The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  “It’s not my knee, Maggie.”

  It took her a moment, but then her eyes widened and fell on the place he meant—only causing him more pain. And a groan.

  “Oh,” she said softly. Their eyes met. He could see the questions looking back at him. Questions he couldn’t answer. “Eoin, I . . .”

  He heard her hesitation, and understood it because he felt it, too.

  “It’s probably not a good idea,” she finished.

  He shook his head in agreement, ignoring the disappointment in her voice. “Probably not.”

  “It would only confuse things, wouldn’t it?” She looked at him as if she were hoping he would disagree with her.

  But he couldn’t. “Aye.”

  It would confuse things, and he was already confused enough. But that didn’t mean that every nerve ending in his body wasn’t clamoring to disagree. To pull her down on top of him and bury himself so deeply inside her nothing could ever tear them apart again.

  Christ, she was too close. He could almost taste her on his tongue. Almost feel the softness of her skin under his hands. Almost smell the scent of her pleasure as he stroked her to release.

  He remembered the way her eyes closed, her lips parted, and her breath quickened. He remembered the pink flush of her cheeks and the cry that always seemed tinged with surprise when she came.

  He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forget. He wasn’t all that sure anymore that he wanted to.

  He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled her down alongside him on the bed. She curled into his side as if she’d never left, resting her cheek and palm on his chest.

  He stared at the ceiling, stroking her hair and thinking for a long time.

  Margaret woke before Eoin and slipped out of the tent, needing to escape for a moment. She walked to the burn on the other side of the hill and scooped up some of the cool water to splash on her face. If she hoped for sudden clarity, it didn’t help.

  What had it meant?

  Making love would have been confusing, but what had happened was even more so. The closeness from passion could be easily dismissed as lust—as a temporary moment of insanity. But the closeness—the tenderness—she’d felt from spending a night in her husband’s arms could not.

  It was hard not to let her emotions get carried away, but she forced herself to be realistic. One night of tenderness was no better than one night of passion to build a marriage upon.

  Whether more was possible would need to wait until Eachann was free. Her heart squeezed, giving way to the disappointment in the failed attempt that she hadn’t wanted Eoin to see. He was upset enough by what had happened.

  Eachann is all right, she told herself. But she couldn’t escape the feeling that Eoin hadn’t been completely honest with her. He was holding something back, and she knew she had to do something.

  She sat by the water, savoring the early morning quiet and watching the faint light of dawn brighten across the stark winter countryside. As soon as the men started to rise and the bustling sounds of camp interrupted her solitude, however, Margaret rose from the rock she’d been sitting on and walked slowly back to the tent.

  Hearing raised voices as she drew near, she quickened her step. All three inhabitants stared as she ducked through the flap. Eoin was glaring angrily, but it was Magnus MacKay who spoke. “We caught him halfway out of bed.”

  Margaret hadn’t known Eoin as a boy, but Eachann had obviously inherited the mulish, disgruntled look when he got in trouble from him.

  “Where were you?” he demanded. Perhaps realizing he’d given too much away, he tried to cover it up. “You left me alone with them.”

  Margaret glanced at the woman standing by the bed and was surprised she hadn’t noticed her before. She was lovely. Soft, floaty red hair, fair skin, green eyes, and delicate features made her look like a pixie, even if her expression made her look like a battle commander.

  The woman—the healer, Margaret assumed—gave her a decidedly cool look before turning to Eoin. She was pushing a cup toward his mouth. “Don’t be such a bairn. Just drink it. It will make you feel better.”

  Eoin pulled back disgustedly. “It smells vile, and I told you, I feel fine. You said yourself I just wrenched it.”

  The healer put her hands on her hips, looking as if she were summoning patience from up high. “I told you it didn’t appear to be torn, but I can’t be sure. And I know it hurts, so you can stop that tough warrior routine with me.” She rolled her eyes toward her husband. “Lord knows, I get it enough from him.”

