The Striker (27 page)

She would have—had she not run right into a stunned Marjory who was standing just outside the stall. From the stricken look on the girl's face, if she hadn't seen everything, she'd seen enough.

When she turned and ran, Margaret chased after her. “Wait,” she said, catching her at the bottom of the tower stairs. “Oh God, Marjory, I'm so sorry you had to see that. But maybe it's better if you learn the truth now.”

“Learn what truth?” she repeated angrily. “That you've betrayed my brother and tried to seduce my betrothed? I saw you kiss him.” The facade of anger crumbled like a dry wall. “How could you?”

Seeing the devastation in the other woman's eyes, Margaret fought for patience as she tried to calmly explain. Marjory was hurt, but there was no interpretation that could have construed the events that had just occurred as Margaret's fault. “Fin attacked
me
, Marjory. He was drunk. When he tried to kiss me, I was forced to defend myself. You must have seen the knife?”

“Attacked? You mean provoked. What do you expect when you've been taunting him, seducing him for weeks—months? Then when he finally decides to take you up on your offer, you play the innocent and pull out your knife.” The tears had started to fall, and Marjory was sobbing uncontrollably. “God knows, you've done your best to confuse him. But Fin loves me, and everyone knows you're a whore.”

The sound of a slap shattered the cool night air. Margaret didn't know which one of them was more shocked. But she wasn't going to let anyone say something like that—even a woman who was supposed to be her sister.

They stared at each other in the torchlight. “I hate you,” Marjory said, holding her cheek in her palm. “Everyone hates you. No one wants you here. I wish my brother had never married you, so you could just leave.”

This time when she ran away, Margaret didn't chase after her.

Stonily, she climbed the steps to her chamber, donned a dark cloak, packed a few belongings in a bag—including the chess set she'd worked so hard on—and slipped out of the postern gate in the crowd of revelers without anyone noticing.

She left behind a broken heart, her cherished horse that she could not sneak away without being seen, and a note for her husband should he ever return. He'd done what he had to do, and now so was she.

Margaret MacDowell had had enough: she was going home.

Near Garthland Castle, Galloway, Scotland, St. Valentine's Day, 1307

T
HE WIND TORE
the bindings from her plaits, sending her hair streaming out behind her, as Margaret lowered her head to the palfrey's neck and raced through the shadowed trees.

She could hear the shouting of her companion behind her, but he didn't catch her until she drew up at the loch. “God's bones, Maggie Beag, what the hell do you think you are doing?” He reached over and grabbed the reins from her, forcing her mount to come to a complete stop. “Are you trying to kill yourself, riding through the trees like that? I should take you over my knee.”

Margaret stared at the familiar handsome face, although it wasn't often turned toward her with such fury. Lord, she almost believed all those stories she heard of his fierceness on the battlefield when he looked like this. But Tristan MacCan had been her friend for as long as she could remember; it would take more than a dark look to send her cowering.

She narrowed her eyes right back at him. “I was racing—and winning I'll point out. And last time I looked you are not my father or my husband, Tristan MacCan, so don't try to order me about.”

With a toss of her head, she dismounted—hopping down with a loud exclamation. She strode to the water's edge.

But he was right behind her. Catching her by the arm, Tristan swung her around to face him. “Not yet, maybe. But when I am, I
will
take you over my knee, if you ever do anything like that again. You could have ridden into a limb in the darkness going that fast. You scared my heart right out of my chest.”

He always did this, blast it. He took the anger right out of her when he said sweet things like that. She'd frightened him, and his reaction had been out of concern.

But it was more than that. Tristan cared for her—more than she'd realized. It wasn't until she'd returned home from Kerrera that she'd noticed the subtle changes. The way he stared at her with longing, and maybe a slight edge of possessiveness when he didn't think she was looking. The way he no longer followed every pretty lass who fluttered her lashes at him out the door. The way he'd tried to ease the transition of her return home with her father and brothers.

Tristan had always assumed—as she had—that her marriage would be a political one. Her marriage to Eoin had changed everything. Now that she was back, he thought he'd been given a second chance—thanks to her father. But she cared about him too much to give him hope where there was none. Her heart belonged to one man, and until she learned differently, she would wait for him.

Four months after returning home, Margaret wondered if she'd made a mistake. The episode with Fin and Marjory had shaken her to the core; her only thought had been to escape. Had she given up too easily? Would Lady Rignach have listened to her? Had Eoin come home for her only to find her gone?

She'd heard nothing from him directly, only rumors of Bruce and a handful of men fleeing to the Western Isles. It was as if they'd vanished into the mist five months ago. Recently, she'd heard rumblings of the “king's” return—and her father was certainly being secretive about something with messengers coming and going at all hours—but the soldiers who'd garrisoned the nearby castles had been idle for months. For which she was relieved. God knew she had no love of King Edward, but neither did she want the war to resume. She just wanted Eoin to come home safely. No matter what her father said, she refused to believe he was dead.

