The Striker (7 page)

That had been a surprise. His reaction to the lass was as fierce, primitive, and physical as it was unexpected. He usually had better control. He frowned. Actually, he
always
had better control. No lass he'd ever met had stirred his blood with a look and a smile that made him wonder whether she was as naughty as she looked.

But even if she weren't the daughter of a man who would likely be his enemy soon—which was reason enough to look the other way—Margaret MacDowell with her smile that promised mischief and devil-may-care attitude was undoubtedly a demanding handful, and Eoin's hands were firmly wrapped around his battle-axe.

Still, as the meal progressed he found his gaze sliding in her direction more than once. God, that hair was incredible. And her skin was flawless—so powdery soft and creamy it looked unreal. But it was those knowing, slanted eyes and sensual mouth that taunted him.

He'd been mildly surprised to see her seated beside young Comyn. It soon became apparent why, however, as the lass went out of her way to charm and dazzle the clearly uncomfortable and out-of-his element youth. Not that Eoin could blame the lad. Eoin was four and twenty—definitely not a stripling lad where lasses were concerned—and his bollocks tightened every time he heard that husky laugh all the way across the aisle.

But if her barbarian of a father thought the Lord of Badenoch, the most powerful man in Scotland, would tie his precious heir to a MacDowell, he was even more out of his mind than Eoin thought. Badenoch might hold the ancient clan in high regard on the battlefield, and value them as allies, but he would look for a bride for his heir among the highest nobility of Scotland—hell, probably of England.

If the half-in-love look on young Comyn's face was any indication, however, the son might be having other ideas. From the deepening frown on Badenoch's face as he looked down on his son from the dais, he appeared to have noticed it as well.

Eoin couldn't help wondering what they were talking about. The lass was speaking so animatedly, and that laugh was . . . damned distracting.

He didn't realize he was staring until their eyes met. He should have turned away. She should have turned away. And she sure as hell shouldn't have drawn attention to the exchange by giving him that adorable but too-intimate little shrug.

He knew exactly what she meant because he felt it, too, but others might misinterpret it.

Which they did.

“Did she just wink at you?”

Eoin looked harshly away from Lady Margaret to his younger sister, whose eyes had widened to extraordinary proportions.

“Of course not,” he said. It was more of a lift of the brow and shrug.

“She did!” Marjory said with an odd mix of horror and glee. “That brazen creature is flirting with you from across the room! After she propositioned you. She must be every bit as wicked as they say.”

“Keep your voice down, Marjory,” Eoin said sternly. “I said it was nothing.”

But it was too late, his mother had heard. She looked with barely veiled distaste at Lady Margaret, and then back to him with a hard look that he didn't need interpreted for him.
Watch it
, it said.
There is much riding on this
. A shift of her gaze to Lady Barbara, who was seated a few seats away next to his father, and who had thankfully missed the exchange, told him what she meant.

But he didn't need the reminder. Eoin's gaze didn't stray across the aisle again. Although with the growing crowd of men around Lady Margaret, he probably wouldn't have been able to see her anyway.

“Who in Hades are you looking at, daughter?”

Caught in the private exchange with Eoin MacLean by her father, Margaret was forced to explain how she'd come to meet him. Her description of how she'd accidentally disturbed the hotly contested, two-day-long chess match between the Earl of Carrick and his kinsman had her father and brothers laughing uproariously. They found it hilarious that men could put so much store in a child's game.

“God's breath, I should have liked to see their faces. It should be a lesson for Bruce in how easy it is to be defeated by a MacDowell.”

John Comyn, who played the game but claimed to have little patience for it (which Margaret took to mean he wasn't very good at it), chuckled as well, especially when she mentioned how they'd moved the pieces into the shape of a flower and then a heart.

Her father called over some of his friends—many of whom were new to her—and she was forced to repeat the tale a number of times during the meal. She didn't mind though, as entertaining was what she was used to, and it made the formal, foreign atmosphere of Stirling feel a little more like home. She was finding her footing.

At least with the men.

She was aware of the disapproving stares being directed her way by more than a few of the women, but it didn't bother her. They would take more time to win over, that was all.

In her retelling of the story, she left out the part about asking Eoin MacLean to teach her how to play, but she did take the opportunity while the servants cleared the trestle tables for dancing to ask her father about him.

Apparently, although Eoin was young and only the third son of the chief, he'd already made a name for himself as a brilliant tactician, leading a series of bold raids against the English in Carrick. He'd been educated in the lowlands, and despite his clan's Western Isles Norse background, he was reputed to be as learned as a monk. Margaret couldn't help but think that she hoped that was the only monk-like comparison.

A sharp look by her father made her wonder if her thoughts had been too transparent. He wasn't chiding her for her wickedness or her irreverence—neither of which he cared about—but for her interest.

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.

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.