The Striker (14 page)

Forced to agree, Finlaeie bowed his head as if acceding to the truth of her statement.

“Good,” she said. “Then we will speak no more on the subject.”

She knew she would have hell to pay with her father and brothers later. They would be furious at her refusing such a fine animal, but it would be worth it if the gesture dulled some of the sting of her victory.

A glance in Finlaeie's direction, however, told her that it may have—marginally—eased his anger, but it had increased his resentment.

Eoin, however, looked relieved. She caught his gaze and wanted to hold on to it, but mindful of their audience, excused herself again.

Brigid was unusually quiet as they quickly washed and changed for the meal, but lost in her own thoughts, Margaret didn't press her for an explanation.

The crowd's reaction to the race bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She couldn't escape the twinge of apprehension that Eoin had been right. But what could she have done? Let a war break out between her brothers and Bruce's men in the midst of truce for the peace talks?

It was so blasted different here, with all these rules and conventions that seemed so silly. She told herself that the good opinion of these people didn't matter to her, but that wasn't completely true. Eoin's opinion mattered. And though she'd wanted to forget it, she was here for a reason. John Comyn's opinion should matter to her as well. There was also Brigid. She knew her friend had been having a difficult time here, and swore to do her best to try to make it better for her.

No more races, she vowed. And maybe once her father's anger cooled over losing the horse, he could be persuaded to lighten his sporran and buy them a few new dresses. Perhaps even a veil or two? That should make Brigid happy.

Indeed, as the girls made their way down to the Hall and Margaret confessed her plans, Brigid did seem a bit brighter.

Until they entered the Hall.

It was worse than Eoin had anticipated. The condemnation and disdain toward Margaret MacDowell by some of the women had never been subtle, but now it fairly reverberated throughout the room.

The Hall had seemed subdued before she and her friend entered, but it had turned holy-week-in-the-abbey quiet the moment they did.

It wasn't just the race, but the alleged reason for it. It had taken Eoin awhile to figure out what people were buzzing about, but eventually his brother Neil filled him in. He seemed surprised Eoin didn't know. Margaret had been seen leaving the old donjon last night after Fin in a state of dishabille. She'd challenged Fin to the race (and then “cheated” by jumping) to retaliate at him for spurning her. By the time Eoin heard the story from Bruce again near the end of the meal, she and Fin had not just been seen leaving, they'd been seen in the actual act of fornicating.

Eoin hotly denied it and tried to dispel the rumors, but people seemed inclined to want to believe the worst of her. She was different—too bold, too confident, too indifferent to their approbation—and they were making her pay.

Eoin was furious, with the person who'd started the false rumor but also with himself. This was his fault. He was the one who'd kissed her. If she'd looked disheveled, it was because of him. Someone must have seen Fin leave the room after he'd discovered them, and then seen Margaret when she'd left before Eoin. He knew it could have just as easily been him rather than Fin who was the subject of the rumors.

Not that Fin seemed to mind. Eoin eyed his friend, whose temper seemed to improve considerably as the meal wore on and the rumor spread. Eoin understood his friend's anger at the blow to his pride over the race—Fin felt he'd been humiliated—but Eoin didn't understand the glee that Fin seemed to take in her shunning.

Especially after what she'd done with the horse. She'd had every right to claim Fin's palfrey as her prize. Despite the claim of “trickery” with the jump, she'd outridden Fin plain and simple.

Eoin had never seen anything like it. She seemed to sink into the saddle, to disappear into the beast until they'd been of one flesh. She was fearless. Light. Agile. Wild and unrestrained. It had been a sight to behold.

Although he could still feel the knot in his chest from where his heart had leapt out of his body when she'd jumped the corner over all those rocks.

The lass was wild. Outrageous. Too courageous for her own good.

And she was magnificent.

It was getting harder and harder to heed the reasons why she was so wrong for him.

He didn't realize how closely he'd been keeping an eye on her during the meal until it was finished and he couldn't find her.

Was something wrong? Had she heard something? Had someone been cruel to her?

He couldn't stand the idea of someone hurting her and wished to hell he could shield her from all this.

Thinking she might be with Comyn, Eoin looked for him to no avail. He was about to go in search of him when his sister raced up to the table.

She looked ready to burst. “Did you hear?”

Anticipating what she was about to say, he stood and pulled her off to the side. “I hope you aren't repeating gossip, Marjory.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You should consider yourself lucky.” She sighed. “Poor Fin.”

His sister had a young maid's crush on his friend, but this was ridiculous. Fin wasn't the one who deserved sympathy. “Poor Fin?”

She nodded. “Aye, to have escaped that harlot's web. She seduced him and then tried to make him marry her!”

Eoin had had enough. He couldn't listen to this anymore. He took his sister's arm and forced her to look at him with a shake that he hoped knocked some sense into that pretty dark head. “Fin had nothing to do with it. It was me. I was the one in the room with her and nothing happened. Nothing. I will not hear you repeat any of this again. Do you understand?”

Eyes wide, she nodded. “You?”

“Aye, me. So if anyone is responsible for these rumors, it's me.”

She looked horrified. But also contrite.

“Have you seen her?” he asked. Marjory shook her head. “How about young Comyn?”

