The Striker (13 page)

It would be a sprint of about ten furlongs on the road from the abbey at St. Mary's to the castle, starting on the flat, fertile grounds of the Forth riverbed, and finishing with the steep climb up castle hill. The first one across the drawbridge and through the portcullis would be the winner.

When Eoin reached the tower, he had to push his way through the crowd of people flooding out.

Bloody hell, it was already a damned spectacle! Word of the wager must have raced through the castle like the plague. The vultures unable to resist the scent of death. Lady Margaret's—though she seemed oblivious to the threat of condemnation—if she didn't put a stop to this.

He waited at the bottom of the stairwell for her to emerge. When she did, he feared his eyes were in danger of popping out of his head.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw him and quirked her mouth in a smile that managed to look adorable and enticing at the same time. The knot that formed in his chest whenever she was around tightened.

“If you are here to ‘talk me into my senses' like you started to say earlier, you are wasting your time.”

Eoin was too shocked by her attire to form a proper response. “You can't wear that!”

She glanced down at the snug brown leather breeches, a linen shirt stuffed into the waist, and the equally snug sleeveless leather surcoat that was fitted at the waist. She'd exchanged soft leather boots for the slippers she'd been wearing earlier, and for once her flaming locks were tamed in a thick coiled plait at the back of her neck.

She was dressed like a lad, but never had she looked more feminine. She was more slender than he'd realized, the fitted breeches and surcoat revealing the dips and contours of the curvaceous figure that were hidden by the full skirts of her gowns. Her legs were sleekly muscled and long, her hips gently curved, her bottom rounded, and her waist small. Her breasts were generous but well rounded and firm over the flat plane of her stomach.

He didn't need to imagine very hard what she would look like naked, and once formed, the image would not be dislodged.

Eoin was in trouble, and he knew it.

“I know it's unconventional, but you can't expect me to race in heavy skirts? They'll be in the way, and I'll fall and break my neck.”

“You shouldn't race at all, and certainly not in that. You might as well be naked!”

She lifted a brow in amusement—probably because he sounded as flustered as he felt. “I didn't realize so many men walked around in such a state of undress. I will have to pay more attention.”

She let her gaze drop from his eyes over the planes of his chest and down his leather-clad legs, lingering one cock-hardening instant on the heavy bulge between his legs. She might as well have stroked him, the heat enflamed every nerve ending in his body. He went as hard as a damned spike.

When she lifted those tilted golden cat-eyes to his, he felt caught in the seductive pull. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs to ravish her like one of his marauding Viking ancestors.

Where in Hades had that come from? What was it about her that made him feel so damned
primitive
? For a man who'd always prided himself on rationality, this base, unthinking reaction was a bitter blow. Not to mention confusing. She was a problem he couldn't solve, and for the first time he couldn't see a way around it in his head.

“And yet, you are wearing similar clothes and do not appear naked at all,” she pointed out.

Was that a tinge of disappointment in her voice? God's breath she
was
trying to kill him!

“You're a lass,” he said, as if the distinction should be obvious.

“As that's the second time I've had that pointed out to me today, I think it's been established.” She laughed. “Now, if we are finished discussing my attire, I have a race to win.”

She attempted to sweep past him but he caught her arm. He wasn't fool enough to bring her closer than arm's length, but it was still close enough to wreak havoc on his senses. She might be dressed like a man but she sure as hell didn't smell like one. “That's just it, you can't win. Don't you see? Even if you beat him, you lose.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Ladies don't stage a public race with men and they certainly don't win. It isn't done.”

Christ, he sounded every bit as prudish and uptight as the nun Fin had accused him of being. And she knew it, too. She seemed to be fighting back more laughter.

“Maybe not here, but I do it all the time at home and no one bats an eye. They'll get over it. It's a harmless bit of fun.” She smiled up at him. “You take things too seriously. It's sweet, but I know what I'm doing.”

Sweet? He wasn't sweet. “Do you?” Damn it, he didn't want to hurt her, but it needed to be said. “They will never accept you, if you do this.”

Her smile turned wry. “I'm not sure that was likely to happen anyway. But really you are making too much of this.”

Was he? Maybe. He was just trying to protect her because . . .

He didn't want to finish that thought.

“Look, even if I wanted to, my family wouldn't let me back out of it. It's too late.”

Realizing the truth in that statement, and that her mind was made up, he stepped back and let her go. What else could he do? This wasn't his battle. She wasn't his.

She was already outside when he called out to her. “Fin is one of the best riders I've ever seen. Do you really think you can win?”

Her family must believe she could to let her go through with this.

“I wouldn't have made the challenge if I didn't.”

He couldn't help smiling as the lass threw him a dimply grin before darting across the yard.

She sure as hell didn't lack for confidence. And damned if he didn't admire it.

M
ARGARET
'
S CONFIDENCE
was well deserved. The race was over in less than five minutes. Barely had the shock died down from her unusual attire, than the crowd was stunned by her more-dramatic-than-she'd-intended finish through the portcullis gate.

First, thank goodness.

But it had been closer than she would have liked. Finlaeie had been ahead of her until the turn up the hill. He'd slowed at the sharp corner and she'd taken the straighter line by jumping across. She'd had to clear a few rocks to do so, but Dubh had been more than up to the challenge.

