The Striker (8 page)

But she refused to let them get to her. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and she would not pretend to be meek and mute for a bunch of narrow-minded, mean-spirited women. The MacDowells were not the unruly bunch of heathens everyone made them out to be. She might have been permitted more freedom than most women, being raised in a household of men so far from society—and after a week of being at Stirling with these women who made some nuns Margaret knew seem more fun, she could concede that was certainly true—but that didn't make her immoral.

Could they not see how ridiculous that was?

Apparently not.

Before every meal she had to practically get on her knees and beg to get Brigid to leave their chamber. She didn't know why she bothered, when they were met with such cold unfriendliness by half the guests at the castle. Even her own notorious good cheer had begun to wane.

Fortunately, if she hadn't made an impression (at least a good one) on the women, her ostracism didn't extend to the men. She never lacked for dance partners, and men crowded the benches at their table for every meal. They laughed at her jokes, listened to her stories, and did not seem to mind when she made a “misstep.” Men were much more accepting of differences.

At least most seemed to be, but she wondered about the Lord of Badenoch. Her father told her not to worry, that the son was utterly “charmed,” but Margaret did not think the same could be said of his sire. She had the sense that like his wife and daughters, the Lord of Badenoch did not approve of her. She hoped she was imagining it, but the more time John seemed to spend by her side, the more pinched his illustrious father's expression seemed to grow. Impressing him was going to be her true challenge.

Brigid had pled a headache for the midday meal, and Margaret was returning to the Hall after checking on her, when she stopped in her tracks at the sound of a voice. A deep voice that seemed to sink into her bones.

Despite the crowd gathered near the entry, she picked him out right away. As it had too many times over the past week, her gaze landed right on the familiar dark-blond head.

She felt that strange jarring in her chest—as if someone had gripped her heart and shook it—and then the blast of heat that illogically made her skin prickle as if she were cold.

Her attraction didn't make any sense. She liked men who smiled and jested—like Tristan. Not serious men who were as learned as a monk. But something about all that quiet, simmering intensity, something about those shrewd, nothing-gets-by-me eyes was wildly attractive. Viscerally attractive.

Holy Cross, this was ridiculous! It was getting worse. All she had to do was set eyes on him and her body reacted. Her senses suddenly heightened—the air seemed purer and the sounds sharper—and her pulse leapt with something that felt a lot like anticipation.

As there could be nothing
to
anticipate, however, she'd done her best to ignore both her reaction and him. The way he'd avoided her gaze when their eyes did happen to meet made her wonder if he were doing the same thing.

It was hard to tell. His expression was always so infuriatingly inscrutable. But something about the way the furrowed lines between his brows deepened when his gaze landed on her, and the way his eyes seemed to become a little darker blue right before he turned away, made her think he was fighting this attraction as much as she was.

Her reasons were clear, but what about his? Did they have something to do with Lady Barbara Keith?

She felt a strange pinch in her chest as she peered through the crowd and glanced at the pretty fair-haired young woman standing a few feet away who was so often in his company. Not his company exactly, but his mother and sister's, who were invariably nearby. Actually, the persons most often in his company were his foster brother, Finlaeie MacFinnon, and his brothers, Donald and Neil, but something about the way the marischal's daughter looked at him—properly, of course, out from under her lowered and demurely cast eyes—made Margaret suspect there was something between them.

And why that bothered her so much when she could have nothing to do with him, she had no idea.

Taking advantage of all the people standing around the edge of the room while the trestle tables were being put away for the dancing, she inched closer to where he stood to see if she could hear anything.

He was talking to Finlaeie—probably something about old battles, as the few times she'd overheard him talking it was about war—but she couldn't make out their words.

Unfortunately, his sister she could hear quite clearly. “Did you see that gown? I wouldn't have been surprised if she started brewing ale right in the middle of the meal.”

Margaret stilled, and though she didn't want it to, her chest pinched. She had no doubt of whom they were speaking. She glanced down at what she thought was a pretty blue woolen gown. An ale wife? Although gossip and rumor might not bother her in the same way they did Brigid, that did not mean she was completely immune to their barbs.

“It wasn't as bad as all that,” Lady Barbara said softly—almost kindly. Which she quickly ruined by laughing. “If that is the ‘finery' of Galloway, then I should not like to see what the peasants look like. Perhaps they wear nothing but leaves and heather?”

Apparently the demure little kitten had claws.

“Maybe she just enjoys flaunting her body at anyone who will take notice,” Marjory MacLean said. “I hope we are not forced to endure another few hours of watching her dance like a heathen at Beltane. I'm surprised she has found men willing to partner her and be the subject of such an . . . exhibition.”

Margaret had heard enough, her hurt forgotten, her face heated with anger, no longer able to force a smile on her face. There was nothing wrong with her gown or the way she danced. And she was going to tell them exactly that.

“She was looking at you again,” Fin whispered.

Eoin clenched his jaw and pulled his friend off to the side. He didn't need to ask who he meant. Fin and some of his other friends had picked up on the strange undercurrent running between Eoin and Lady Margaret and couldn't resist prodding him about it every time the lass looked at him—which was too bloody often!

But as he found himself doing the same damned thing, he could hardly blame her. Christ, his attraction to the lass was damned inconvenient, and Fin sure as hell wasn't making it any easier. “Shut the hell up, Fin. One of the ladies will hear you.”

