The Striker (36 page)

“With you.”

In his tent?
God's blood!
He almost shuddered. “That's impossible.”

“Why?”

Because apparently six years hadn't made his cock any smarter. “Camp is no place for a lady.”

“Perhaps not, but there must be some women?” She continued before he could object to the sort of women who were about camp, stepping close to him to make her case. Probably closer than she realized. Their bodies were practically touching, and every muscle in his body tightened. “Please, Eoin. I won't be in the way. I swear I won't embarrass you. I've changed.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Her eyes dropped from his as a delicate shade of pink rose to her cheeks. “I'm not the ignorant girl I was when we married. I'll not say the wrong thing or do something foolish like move the pieces of a chess game around. I can read and write now. I'll not challenge your friend to a race or see who can drink a mug of ale the quickest. I haven't worn breeches in a long time. I am no longer the backward, irreverent creature you need to try to turn into a proper wife.”

Eoin stared at her in shock. Was that what she thought? “That isn't what I . . .”
Ah hell
. It was what he'd wanted. But he'd never meant her to think he was ashamed of her. He'd just wanted her not to stand out so much. Not to be so outrageous. To not look at him as if she couldn't wait to get to the bedchamber. He'd wanted her to show a little restraint and decorum. To be more like the other ladies.

But if he'd wanted someone like Lady Barbara, why had he married Margaret?

Because she'd been different. Because she'd been fresh and sweet, and yes, outrageous. Because she'd made him laugh. Because she'd teased and challenged him, and driven him crazy with lust. Because she'd breezed into a room like she owned it, with her unbound hair flowing wildly around her shoulders, and he knew there would never be another woman for him.

It was
her
he'd wanted. Why had he tried to turn her into someone else?

Guilt twisted in his gut. “You never embarrassed me,” he said gruffly.

She gave him a wry smile that said she didn't believe him. “It was a long time ago, Eoin. It doesn't matter anymore.”

She tried to turn her face, but without realizing what he was doing, he reached out and cupped her chin in his hand to force her gaze back to his.

It was a mistake. Her skin was every bit as warm and baby soft as he remembered. He wanted to run his thumb over the smooth curve of her cheek and the delicate point of her chin.

“It does matter. I'm sorry if I made you feel that way. I thought it would be easier for you to fit in if you were—”

“Like everyone else?” she finished for him.

He nodded, embarrassed.

“You don't need to apologize. Just please, take me with you. I can't stay here not knowing what is happening. I need to be there, Eoin. I promise you won't even know I'm there.”

As if that were bloody possible. He'd always been too damned aware of her. Even now when by all rights he should want nothing to do with her. But he understood her urgency. She was worried about the boy.

She must have sensed his hesitation. “I can be of help. I know the castle, and I know how my father thinks. I can help get Eachann back, I know I can.”

He shook his head. “You aren't wanted, Margaret. Your presence would make things difficult.”

She misunderstood, her breath catching as if his words had stabbed. “You have made your feelings for me clear, Eoin. I know you don't want me. I won't interfere if . . .” She looked down, her cheeks pale. “If you already have a woman in your tent. I will sleep outside if you desire privacy.”

He knew he didn't owe her any explanations. She was the one who'd been about to marry another man. He shouldn't care what she thought. Hell, maybe it would even make it easier if he did have a woman in his tent.

But it hadn't been himself he'd been talking about but the others in the Bruce camp. Too many people knew what she'd done. His brethren, the king, some of his men. She was Dugald MacDowell's daughter and the enemy. He of all people shouldn't need a reminder.

He hardened his jaw, refusing to let her sway him. “You will stay here for now. I will send word as soon as I have anything to report.”

“But—”

“It's not a request, Margaret,” he said, cutting her off.

Her eyes blazed golden fire. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin in that defiant way he remembered. “Apparently all that extra muscle has turned you into a bully. You have no right to order me to do anything.”

“Don't I?” he challenged. “I'm still your husband.” He paused significantly. “At least for now.”

She flushed angrily. “A fact you seem to have conveniently forgotten for six years.”

He hadn't forgotten. That was the problem. And being around her was making him weak. He couldn't soften toward her, damn it. He hated her, didn't he?

He'd thought so, but maybe “the why” had mattered more than he wanted it to. He'd thought of her as a traitorous bitch for six years, but he couldn't think of her that way now—not after hearing her explanation. It wasn't as black and white as he'd thought. She hadn't intentionally betrayed him. She hadn't been trying to get back at him by revealing his presence in the area to her father. She hadn't purposefully sought to see him captured or killed. And that knowledge had taken the bite out of his anger and hatred.

Aye, what he was feeling right now was definitely not hate. It was hot and fiery, surged through his blood, set his nerves on edge, and made him want to lash out, not with anger but with something else. Six years or sixty years, he didn't think it would make a difference: he would still want her.

Fuck
. The oath was painfully appropriate.

He gave her a hard look to hide the emotions teeming inside him. “Aye, well I wasn't the first one to forget. Perhaps this time you can remember that you are married and stay where I leave you.”

Not wanting to hear what he was sure would be her furious response, he turned on his heel and left.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Aware of the number of eyes following her, Margaret drew the cloak more firmly around her. She wished she had a hood. The long unbound waves of red streaming down her back beneath the gossamer-thin, silky golden veil suddenly felt conspicuous.

Perhaps she shouldn't have changed gowns and veils? The nun's habit would have certainly discouraged the blatant staring. But when the package arrived yesterday at the convent, Margaret assumed the gown and veil were a gift from her husband—an apology for his high-handed attitude at the convent a few days ago.