  Eoin pushed it away. “Let him drink it then.”

  Magnus gave a shudder and stepped back. “Hell, no. It smells like animal dung. Every time I sniffle she tries to force one of those concoctions down my throat.”

  The healer—Helen, Margaret recalled her name—threw up her hands in exasperation. “Good lord, are you all born with some perverse predilection for suffering pain? Do you know how ridiculous this is?” She glared at Eoin. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

  Magnus cleared his throat, shooting a glance in Margaret’s direction, and his wife pursed her lips.

  Margaret frowned, wondering what she wasn’t supposed to have said, but then turned her attention to Eoin. “Do you trust this woman?” she asked.

  Eoin appeared completely taken aback. “With my life. She’s one of the best healers that I’ve ever seen.”

  Margaret didn’t say anything, she just approached the bed, took the cup from the healer, sat calmly on the edge of the mattress, and waited. Eoin was smart. He would put it together himself.

  It didn’t take him long. He cursed, grabbed the cup from her hand, and downed it in one long gulp. The face he made after was almost comical, but Margaret forced herself not to smile.

  Helen looked at her questioningly, and Margaret shrugged. “He just realized that you were the one in position to know what was best for him, and that if you wanted him to drink the posset it was for his own good.”

  Eoin shot her a glare, as if he wasn’t happy that she knew him so well.

  “I wish all my patients were so reasonable,” Helen said with a meaningful glance toward her imposing-looking husband.

  The healer’s gaze when it turned back to her was appraising, and perhaps marginally less cool. Margaret couldn’t blame the other woman for her reserve, assuming she knew about her part in the battle at Loch Ryan. She should expect hostility from Bruce’s followers and Eoin’s friends (as it was obvious these two were), but it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

  Eoin must have picked up on it as well.

  “Helen, Magnus,” he said by way of introduction. “This is my wife, Margaret.”

  The pretty healer lifted a brow, obviously just as surprised as Margaret was at the way he’d stressed wife. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you,” she said in a way that was definitely open to interpretation.

  Magnus gave his wife a chastising frown, and Eoin looked as if he were about to intervene, but Margaret shook him off. She needed to fight her own battles. “I’m sure you have. And I’m sure most of it’s true.”

  “Only most?” Helen asked.

  “It’s a matter of perspective. But I hope you will get all the facts before passing judgment.”

  Helen gave a twisted smile and turned to her husband. “I think I’ve just been very politely put in my place.” When Margaret tried to object, she waved her off. “No, you were right. I will form my own opinion, and so far from what I’ve seen you can at least be reasonable, which is more than I can say for him.”

  Eoin scowled, but Helen ignored him and proceeded to give Margaret instructions on how to care for him—which mostly involved forcing the drink down him for a few days so he would rest and not letting him put weight on the leg.

  “As for his grumpiness,” the healer shrugged. “Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about that. They’re all that way when they’re hurt.”

  �
�They?” Margaret asked.

  Helen looked momentarily startled by the question, but recovered quickly. “Warriors. Highlanders. The whole blasted lot of them.”

  Margaret bit her lip to keep from smiling. “They do have their benefits though.”

  The two women shared a look, and Margaret knew she understood when the healer’s gaze slid over her husband’s broad chest. “Aye, you’re right about that.”

  Magnus frowned, obviously confused. Margaret suspected Eoin would have been as well, but he was already fading.

  “The medicine might make him a little sleepy,” Helen said.

  It did. And a few days later, with the siege dragging on and no end in sight, it also gave Margaret an idea.

  Though Eoin was much improved and had even begun to hobble around with the help of a long stick fitted with a smaller stick crosswise to go under his arm to brace himself, she put a little extra of Helen’s medicine in his cup that night. He protested, only relenting when she assured him it was the last time.

  When he was out cold, she went in search of Bruce.

