  She almost proudly belted out that she was Margaret MacDowell, daughter to the MacDowell chief. Realizing this might not be the best audience for that information, she quickly changed her response. “The wife of Eoin MacLean.”

  The captain let her go so quickly she almost stumbled.

  “MacLean isn’t married.”

  MacGowan must have heard the same uncertainty in his voice that she had and responded to the captain, “You better hope he isn’t.”

  Malcolm’s face had taken on a decidedly ashen hue. “We meant no offense, my lady. It was a misunderstanding.”

  Margaret would have been inclined to let it go, if the captain hadn’t decided to take his foiled plans out on her rescuer. Without warning, the captain’s fist plowed into MacGowan’s jaw. A second landed in his ribs. And then a third. In between shots, the captain was mumbling about “knowing his place,” and “peasant get.”

  As it was clear, MacGowan wasn’t going to fight back, Margaret tried to put a stop to it herself. Unfortunately, the captain was too angry, too belligerent, and perhaps too drunk to notice that his next punch was headed toward her face and not the young warrior’s shoulder.

  She cried out as her head was slammed back with the force of the punch and pain exploded in her head. The last thing she heard before she fell back was a great roar.

  19

  THE SOUNDS OF a disturbance outside interrupted their meeting. “What in Hades is going on out there?” Edward Bruce asked his squire. “Find out.”

  The lad ran out and Eoin tried to get the king’s brother back on track. Of Bruce’s four brothers, Edward was the only who still lived and the only one whom Eoin had never liked. His dislike had only grown after fightin
g beside him for the better part of five years.

  When the king had sent his brother as his lieutenant to try to wrestle the troublesome south and Borders into submission, in addition to Sir James Douglas and Sir Thomas Randolph, four members of the Highland Guard had gone with him: Eoin, Lamont, Boyd, and—until he’d defected to the enemy—Seton. Though they were sometimes called elsewhere for various missions, and at times the rest of the Guard would join them, Eoin had spent most of his time since their return to Scotland in the south with Edward.

  At his best, Edward Bruce was an arrogant prig, impetuous, and mercurial. He was both fiercely loyal to his brother and deeply jealous of him. The love that “the Bruce” inspired in his men was conspicuously missing toward his brother. It wasn’t hard to see why. Edward was not half the leader his brother was. He didn’t like taking advice or letting anyone else get the credit, which often put him at direct odds with the members of the Highland Guard—like now.

  “We can get in there,” Eoin said with forced evenness. “What harm is there in at least letting us try?”

  “The harm is having you killed. What do you think my brother would say if I ordered a mission that had some of his prized warriors killed? Nay. We’ll proceed with the siege. MacDowell won’t be able to hold out for long. You and your brethren have seen to that. There hasn’t been a shipment of provisions that has made its way through in months.”

  Eoin’s patience was running out fast. This wasn’t about them getting killed, it was about Edward getting credit for bringing down MacDowell. He’d barely been able to hide his glee when Eoin had returned from England without him.

  But there was more to this than getting MacDowell now. “My son is in there,” Eoin said.

  Edward’s gaze sharpened, hearing the warning—or threat—in Eoin’s voice. “That is unfortunate. But I’m sure the boy will not be harmed. He’s MacDowell’s grandson, after all.”

  The sneer was unmistakable. Edward would never let Eoin forget that it was his wife and her family who’d been responsible for the death of two of his brothers. Eoin had never blamed him for the sentiment, but something pricked now. He was saved from what would probably have been an ugly exchange of words with his kinsman by the return of the squire. “It’s a fight, my lord,” the lad said. “Between the captain and one of your men-at-arms over a lass.”

  “A lass?” Edward asked.

  The boy nodded. “Aye, a beautiful one with red hair.”

  Eoin’s blood went cold. It couldn’t be. There were a lot of beautiful lasses with red hair. But he couldn’t convince himself that it wasn’t her. He’d half-expected Margaret to defy him. Hell, he was more surprised it had taken her three days to do so.

  Trouble.

  He left the tent without a word. As soon as he stopped outside he could hear them. But it was what he saw that made his heart drop like a rock at his feet. It was Margaret all right, smack dab in the middle of a brawl. Fury rose inside him. What the hell was she doing? She was going to get herself killed!

  Eoin saw the man’s fist fly back, but he was too far away to stop it. All he could do was roar as a primal rage tore through him. He watched in agonizing helplessness as Margaret’s head snapped back, and she flew to the ground with the force of the fist that pummeled into her jaw.

  She didn’t move.

  Eoin crossed the distance of fifty or so yards in seconds flat. He couldn’t think. A red cloud swarmed in front of his eyes. Like his Viking ancestors before him, he went berserk. He slammed his fist into the captain again and again. He would have killed him had Boyd, Lamont, and Douglas not pulled him off.

  It took all three of them.

  “What the hell is going on here, MacGowan?” Douglas addressed the tall, dark-haired warrior a few moments later. From his biting tone, it was clear Douglas didn’t like the man.

  Slowly the red haze started to dissipate; Eoin’s head cleared. Vaguely he realized that MacGowan had been fighting the captain until Eoin had intervened. Now, however, Eoin was patently aware that this MacGowan had gone over to help Margaret and was carefully easing her up. Suddenly, he could sympathize with Douglas’s animosity.

