The Striker (9 page)

Margaret's heart was beating so fast she thought it might explode. She couldn't seem to catch her breath or stop shaking.

What had just happened?

Other than feel as if every one her senses had just come alive, she didn't know. It had left her rattled—almost panicked.

Needing to collect herself, she fled the Hall.

She felt close to tears, as if she'd just gone through a tremendous emotional upheaval. Which maybe she had. What she'd just experienced hadn't been a gentle awakening of emotion, it had been like a giant church bell going off in a small ambry. Loud, clamoring, reverberating . . . devastating.

The feelings had been so intense. So powerful. So overwhelming. She'd felt bound to him. Connected. As if they were the only two people in the world.

Her body still ached. Her stomach still flipped. Her pulse still raced. She could still feel the sensation of his hand resting on her waist, his fingers wrapped around her arm, his callused palm enveloping her hand. She could still feel the heat emanating from his body—the big, muscled body and broad-shouldered chest that had been so close, her body had strained to be pressed up against it. The tips of her breasts throbbed.

He'd smelled so good. The pine of his soap, the mint of his breath . . . His mouth had been so close. She'd thought . . .

She sucked in her breath with a small cry.

How could a man who said so little make such an impact?

She didn't know where she was going, she just knew she had to get away. Standing there she'd felt exposed—vulnerable—as if anyone looking at her would know just how she felt. Her confidence, her bravado, had seemingly deserted her.

She'd fled out the main entrance of the Hall and followed the corridor to the king's donjon away from the noise. She needed quiet. Though it was only a couple of hours past midday, the corridor was already shadowed. Reaching the old tower that had once served as royal accommodation for William the Lion, but was now in disrepair, she sought out the solitude of a small room on the far end of the building. It had probably served as a waiting chamber or private solar for the king but was now a library. She had no use for the books, only for the quiet.

Some of the men must have been enjoying the room earlier, as there were still embers in the brazier, although not enough to provide any warmth. What was in the flagon, however, would. Bringing it to her nose, she inhaled the slightly sweet but pungent scent of English brandy. She preferred good Scottish
uisge beatha
, but under the circumstances she could not afford to be discriminating. Pouring it into one of the goblets, she downed the contents in one long swallow. Almost instantly the calming effects of the spirits began to spread through her body.

Her heartbeat started to slow, air filled her lungs, and her hands steadied. Most important, her head cleared.

She'd overreacted. It was just a dance. He was just a man—an undeniably attractive one—but still just a man. She'd exaggerated the effect of his touch.

Then why could she still feel the imprint of his fingers on her skin? Why was her body still trembling?

She was bending over the brandy, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself, when she heard a noise behind her.

Turning, her heart sank, seeing who it was—and his expression. She'd never noticed a resemblance to his father before, but she could see the Lord of Badenoch now in the hardness of John Comyn's gaze and petulant twist of his mouth.

He didn't bother with politeness. “What is between you and the MacLean chief's son?”

Margaret straightened and looked him in the eye, her voice far steadier than she felt—even with the brandy. “Nothing.”

She even meant it.

His eyes narrowed, and he took a few steps toward her. “That isn't what it looked like. I won't be made a fool of, my lady.”

With eight brothers ranging in age from ten to one and twenty, Margaret knew well how sensitive a young man's pride could be and was quick to soothe it. “I've barely said more than a dozen words to the man. I told you what happened the first time we met.” She smiled. “I hardly think him calling me an idiot is going to endear him to me.”

She'd closed the gap between them, and either her words or her closeness seemed to have mollified him. Partly. He frowned. “Then why did you dance with him?”

I don't know
. She bit her lip, considering how much to tell him. Deciding it was best to be honest, she answered, “I overheard his sister say something unkind. He asked me to dance to stop me from confronting her and making a scene.”

The slight flush and discomfort told her he'd probably heard something of the gossip. “You should pay them no mind. They are only jealous.”

Margaret gave him a long look, seeing beyond the youth to the man he would become. “Thank you. That is very kind.”

He blushed harder, and shuffled his feet. Without the anger, he was back to his uncertain self. “I should go. We shouldn't be alone like this. I shouldn't have followed you, but I was jealous.” His eyes met hers. “I thought he was going to kiss you, and I wanted it to be me.”

“I'd like that, too.”

She hadn't meant that as an invitation, but he'd taken it as one. With more deftness than she would have thought him capable, he cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her mouth to his. She barely felt the gentle warmth of contact before it was over.

The kiss was sweet and chaste. The look in his eyes was not. He wanted her, and although the kiss had not been unpleasant, she did not want to encourage another.

Fortunately, she was not inexperienced at putting the reins on a young man's passion.

She stepped back, wanting distance between them.

It was then that she glanced over to the mural chamber—the wide bench built into the thick wall of the castle that could be closed off with a curtain—and saw a boot.

A
T FIRST EOIN
thought she'd followed him. Sitting on the bench in the mural chamber with a flagon of whisky and a folio he'd grabbed without even looking at the title—
The Rules of St. Benedict
in Latin, for Christ's sake!—he'd heard her enter and been about to address her when young Comyn had shown up. Realizing he would likely make the situation worse if he let his presence be known, Eoin was forced to sit there half-hidden in the shadow of the alcove and listen to their conversation.

