The Striker (20 page)

But she had a point about his mother. “I wish my mother and sister thought as you, it would make this trip a hell of a lot faster.”

“It is rather
slow
, isn't it?” she said in exaggerated understatement. “But perhaps we can use the time to get to know one another better?” Anticipating an objection he hadn't been about to make, she added, “I know you are busy, but I thought when you were done for the day, or had a little bit of time, you could do what you promised.”

His brow furrowed. Had he made her a promise he'd forgotten about?

Seeing his expression, she grinned. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.” She pulled something out of the purse tied to her girdle and placed it in his hand. “Unfortunately, I couldn't carry the full set. But the way this one was scowling reminded me of you.”

He was too shocked to object to the scowling comment. He stared at the finely carved ivory knight incredulously. “You stole one of the chess pieces from the set at Stirling?”

Christ, it had probably belonged to King William the Lion!

She grinned up at him unrepentantly. “Stole is rather a harsh word for a child's game piece, isn't it? I simply wanted a remembrance of the first time we met. There was another one in this color, so I assumed it would be all right.”

He didn't have the heart to correct her; she would find out soon enough. But Eoin had to smile thinking of the way his kinsman would be swearing the next time he sat down to play.

Eoin was still smiling when he rejoined his men and rode out in search of an alternate path through the forested hills of Callander. He was also—surprisingly, given the discomfort it was bound to cause him—looking forward to the coming night.

For the first time since the announcement of their marriage, he felt some of the hope for the future that he'd had in the cottage. It would be all right. What he and Margaret had was worth all the challenges they would face.

If only that first challenge wasn't coming so soon.

“Check . . .”

In disbelief, Margaret stared down at the makeshift board and finished for him, “Mate”—to which she then added a very crude oath.

Tempted to flip the entire table, she managed to exercise some restraint and glared at the handsome blighter instead.

Eoin just grinned. “Oh come on, Maggie, it's just a ‘child's game.' You aren't upset are you?”

Her eyes narrowed. If he wasn't so infuriatingly big, she'd flip him instead. “It's the devil's game, that's what it is!” She shook her head, looking at him accusingly. “You let me think I had you this time.”

He was wise not to say anything and merely shrugged—proving that even if they hadn't been able to make love, six nights of sleeping beside him by the campfire wasn't completely without effect in making him a proper husband.

But she would make him pay for that shrug. Tonight.

It hadn't taken her long to realize that her closeness at night was causing her husband a bit of
distress
. He wanted her. And if the size of the erection pressed against her bottom was any indication, he wanted her quite a lot. She couldn't resist teasing him. Lud, remembering how he'd blush with embarrassment at the word “privacy” still made her laugh. As had the muffled curse the first time she'd pressed back against that hardness.

But Eoin lived up to his brilliant tactician reputation. If the past week of chess lessons hadn't shown her that he had a devious mind, the torture he'd exacted on her body certainly had.

When she wiggled her hips against him teasingly the next night, he moved the hand that had been circled loosely around her waist up to her breast, where his finger circled her nipple ever so lightly—frustratingly lightly. The moment she made a sound, he stopped.

“Privacy,” he whispered.

It had taken them both a long time to get to sleep that night. But waking up the next morning tucked in his embrace, feeling warm and safe and unbelievably happy, had made the frustration worth it.

The next night, however, when he didn't pull her into his arms as he had the night before, but turned the other way, she decided a little requital was in order. She'd slid her arm around his waist from behind and slipped her hand under the edge of his tunic, where she'd skimmed light swirls over the rigid bands of his stomach. Bands that she couldn't help noticing grew tighter and tighter the lower her hand dropped. When her thumb accidentally brushed the thick hood of his manhood and he made a sharp hissing sound, she stopped.

“Privacy,” she'd reminded him smugly.

Unfortunately, she hadn't counted on how the rigid, aroused feel of his body against hers would affect her. Her heart had been beating just as fast as his. It had taken her even longer to get to sleep that night. But again, waking in his arms made it all worth it.

She wasn't as sure later that night, however, when the moment he slipped under the plaid behind her, his fingers slid between her legs. He stroked her until she'd been half-crazed with desire, stopping when she'd been unable to prevent herself from making a sound. She'd almost cried out anyway—in frustration.

It had been a long, restless night.

The following night he'd come to bed late—the coward—but she was ready. The moment he drew the plaid down on top of him, she found him with her hand, circling the rigid column of velvety steel with her hand the way she'd seen him holding himself that day in the cottage. He'd fisted his hand around hers and silently shown her how to stroke him.

She'd held his gaze in the darkness as she'd brought him to the very peak of pleasure. He was holding himself so taut she thought he might win the sensual battle that had sprung up between them. But he sucked in his breath—making a sound—and she'd stopped.

After nearly a week of stroking and touching, she was in as much torment as he. She couldn't wait until they could make love again. Tomorrow night, thank goodness! Eoin said they would reach the ferry at Oban late afternoon the following day. As less than a half mile separated Gylen Castle from the mainland just south of Oban, the quick boat ride would bring her to her new home well before nightfall.

Despite the promise of pleasure awaiting her, the tormenting nights, the plodding pace of travel, and spate of rainy weather that had hit them the past few days, part of her was sad to see the journey come to an end.