  22

  EOIN WOKE feeling more groggy than usual. He had to admit Helen’s medicine helped with the pain, but he hated the fuzziness that came along with it. Now that he was feeling better, he wasn’t going to let Margaret badger him into taking another drop. It didn’t only smell like dung, it tasted like it as well.

  Stretching, he looked around the room and wondered where she’d gone off to. He’d grown surprisingly used to having his wife around fussing over him. He’d also grown surprisingly used to having her ignore his rule not to leave the tent.

  He knew she didn’t go far, and the men knew who she was now, but he was still concerned when she didn’t reappear by the time Peter arrived with the bread, cheese, and fruit to break their fast.

  “Have you seen Lady Margaret?” Eoin asked.

  The boy looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Eoin felt his first prickle of alarm. “Not since last night.”

  “Last night?”

  He nodded. “She asked me to take her to the king.”

  Eoin’s heart dropped. He swore and jumped out of bed, forgetting his knee. Wincing, he grabbed the wooden brace MacKay had made him and ordered the lad to help him dress.

  With considerable effort, a couple of near stumbles as he tried to navigate the uneven terrain, and quite a bit of swearing, Eoin stormed into the king’s tent less than a quarter of an hour later.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  The men seated around the table—the largest piece of furniture in the king’s tent—didn’t look surprised to see him. They were the king’s closest advisors: Tor MacLeod, Neil Campbell, Edward Bruce, Douglas, and Randolph.

  “Have care, Striker,” MacLeod warned, presumably for his tone.

  But Eoin didn’t bloody care whom he was talking to: he just wanted his wife. His wife who never did what she was supposed to do, damn it. What about his rule not to interfere?

  “I assume you are referring to your wife?” Bruce asked.

  “Aye.”

  “She’s in the castle.”

  Hearing what he’d suspected confirmed didn’t make it any easier to bear—or make him any less furious. Eoin forgot about his injury, about formality, and about royal deference. He leaned over the table and stared at the man who’d been his cousin far longer than he’d been king—even if Bruce didn’t always like to be reminded of it. “Why the fuck is she in there?”

  Bruce didn’t flinch, putting his hand up to stop the others from objecting. “Leave us,” he said. His guard dogs didn’t look happy about it, but they complied with the king’s order.

  When they were gone, Bruce answered his question. “Because she asked me to give her a chance to end the siege by negotiating her father’s surrender.”

  Eoin’s blood was boiling—literally. It felt like his head was about to blow off. “And you just let her walk in there without any protection?”

  “I wasn’t aware she needed protection. MacDowell is her father.”

  He seethed, the air moving tight and heavy through his lungs. “MacDowell is a cornered dog. You know as well as I do that there is nothing that bastard is not capable of, and that sure as hell includes using his daughter and my son if he thinks it will help his bloody cause.”

  The air of certainty in the king’s demeanor lessened. “She was very insistent. She thought that her father would listen to her. She said she wanted to help—to atone for what had happened before.”

  “And will her being hurt or starving to death do that? Damn it, Rob.” The old nickname slipped out. “She didn’t know what would happen. She no more sought Thomas and Alexander’s deaths than I did. You knew her. She was just a young girl—a little wild and a little reckless maybe, but not capable of intentionally sending all those men to their deaths.”

  The king held his gaze. “And yet that is what you thought.”

  Eoin took the shot—which was warranted. “I was wrong.”

  He’d been out of his mind with jealousy, hurt by her leaving, and afterward gutted by the slaughter at Loch Ryan. He hadn’t been rational. He’d been angry and bitter, and so tied up in his own guilt he couldn’t see beyond it.

  His leg finally gave out. He collapsed in one of the chairs and put his head in his hands. God’s blood, what the hell had he done?

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Bruce said after a minute.

  Eoin lifted his head. “I hope to hell you’re right.” He gave his kinsman’s words back to him. “I’ll hold you responsible if anything happens to her.”

  “I thought you didn’t care what happened to her.”

  “I didn’t think so either.”