A conversation that was making his blood churn hotter and hotter, which to Eoin's already on-edge state was like tossing oil on a roaring fire. What the hell was she doing? Didn't she know that standing so close to Comyn like that, lifting her mouth to his, and telling him she wished he'd been the one about to kiss her was practically an invitation for him to do just that?

When the pup accepted, putting his hand on her chin and tilting her mouth to his, Eoin had felt a primitive swell of emotion unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. All he could see was red. His chest burned, his muscles flexed, and every instinct he possessed clamored to put his fist through the young lord's mouth for touching her.

But his anger wasn't reserved just for the lad. If anything, what he felt toward the
lady
was far worse. If he didn't know that she'd felt exactly what he did during that dance maybe it wouldn't have been so bad. But she had. And somehow, rational or not—forgetting that minutes before she'd entered the room he'd been denying the whole thing—it stung like a betrayal.

How much longer he would have been able to hold himself back, he didn't know. But he did know the moment she realized they were not alone.

Comyn mistook the startled gasp and sudden loss of color in her cheeks for maidenly shock at the kiss, which in Eoin's present state of mind, he thought, was ironic.

Maybe Fin was right. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing when she looked at Eoin like that. “
I'd give her exactly what she was asking for and swive her senseless.
”

Right now he was wondering what was stopping him.

“I probably should apologize,” Comyn said upon stepping back.

She shot an anxious glance in Eoin's direction and quickly turned back to the lad, obviously distracted. “For what?”

“For taking advantage of your innocence like that.”

Eoin saw a small frown gather between her brows before she seemed to realize what he meant. “Ah, yes, of course, the kiss.” She bit her lip, and shifted her gaze down. “I think it's best if you leave now. It would not do for us to be discovered like this.”

If Eoin heard the slight inflection in her voice, signifying a question, Comyn did not.

“You're right.” He smiled. “Although maybe it would be easier if we were.”

She frowned again, clearly not understanding. But Eoin did. The lad was obviously aware of his father's sentiments and looking for a way around them. Being caught in a compromising situation could suffice.

Although Comyn was not yet a knight, he had all the honor and nobility of one. Eoin, on the other hand, wasn't a knight and had no pretense of wanting to be to keep him in check.

With a short bow, Comyn left the room. As soon as she closed the door after him, Lady Margaret turned around and folded her arms across her chest. “I know you are there, you might as well come out.”

She made it sound as if he were a bairn hiding or purposefully lingering in the shadows to spy on them. Neither of which were true, damn it. He'd just been sitting there when she'd come bursting into the room and headed straight for the brandy. But somehow, the lass had managed to put him on the defensive.

Though she wouldn't have been able to see his face from where he was seated with his back to the stone wall of the alcove, she didn't look surprised to see that it was him when he stood.

“Had I known what I would be interrupting, I would have made my presence known sooner.”

“You speak!” she said with mock surprise. “I wasn't sure if dark, brooding stares were the extent of your communication skills.”

Handful
.

His eyes bit into hers unrelentingly. “I didn't realize we had anything to say.”

She held his stare for a long moment before turning away. “Perhaps you are right.”

Her voice held a note of sadness that made something inside him tug. Hard.

He should have left. He should have taken the opening she'd given him and walked away. Instead, he crossed the distance between them in a few strides. The soft scent of flowers that he'd noticed during their dance taunted his senses. But he was still too angry to heed caution. “Comyn isn't for you.”

She lifted her brows, obviously taken aback by the adamancy of his tone. “You sound very certain of that.”

He was trying to protect her, damn it. Badenoch would never let his son marry her. “I am. And letting him take liberties won't change anything.”

“Liberties?” Her brows drew together. “You mean that kiss?” She laughed. “Lud, that hardly signifies.”

He didn't know whether it was the laugh or the way she dismissed it as nothing that fanned the flames of his anger like a smith's bellows. “And you are so experienced as to know the difference?”

Something in his tone made her eyes narrow. “Have you never kissed a woman, my lord?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

She looked at him for a long moment, as if willing him to see something, and then shook her head. “What I know or don't know is none of your business.”

She was right, and yet she was so bloody wrong. “Not all men are pups like Comyn, my lady, to be so easily turned away when you are done with them. Some might see your kiss as an invitation for more.”

The flush of pink to her cheeks told him she wasn't unaware of her reputation. He didn't realize how close they were standing until she straightened her spine and the dart of her nipples grazed his chest.

His knees almost buckled. He clenched his teeth against the guttural groan of pleasure that sent a flood of heat to his groin.

She lifted her chin, tilting her head back to meet his angry glare. “A man like you, you mean?”

Whether it was sarcasm or a challenge, he didn't know, but Eoin's control snapped. He wanted to punish her. He wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted to prove to her that she played a dangerous game.

But most of all he wanted to kiss her so badly he couldn't see straight.

“Aye, that's exactly what I mean.” He slid his arm around her waist and hauled her up against him. It was so bloody perfect he couldn't have pulled away if he wanted to. All of those lush, feminine curves molded against him felt incredible. He was hard against her. Pounding. Throbbing. Even when he was a lad he'd never felt desire like this so intensely. Need had reached up and grabbed him by the cock, stroking, licking, with more potency than a wanton's tongue.