She shook her head again. “I saw his sisters standing by the entry a few minutes ago.”

Eoin grimaced. He didn't much like Comyn's sisters. Frankly, they reminded him too much of his own. Mean-spirited, judgmental, and gossipy. He and Marjory were going to have a long talk later. He could no longer pretend she was going to grow out of it.

There was a small, screened-off section of the Hall between the main entry and the corridor to the kitchens. With the garderobe nearby, the ladies tended to gather there to wait in groups. That was where he found them.

He stood near the entry and seeing no sign of Margaret was about to leave when he heard her name. He thought it was Elizabeth Comyn who spoke—John's eldest sister. In addition to Joan, Comyn's other sister, there were a few other ladies Eoin didn't recognize.

“Margaret MacDowell? You thought wrong! My brother would never consider marrying a woman like that. If her father is fool enough to think my brother would marry someone so utterly in lack of dignity, manners, and morals, that's his fault. Have you seen her? She might as well wear the yellow hood of a harlot with the way she dresses and looks; I wasn't surprised to hear she seduced Finlaeie MacFinnon.” The woman who must have spoken first tried to put up some argument, but Comyn's sister shut her down. “They were seen. What more proof do you need? If there was any question before—which there wasn't,” she emphasized, “there isn't now. My brother will not marry soiled goods.”

If Eoin were the kind of man to strike a woman, Elizabeth Comyn would be in grave danger right now. Not trusting himself to listen to another minute of this shite without saying something to straighten these harpies out—something that would only worsen the gossip—he was about to leave when one of the women complained, “Who is taking so long in there?”

The door to the garderobe opened and a woman stepped out. “The soiled goods,” Margaret said.

Shite
. That was the moment Eoin knew what was wrong with him. He knew what he'd been trying to deny. He knew why instead of focusing all his efforts on impressing his kinsman for a job of which he could only dream, he was chasing down a woman to the garderobe.

His blood drained to the floor. The truth hit him square in the chest as she stood there like a damned queen, facing their condemnation with defiance and a look on her face that told them to go to hell.

I'm in love with her
.

Bloody hell, how could he have let this happen? It didn't make any damned sense! He didn't want to believe that he could do something so completely and utterly stupid.

But he had. She was wild, outrageous, and didn't dress or act anything like a noblewoman should, but seeing her standing there, facing those women, with more pride and dignity in her tiny slippered foot than those women could ever hope to have, he knew he loved her.

God knows he didn't understand it, sure as hell wasn't happy about it, and didn't know what he was going to do about it, but neither could he deny it.

Regally, head held high, she walked across the small room. The women seemed stunned—and not a little shamed—and parted instinctively before her. Margaret's pride, her bravado, never faltered. Until she turned the corner of the partition and saw him.

Their eyes met, and he could see that she knew he'd heard every word. Her golden eyes widened. Her fair skin paled. And then her proud, beautiful face simply crumpled.

He glimpsed something he'd never thought to see in her expression: vulnerability, and it cut him to the quick.

He reached for her. “Margaret, I'm sorry—”

He didn't get to finish.

“Oh God, please . . . please, just leave me alone!” With a soft cry and sob that tore right through his chest, she twisted away from him and fled out the Hall as if the devil were nipping at her heels.

He'd heard. He'd heard every horrible word, every lie they said about her.

Margaret felt the tears sliding down her cheeks as she ran across the yard. For the first time in her life she wanted to run away. She wanted to crawl in a hole and hide. Shame was a new emotion for her, but it burned through every limb, every bone, and every corner of her body.

They thought she'd seduced Finlaeie MacFinnon. They thought she dressed like a whore so she must be one? Is that what Eoin thought? God knows with what had happened in the library he had every reason to.

She heard him call her name, but it only made her run faster. She didn't know where she was going, only that she had to get away. She'd headed to the stables without even realizing it. A solitary stable lad sat at the entry. He took one look at her face and made himself scarce.

That was when Eoin caught up with her. He took her by the arm again. This time his grip was firm. When she tried to shrug away, he held fast. Blast it, he was strong, and right now, she hated all those muscles she so admired.

“Let go of me,” she cried, in between sobs that tore through her lungs like fire.

“Margaret—Maggie—look at me.”

She didn't want to, but there was something in his voice that would not be denied.
Maggie
? She lifted her gaze. Dark, velvety blue eyes met hers. Not with condemnation but with understanding. And something else. Something that looked like tenderness.

“I'm not going anywhere until we talk,” he said in a voice that was both firm and gentle.

She didn't want to talk, she wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl into a ball and forget any of this had ever happened.

“Where were you going?” he asked.

“I don't know.” She sniffled. “I just wanted to ride.”

“I'll go with you.”

She was too anxious to get away to argue with him. God knew her reputation couldn't suffer any more. And if he didn't mind being seen with the Whore of Babylon, she wasn't going to stop him.

He helped her saddle Dubh, and then saddled his own horse before lifting her up. They passed the guards at the gate without comment, and soon they were riding down castle hill to the flat stretch of land she'd raced over earlier that day. They rode past the abbey and continued along the banks of the River Forth until the castle on the rock, the narrow wynds of tightly packed stone and wattle-and-daub houses, and the town of Stirling fell behind them.