  It was a declaration of sorts, although of what Eoin didn’t know. But the thought of what could be going on in that castle made him feel like he was crawling the walls.

  Two days later he was half-crazed with the possibilities.

  By the third evening, when the gate finally opened and he saw her walking out, he was completely unhinged.

  Margaret knew Eoin was going to be angry, but this . . . this went far beyond her expectations.

  She felt her husband’s gaze on her the moment she crossed the bridge beyond the portcullis. Hot, penetrating, practically radiating anger, his eyes took in every detail of her appearance.

  Heat fired her cheeks. Blast her father and his temper! The bruise marring her jaw was going to make things much more . . . difficult.

  She’d half-expected Eoin to be the first one of Bruce’s men to meet her, as she made her way into camp. That he didn’t come striding forward, but rather held his position on the periphery of the crowd of men waiting for her was mildly disconcerting.

  Perhaps that was an understatement. The coiled snake approach was outright anxiety provoking—nerve-wracking in the extreme.

  Refusing to be intimidated, she thrust up her chin and met his glare defiantly. She’d done what she’d set out to do. Eachann would be safe.

  Her defiance didn’t last long. Barely had their eyes met for one pulse-pounding moment than she startled and quickly dropped her gaze.

  Good lord! She knew what a mouse felt like. A fat, juicy mouse in the predatory sight of a hungry hawk.

  Eek.

  Margaret wasn’t accustomed to backing down, but there was something in Eoin’s eyes that told her now was probably not the time for challenges. Something that said he was of no mind to be rational about this. Something that made her pulse race, her skin prickle, and her breath quicken. Something that frankly made her want to run the other way.

  Which is why she was relieved when she was led immediately into the king’s tent to give her report.

  She tried to ignore her husband, but suspected her hands weren’t shaking and her palms weren’t growing warm from having to face the king.

  She felt Bruce’s gaze sweep over her jaw. “You are all right, my lady?”

  Margaret straightened. “It is nothing, sire. An unfortunate rea
ction to the messenger, I’m afraid, but I’m fine.”

  She wasn’t sure whether it was a sound or a movement out of the corner of her eye that made her heart freeze. But the cold, murderous rage in her husband’s eyes sent ice shooting through her veins. Were it not for Lamont on one side and a man she didn’t recognize, but who looked to be in charge, on the other, she suspected her husband’s unusual restraint might have been at an end. As chains went, however, the two men by his side seemed more than equipped for the job.

  The king flickered a warning glance at Eoin before turning back to her. “What happened?”

  “It was as you suspected. The garrison was very low on provisions. They were surviving on bits of grain, meat from dogs and cats, and the last of the ale. The men were—are—suffering, my lord.”

  She refrained from glancing meaningfully at Eoin. He had vastly underplayed the condition of the castle. Eachann might not have been suffering as badly as the others, but it was only a matter of time. Days. Her heart squeezed at the memory of seeing his pale face for the first time. She hadn’t wanted to leave her son, but she knew it must be she to bring back her father’s message.

  “My father was not inclined to listen to me at first. But eventually I was able to convince him that there as no way out this time. He could either watch his men die or he could submit and see them live.”

  “So he agreed?”

  Hearing the disbelief in the king’s voice, she nodded. “Aye. You can send in your men to work out the terms of surrender tonight, and he will hand over the castle to you in the morning, and submit to your authority as king. But as you and I discussed, he and his men will be permitted to go into exile.”

  Bruce was probably relieved that he would have her father’s submission without having to try to welcome his brothers’ killer back into the fold. She’d expected relief, and perhaps a little exuberance. But the tent stuffed with about fifteen men—most of whom were as tall and powerfully built as her husband—was oddly quiet. The king voiced what must be the collective concern. “How can we be sure this isn’t a trick?”

  “You can’t.” She lifted her chin. “But I believe my father was in earnest, my lord. I would not have left my son in there otherwise. If you wish, I will lead your men in there myself.”