  But Margaret wasn’t looking at the young warrior. She was looking at Eoin. Their eyes met and he could see her fear, her worry, and her concern. For him. “I’m fine,” she whispered.

  Eoin’s mouth clamped shut. She wasn’t fine, damn it. She was hurt. Even now he could see the bruise forming on her jaw. God, she could have been killed.

  His fists clenched. He must have looked like he was going to finish the job because she added insistently, “It was a misunderstanding, Eoin.”

  “Someone better tell me what is going on here,” Edward Bruce demanded. “Who is this woman?”

  “My wife,” Eoin said without hesitation, although he knew what the response would provoke.

  Edward Bruce’s face turned livid. His gaze slid over Margaret with unrepressed hatred before turning back to Eoin. “What is she doing here? How the hell could you bring a spy into camp?”

  Margaret wobbled as she stood, and Eoin would have lurched for her, but MacGowan steadied her. “I’m not a spy,” she said. “I’m here to help free my son.”

  Edward ignored her. He turned on Eoin with fury raging in his eyes. “Get the bitch out of here. She is responsible for the deaths of my brothers. She’s a fucking MacDowell.”

  Edward Bruce wasn’t saying anything that Eoin hadn’t thought a hundred times in the past six years. But hearing the words from someone else—especially from Edward—grated on every nerve ending in his body. It was wrong, and Eoin couldn’t let it stand.

  He took a threatening step toward Bruce’s second-in-command. “She is also my wife, cousin, and as long as she remains so, you will give her the respect that position deserves. What happened was not Margaret’s fault. She made a mistake but didn’t intend to betray us. If you want someone to blame, blame me.”

  It was clear from the look on his face that Edward did. But he’d seen Eoin fight and was wise enough to hold his tongue—or Douglas held it for him by steering the conversation away from Margaret.

  “So what happened?” Douglas was looking at MacGowan again with barely contained animosity. “You do know that you can be punished for hitting a superior? Perhaps Carrick should send you home?”

  “Stay out of it, Jamie,” MacGowan clipped back at him. Eoin had never heard anyone call Douglas Jamie before. “Besides, I thought you were happy to see me gone from Douglas.”

  Douglas clenched his fists and looked like he might strike the other man when Edward intervened. “I’ve told you before to stop interfering, Douglas. MacGowan is my man, and a good soldier. I don’t care about your past—leave it there.” He turned to MacGowan. “But in this case, I’m going to have to agree with him. You better have a damned good excuse.”

  “He does,” Margaret said. “He was protecting me.”

  Eoin didn’t like the sound of that at all. Douglas wasn’t the only one clenching his fists. “From what?” he demanded.

  Margaret bit her lip and a soft blush rose to her cheeks. A different kind of swelling rose inside him. “These men mistook me for someone else. MacGowan corrected them, and the captain took offense. When MacGowan wouldn’t defend himself,” she turned to Edward, “I assume because he was following protocol not to fight with a commander, I tried to stop it and got in the way. It wasn’t until after I was struck that he fought back. I hope he will not be punished for my mistake.”

  They all understood for whom she’d been mistaken. Eoin would have been furious, if he wasn’t too busy being proud. After the way Edward had verbally attacked her minutes before—not to mention having to admit to being mistaken for a camp follower—Eoin couldn’t help but admire how confidently and matter-of-factly she faced her detractor. It was a glimpse of the girl he’d fallen in love with. The devil-may-care girl who knew her own worth and didn’t care whether those around her agreed.

  Even Edward appeared taken aback.
He wasn’t wholly unlike his brother, and he, too, had been steeped in chivalry for most of his life. It reappeared now. “I would not punish a man for defending a woman’s honor—any woman’s,” he added.

  Margaret didn’t seem to mind, even if Eoin did. She brightened. “Then I think it’s best if we forget all about this.”

  She must have sensed Eoin’s gaze on her. She turned and their eyes met. When she bit her lip again, he knew she’d gotten the message: there was no way in hell he was going to forget about this.

  Margaret tried to tell herself it didn’t mean anything. But how could she ignore what Eoin had done? He’d come to her defense. Not only had he practically killed that vile captain for striking her (she decided it prudent not to mention how the captain had groped her—the brute had paid enough in broken bones and bruises), Eoin had also told Edward Bruce that it wasn’t her fault.

  Had he meant it?

  Unfortunately, she knew there was going to be hell to pay before she could find out. She did not mistake the calmness with which he led her to his tent. A storm was brewing inside him, and she was right in the center of it. Why that gave her a thrill, she didn’t know.

  By all rights she should be terrified. But big and scary, or brooding and serious, it didn’t matter. She knew he would never hurt her.

  Barely had the flap fallen behind them when he turned on her. “What the hell did you think you were doing coming here alone?”

  “I assumed you had changed your mind.”

  “You assumed what?”

  She winced at the sound of his raised voice. “You didn’t used to bellow so much.”

  From the white lines forming around his mouth she sensed he was quickly running out of patience. “I’d say you didn’t used to be so much trouble, but that wouldn’t be true, would it?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “Probably not. Although I will state—just to be clear—that I am not usually trouble anymore.”