She turned to Tristan, who'd relaxed his hold on her arm but still was standing close to her. “I know what my father wants, Tristan. But I will not go along with his plans to dissolve my marriage with the claim of a precontract. You and I were not secretly betrothed, and I will not say we were.”

It wasn't yet dark enough to mask Tristan's expression, and she could see the glint of annoyance in his ridiculously green eyes—Lud, they would put emeralds to shame! “I can't believe you are still holding on to a man whom you barely know, who deserted you among strangers, and then expected you to sit by the hearth waiting for him. If you were my wife, I would have taken you with me. Nothing would have kept me from having you by my side.”

Margaret felt a pang in her chest, knowing that Tristan spoke true. He would have taken her with him, and she couldn't escape the thought that if Eoin had really loved her, he would have done so, too.

He held her gaze. “He's probably dead, you know.”

She didn't say anything, but looked away. She would know if he was . . . wouldn't she?

He forced her face back to his with a hand on her chin. “But even if he's somehow survived the past few months, you don't think he'll come for you here, do you? You
left
him, Maggie.”

The pang intensified, Tristan's words an echo of her fears. “I told you why,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Aye, but I doubt he'll bother to come around and ask questions. You made your choice clear when you came back to your family—where you belong.”

But that was just it. She wasn't sure she belonged anywhere anymore. Garthland was the same, but it was also different. Or maybe she was the one who was different. She laughed and jested, she spoke her mind, and did what she wanted without asking permission. Her days were busy and filled with purpose. She'd slipped right back into her role as chatelaine and had hosted countless feasts since she'd returned. She was no longer miserable.

But neither was she happy. How could she be when Eoin was somewhere out there in danger? And just like at Gylen, there was no one she could talk to at Garthland about her fears for her husband. Not even Brigid. The distance she'd felt from her friend before leaving Stirling had widened since Margaret's return. Normally Brigid would have accompanied Margaret and Tristan on the ride to the loch, but all Brigid seemed to want to do since she and her brother had arrived was to sit by the window and watch the men in the yard as she sewed. Margaret was even more convinced that Brigid had fallen in love, but every time she asked her friend about it, she got a pained look on her face and refused to talk about it.

Just like at Gylen Castle, Margaret was caught between two loyalties. She didn't fit in anywhere anymore, belonging to neither clan completely and distrusted by both.

“Eoin loves me,” Margaret said to Brigid's brother, trying to twist out of his hold. “He'll come for me when he can.”

She must have sounded more certain than she felt, because Tristan's expression hardened. “And how long will that be?” He drew her closer, so their eyes were only inches apart in the darkness. “You are a beautiful, young woman, Maggie. Are you prepared to wait
years
for it to be safe enough for MacLean to try to sneak back here to fetch you? For sneak is what he will have to do. As long as your father lives—as long as any of the Lord of Badenoch's kin live—it will never be safe for Bruce and his men in Scotland. He killed him before an
altar
, for God's sake.” Ignoring his own blasphemy, he lowered his voice huskily. “And you forget, I've had you in my arms before. I know how passionate you are. Do you want to go months—years—without this?”

He'd always been good at surprising her, and he did so again when he bent his head and kissed her. His lips were warm and soft, and his mouth tasted of cloves. It was instantly familiar, but it was also instantly wrong.

He tried to cradle her head in his hand and bring her mouth closer to his to slide in his tongue as he used to do, but she pushed him forcefully away. He stumbled backward, swearing.

“Blast it, Tristan, stop!” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him furiously. “What do you think you are doing?”

His eyes blazed just as hotly—but with something else. “Showing you what you are missing. Proving to you that you'd be a fool to wait for a man who will never come back, when you have one right here who wants you.”

He took a step closer to her, but she held him back. “Stop it, Tristan! I don't want this.”

His eyes grew fierce, he leaned toward her, as if he might draw her into his arms. “I can make you want it.”

There was a powerful edge to his voice that she didn't recognize. It sent a shiver of trepidation running down her spine. But Tristan wasn't Fin MacFinnon. He would never hurt her. “No, you can't,” she said firmly. “We have been friends for a long time, but if you persist in this, we won't be any longer.”

For a moment he looked as if he might press his case, but then her words seemed to penetrate. She could see the anger and frustration warring on his expertly crafted features.

“You're making a mistake, Maggie. I hope by the time you've figured it out, I haven't grown tired of waiting. I'll not sleep alone forever. But continue this stubbornness, and you very well might.”

Taking his horse by the lead, he stomped off into the darkness. She wanted to call after him, but she knew it was probably best to give him time to cool his temper. The castle was only a shout away.

A moment later she reconsidered. It had gotten dark all of the sudden, and the shadows of the forest had taken on a sinister cast. Something felt wrong.

The sound of leaves rustling sent a shiver racing down her spine. She looked around, peering into the darkness.

It's only the wind, she told herself.

But it wasn't. The hair at the back of her neck prickled. She could feel something. Someone was out there.

She started to scream for Tristan, when a hand slipped over her mouth, and a man grabbed her roughly from behind.