The horse was her secret weapon, and the reason she had been so confident. Dubh had never let her down (although he did require a set of steel nerves, as he liked to hang back until the end of the race). The skill of the
eochaidh
, or what the English called “eochy” or horseman, only accounted for a small part of a race.

Not that she wasn't a skilled rider—she was. Duncan had always said she had an eerie way with horses. Even spirited stallions like Dubh, which would have been thought unsuitable mounts for a woman, seemed to quiet when she drew near.

She smiled when she thought of Finlaeie's shocked expression as the “spirited black stallion” had been led out for her to ride. She must admit that she had suffered a moment of doubt or two when he'd brought out his own horse. Whatever the reason for her dislike of him, she couldn't fault his taste in horseflesh. The beast was every bit as magnificent as Dubh.

She also could not fault his riding. They were probably equally matched in that as well. But size was her other advantage, and one of the reasons she thought women could compete with men when it came to speed—especially against big, heavily mailed warriors. Since she was a foot shorter and probably half Finlaeie's weight—or more with all that armor—Dubh had much less weight to carry. Had Finlaeie MacFinnon been a smaller, slighter man, and removed his armor, he might have bested her.

She'd barely come to a stop before her exuberant brothers were pulling her off the horse and hugging her. “Hell's bells, Maggie Beag, what a jump!” Duncan said, spinning her around. “I wasn't sure you would clear.”

Truth be told, she hadn't been either.

“You nearly stopped my heart, gel,” her father said sternly, but with undeniable pride in his eyes. “I thought I told you to stop jumping or you were going to kill one of us.”

“You did, Father, and I promised to stop.” She dimpled. “I just didn't say when.”

Brigid came over and gave her a quick hug. There were a few more congratulations from her father's men and some of his allies, but after the initial excitement wore down, Margaret realized it was rather quiet—especially compared to similar occurrences at Garthland. She frowned, glancing around the courtyard and realizing that the crowd had already dispersed.

She felt the first prickle of uncertainty, but quickly brushed it away. It was to be expected. The people were much more reserved at Stirling, and much less inclined to prolonged celebration. At Garthland something like this would send them feasting into all hours of the night.

She felt a pang in her chest, acknowledging only for a moment how much she missed her home and the life she knew. A life where she didn't feel as if she were treading on eggs all the time.

She supposed there was also the delicacy of the situation that could explain the lack of excitement, given the tendency of everything in Scotland to boil down to Bruce or Comyn. Though the race had nothing to do with that, some would see it as a victory for Comyn over Bruce. Finlaeie MacFinnon, like Eoin, might not be publicly aligned in Bruce's camp, but he'd been part of the earl's hunting party. Too much cheering for one side might be taken the wrong way at what was supposed to be a gathering to come together.

She finally glanced at the much less ecstatic group standing a short distance away. Finlaeie was staring at her with an expression on his face that chilled her blood. Dark, thunderous, and seething with resentment, it wouldn't be too fanciful to say that he looked as if he wanted to kill her. Eoin had his back to her and was clearly trying to say something to his friend, but Finlaeie wasn't listening. He was glowering at her too hard.

With what he'd said to her before the race, she shouldn't care. “
When I win, maybe you'll give me some of what you gave MacLean last night
.” She'd been furious and even more intent on seeing him humbled. But she would have been a fool not to be a little scared. She'd seen men angry at loss of pride before, but never had she been the recipient of such virulent animosity.

Whatever satisfaction and joy in victory she'd been feeling a few moments ago fled. She'd won, but she'd made a dangerous enemy in doing so. One she didn't want. She might not like Finlaeie, but he was Eoin's friend. And for some reason that mattered to her.

Finlaeie said something harsh to Eoin—if she read lips she might say it was a curse about what he could do to himself—and pulled away. Mouth white, he marched toward her, leading the magnificent chestnut palfrey behind him. When Eoin started after him, their eyes met. He looked upset, worried, and something else she couldn't identify.

Her brothers and father had seen Finlaeie's approach and instinctively formed a protective wall on either side of her. He stopped a few feet away from her and smiled, though it was the surliest smile she'd ever seen. “My
lady
.” He had a way of drawing the word out that made it feel like a slur. “I congratulate you on your victory. It seems I underestimated your
riding
ability. I heard you were good. Lots of practice, I assume.”

There was nothing specific in his voice, but something about what he said made the men at her side tense, and Eoin's face go white with fury.

“It was a close race,” she said hastily. “Anyone could have won.”

For some reason her attempt at graciousness was met with even more rage by Finlaeie. “But the victor was you,” he said flatly. “Because of that jump.”

Margaret thought there were other reasons as well, but frankly she just wanted to have this conversation over. “Yes, I was quite lucky. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid we are frightfully late for the midday meal as it is, and I probably should change unless I want half the Hall to faint in shock.”

No one smiled at the jest.

“Aren't you forgetting our wager?” Finlaeie said, pulling forward the horse.

Margaret caught Eoin's gaze and at that moment knew exactly what she had to do. “Wager?” she repeated, as if she didn't know what he was talking about. “Oh, you mean the jest about the horse. I will not hold you to that, of course.” Her brothers exploded, voicing their objections, but she ignored them. “Had you won, I know you would not have taken Dubh from me.”

They both knew he would have done exactly that. But she'd given him a way out. A way to keep the horse that he could ill afford to lose. The loss of such an animal would be a huge blow to a warrior trying to prove himself. God knows, the palfrey must have cost a small fortune.