“I don't know why you are hesitating. If she were looking at me like that, I'd give her exactly what she was asking for and swive her senseless. It's not as if it's the first time . . .” His friend smiled wickedly. “For either of you.”

Eoin didn't have a temper to lose, so when the flash of rage sparked through him, tensing every muscle in his body and leaving him a hairbreadth from sinking his fist into Fin's gleaming white grin, it took him by surprise.

Fin as well. He stepped back instinctively, his brows shooting together.

“What the hell is the matter with you, MacLean? You're acting like a jealous suitor. Christ, you can't be seriously considering pursuing the lass.”

“I'm not considering anything,” Eoin said flatly. “But I'll not hear malicious gossip repeated about any lady.” And no matter what he'd heard, he believed Margaret MacDowell was a lady.

The rage that had surged through him subsided just as quickly. Suddenly he was embarrassed by the display of emotion, which didn't make any sense, since he didn't get emotional. He must be going mad. Probably of boredom. Being locked away in long, tension-filled negotiations all day, trying to prevent Bruce and the Lord of Badenoch, John “The Red” Comyn, from killing each other, and then being forced to dance attendance on Lady Barbara and listen to his sister's prattle at the meals, was putting him on edge.

“I think I need that hunt more than I realized,” he added. “The walls are beginning to close in on me.”

Fin was still studying him too intently, but he accepted the explanation with a slam on the back. “I think I like it better when all you talk about is vanguards, ambuscade, and flanking.”

Eoin managed a quirk of the mouth at that. His friend was right. That's what he should be focusing on. But he would have his chance to impress Bruce tomorrow. The hunt would be an opportunity to prove himself.

He turned back to the ladies just in time to hear his sister's snide remark about Lady Margaret's dancing.

His mouth flattened with distaste. The not-so-nice comments that he'd forgiven as girlish insensitivity when Marjory was six and ten, three years later were beginning to sound spiteful and mean. His sister needed to learn to curb that acid tongue of hers.

Unfortunately, Marjory's was not the only unflattering remark he'd heard about Lady Margaret over the past week. He felt bad, knowing that he was partly to blame for providing the fodder. She might have laughed off his unfortunate choice of words, but the rest of court had not. The gossip didn't seem to bother her though, and he couldn't help but admire the way she smiled in the face of their rudeness. His sister would be in tears were she subject to half the unkind words he'd heard spoken about Lady Margaret.

He was just about to admonish his sister when he noticed the lady in question moving toward them. The heightened color on her cheeks left him no doubt that Lady Margaret had heard what his sister had said, and from the determination in her expression, he sensed she was no longer of the mind to laugh it off.

Whether he was trying to protect his sister or Lady Margaret he didn't know, but without thinking he stepped in front of her. “Would you honor me with the first dance, my lady?”

He could hear his sister's gasp of surprise behind him. He hated dancing, and thus far had avoided it.

Lady Margaret stared at him, her sphinxlike golden eyes burning into his. For a moment he thought she might refuse. Clearly she wanted to give his sister a tongue-lashing. And though it was deserved, it wouldn't do for either of them.

The last thing Lady Margaret needed was more negative attention to fuel the fires of the court gossip. Maybe she realized it as well. After a long, uncomfortable pause, she nodded.

His sister could thank him later, for he knew without a doubt that he'd saved her from a setting down she would not soon forget.

But the instant Lady Margaret's soft hand slid into his, Eoin knew he'd made a mistake. He should have let his sister take the public flogging. Instead, he'd opened Pandora's box, releasing something that would never be contained again.

The shock that ran through him at the contact was akin to a bolt of lightning. A
magnetic
bolt of lightning. It drew them together in a way that could not be denied.

Something jammed in his chest. His lungs seemed to have stopped working. But his heart made up for it with the frantic pounding. He was riveted—utterly spellbound. Eoin forgot that he was dancing—forgot that he didn't even like dancing—forgot the music, and forgot the other people around him. As he led her through the steps of the reel, he couldn't look away from her face. The delicate sweep of her cheek, the soft point of her chin, the slightly turned up nose.

The sensual curve of her mouth.

Damn it, she was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. Parts of his body
did
hurt. His chest, for one, and another part that had swelled with heat and was hard as a rock, oblivious to the fact that they were in a crowded ballroom.

But he was beyond all reason, caught up in an almost dreamlike trance. A
hot
, dreamlike trance of powerful attraction that sent fire racing through his veins.

Their bodies moved together as one. There was no need to talk. What was being said between them was in every glance, every touch, every heartbeat.

The bond held them together until the music stopped.

The music stopped
. Damn it. He released her so suddenly she gave a small, startled gasp.

She stepped back, staring at him with a look on her face that was every bit as stunned as he was feeling. “Th-thank you,” she whispered, her breath falling unevenly from beneath her softly parted lips.

God, they were so red and sweet looking. A fierce swell of desire rose inside him. The urge to cover them with his was so powerful—so elemental—he could think of nothing else. He lowered his head a few inches before a split second of sanity recalled his surroundings, and he stopped himself.

Bloody hell
. He might have said it aloud. What had just happened? It wasn't a question the man who was supposed to be the smartest in the room found himself asking very often. But he couldn't think straight—or in any other direction, for that matter. His mind was reeling.

With a nod that was sharper than he intended, he walked away.

While he still could.