All right, she didn't
really
believe the gown was an apology (Eoin had been far too assured in his “lord and master” role), but it was as good as an excuse as any to come find him.

Goodness knows how he'd been able to procure something so fine in such a short time. She would have thought the mossy green velvet gown trimmed in gold embroidery and matching gold silk veil had been made for her, were it not a smidgen too small in the bodice and hips.

In any event, she thought it the least she could do to wear the gift, given that he wasn't going to be pleased to find her here. But if he thought she would meekly stand aside and do his bidding . . .

She fisted her hands at her sides and tightened her mouth, recalling his imperious order to stay put. She hadn't changed
that
much.

Still, she hadn't thought it would be so difficult to find him—the camp was much larger than she'd realized. Hundreds of men had gathered for the siege, turning the grassy moorlands of the countryside around Dumfries Castle into a makeshift village of tents, carts, stalls, kitchens, and pens for the livestock and horses.

She was forced to walk a gauntlet of men—rather
big
men, she couldn't help noticing—as she wound her way through the bustling camp.

Though her impulse was to bite her lip, look down, and try not to make eye contact with the rough-looking bunch of warriors sitting outside the tents, Margaret knew better than to show weakness. Instead, she met the bold stares and tried to pretend she didn't hear the suggestive comments that followed her. As Eoin had warned her, it was clear from the “invitations” being hurled in her direction what type of woman typically frequented an army's camp.

Bruce's men had a reputation for being brigands, and she must admit they looked the part. Most of them appeared not to have seen a razor or a bath in months and looked far more familiar with a barber's cauterizing iron than his scissors. Fierce, scarred visages, and hard, unsmiling mouths were half-hidden behind scruffy beards and long, unkempt hair. They were big, imposing men made even bigger and more imposing by the abundance of armor and weaponry surrounding them. Most wore leather
cotuns
, some of which were studded with mail, and she seemed to have arrived at weapon preparing time, as many men were sitting outside their tents sharpening or otherwise tending to their various swords, axes, pikes, and hammers.

Too bad she couldn't have arrived at nap time instead.

Truth be told, they didn't look all that different from her father's Gallovidian warriors; the difference being that her father's men all knew who she was and wouldn't look at her so rudely—or crudely for that matter.

Licentious stares were nothing she hadn't had to deal with before—if on a smaller, less intimidating scale. Still, she was looking rather anxiously for the leaders' tents. Eoin might have been a regular man-at-arms for his father when she'd met him all those years ago, but it was clear he'd made his way up through the ranks in the intervening years. She couldn't say she was surprised. Even her father had been aware of his promise. This was always what had been important to him—maybe it was all that had been important to him.

Catching sight of larger tents on the ridge, she started to walk in that direction when an arm snaked around her waist from behind, and her breath jammed as she was jerked against a hard, mail-clad body. She got a quick glance of the grizzled face of a thickset, dark-haired warrior, and a not so quick whiff of pungent days' old male sweat. The stench was overwhelming, and instinctively she tried to break free.

His hot, ale-laden breath rang in her ear. “Not so fast, lass. Damn, you're a fine-looking piece.” Good lord, he was drunk. She could feel his hand moving toward her breast and tried to twist to evade the touch, but he managed to get in a good squeeze anyway. “Malcolm and I could use a little company. Isn't that right, Malcolm?”

A taller, leaner soldier stepped in front of her. He was no less grizzled in appearance, and was missing a few teeth, but he seemed to smell marginally better. Or maybe it was that the first warrior smelled so terribly, he drowned out everything else. Her stomach was rolling, and she was in danger of losing its contents if she didn't breathe fresh air soon.

“Aye,” Malcolm said appraisingly. “Been a long time since I've had company like you. Christ,” he said with a glance down her chest, which was no longer hidden behind her cloak thanks to the first warrior's groping. The new gown with its too-tight bodice displayed her breasts rather . . . prominently. “Would you look at the size of those tits!” He frowned. “That's a fine gown for a whore.”

“That's because I'm not a whore,” Margaret said angrily, trying to use her elbow to wrench away from the brute. But it was like trying to dent steel. “Let go of me,” she said.

“What's going on here?” a deep voice said. “I think the lass isn't interested, Captain.”

“Stay out of this, MacGowan. It's none of your business.”

“I'm making it my business.” The man came into view, stepping between Malcolm and the man he'd identified as a captain. Margaret had seen her fair share of handsome men, but her breath still sputtered a little. If she weren't partial to dark-blond hair, midnight-blue eyes, and mysterious, this man might have persuaded her to consider dark—almost black—hair, steely-blue eyes, and dangerous. Good lord, he was a handsome devil, possessing the dark good looks that conjured up all kinds of wickedness. Perhaps a couple of inches taller than Eoin with a heavily muscled build, this man could no doubt hold his own on the battlefield. “Let her go, Captain.”

“You forget who you are talking to, MacGowan. I give you the orders, not the other way around. Get out of here, before I see you tossed in the stocks or flogged for insubordination.”

The man's eyes met hers. “Are you willing, lass?”

“Most assuredly not,” she said.

No doubt hearing the refined tones of her speech, which in their drunken lust the other two had apparently missed, MacGowan frowned. “What is your name, my lady?”

She almost proudly belted out that she was Margaret MacDowell, daughter to the MacDowell chief. Realizing this might not be the best audience for that information, she quickly changed her response. “The wife of Eoin MacLean.”