She was nervous about the new life that awaited her at Kerrera. She didn't know what to expect, how she would fit in, or what would be expected of her. Gylen Castle was the unknown; on the road she could pretend things would be the same.

She was also enjoying getting to know her husband. Since she'd confronted him a week ago, Eoin had made an effort to spend more time with her—and not just at night. He rode beside her when he could, and every evening after they finished eating, he brought out the thin piece of wood that he'd etched lines in with a knife and the piles of different colored stones to teach her to play chess.

She'd picked up the rules of the game quickly enough, it was losing—rather handily—that was the difficult part to accept.

“Who would have thought a child's game could exact such a blow to the pride?” she said. “Believe it or not, until I met you, I used to think of myself as relatively clever.”

He grinned. “I think your pride is strong enough to weather the blow, and it isn't cleverness standing in your way.”

She lifted her brow. “Then what is it?”

“You're too impatient for the game to end. You go on attack too soon. You need to bide your time.”

She lifted her brow, surprised by the insight. He was right. She was impatient and grew bored easily. Nor was she the lie-in-wait type; she liked the straightforward challenge. She suspected a two-day-long battle over a chessboard would never be in her future.

“Is that what you do?” she asked.

He shrugged. For a man who talked about battle so much with everyone else, he completely avoided the subject with her. She hoped there wasn't a reason. She'd yet to broach the subject of the war, but maybe now was the time.

She glanced around, seeing that as in previous nights, the others were giving them space. “What will you do if war breaks out again?” she asked in a low voice.

It might have been a trick of the torchlight, but she swore he stiffened defensively. “What do you mean?”

“My father wants you to fight with him. He said your abilities would be valued by those loyal to King John.”

This time she was not mistaken: his expression went rigid. There was a steely glint in his eye she'd never seen before. “My duty is to my father.”

“And his is to his overlord, Alexander MacDougall, the Lord of Argyll, and to his king. Not to his kinsman,” she added, referring to Bruce.

She waited for a reaction, but there was none. His expression betrayed not a hint of his thoughts. He wore the same serious, intense expression on his face that he always did when he was with everyone else. But not usually her.

“My father knows well where his duty lies, Margaret.”

Hope sprang in her chest. “Does that mean you will—?”

He stood. “It means this is a pointless conversation. When the time comes—
if
the time comes—he will do what he must. As will I.”

He started to walk away, but she stood and stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Wait, why won't you talk about this with me?”

“There is nothing to discuss, and it has nothing to do with you.”

“I'm your wife! Of course it has something to do with me.”

He held her gaze, saying nothing but challenging all the same. She didn't understand. Why was he doing this? Why was he shutting her out? Did he not value her opinion? She might not be as smart as he was, or know how to read and write, but that didn't mean she wouldn't understand.

“I have to go,” he said impatiently.

She let her hand drop, not knowing or understanding how the conversation could have gone so wrong. “Where?”

“It's my night to be on guard duty.” He paused. “I won't be to bed until midmorning. Perhaps it would be best if you slept in the tent the last night?”

She was stricken. “Why are you acting like this?”

His expression changed, and once again he was the man she loved. He drew her into his arms. “Ah hell, I'm sorry. But it is your fault.” She looked up at him questioningly. “You have pushed me to the edge of madness. I can't take another night of it.”

He was teasing her, but only partially. Suddenly, she scowled. “You volunteered for guard duty, didn't you?”

He winced, not bothering to lie. “It's only one more night.”

Or so he thought. But the next night, after they'd
finally
retired to the private chamber that had been arranged for them (his mother had insisted on showing her every room of the beautifully decorated tower house), Margaret had a surprise for him.

“Your what?”

“Shhh,” she said. “Do you want the whole castle to hear? My flux. It will only be a few days.”

She thought he'd find the timing amusingly ironic, but apparently he didn't. He was strangely quiet, his expression almost pained.

Her brow furrowed. “I don't exactly have much control over these things, Eoin.” She grinned wickedly and slid up against him, covering him with her hand. “Besides, there is plenty of
privacy
here, and no reason for you to be quiet.”

He jerked her hand away. “Damn it, Margaret. Stop it. You don't understand.”

More than a little hurt by the rejection, she moved back a few steps to look at him. “Then why don't you explain it to me,” she said softly.

A strange sense of doom settled around her like a thick gray mist.

He moved to the glazed window, staring out for a few minutes before turning to answer her.

“I'm leaving.”

For a moment she didn't think she heard him correctly. Her heart was beating too loudly in her ears. “You are what?”

“There is something I have to do. I must leave by Saturday.”

Margaret just stared at him, dumbfounded. Saturday was in two days. “When will you be back?” she managed chokingly, a ball of hot emotion seeming to have stuck in her throat.

“I don't know.”

She flinched as if struck. “What do you mean, ‘I don't know'? A few days? Weeks?” He didn't say anything. “Christmas?” she could barely breathe.

“I hope so.”

He hoped so? There were still almost two weeks until All Saints' Day! Christmas was more than two months away. This wasn't happening. Please let someone tell her this wasn't happening. The room seemed to be swaying as if they were still on the ferry. “Where are you going?”

“I . . .” He dragged his fingers through his hair, the way he did when he was anxious or uncomfortable. “I can't explain. It's just something I have to do, all right?”