The Striker (19 page)

Leaving his mother and sister to direct the servants with where to put their trunks in the canvas tent, which was bigger than the room she and Brigid had shared with a few of the other women in Stirling, Margaret excused herself to go in search of her husband.

Wrapping her cloak around her to ward off the autumnal chill in the air, she wound her way through the bustling clansmen as they made haste to set up camp in the falling light of dusk.

So far they'd endured long days in the saddle, rising just before dawn to be on the road as soon as the light broke and stopping shortly before dusk. The pace, however, was agonizingly slow—even slower than the journey from Garthland to Stirling. Dubh was going about as half-mad as she was, chomping at the bit to
ride
.

As carriages were rare and impractical on all but some of the old Roman roads, all the women were on horseback, but Eoin's mother and sister traveled with far more carts that she and Brigid. Margaret's two trunks seemed paltry to their four or five—each.

In addition to the trunks of linens and clothing, there were boxes for their jewelry, another for their veils and circlets, and another for their shoes. But it wasn't just clothing. Margaret had been shocked by the amount of household plate and furniture that had accompanied them. No doubt by time she returned to the tent, it would look as comfortable as a room at Stirling, replete with beds, fine linens, chairs, tables—one used solely for Lady Rignach's writing (Margaret had mistakenly asked if she traveled with a clerk, much to the amusement of Eoin's sister, who informed her that only the villeins at Kerrera didn't know how to read and write)—a huge bronze bath, and two braziers.

On the way to Stirling, Margaret and Brigid had slept on bedrolls and been content to eat with the men around the campfire. But even a night in the forest wasn't an excuse to deviate from “civilized” living arrangements, according to Lady Rignach. Margaret was sure the word had been for her benefit.

But Lady Rignach didn't need to remind her. Margaret was painfully aware of her inadequacies every time they took out a book to read or a piece of parchment upon which to write.

She just wished being civilized didn't take so much time. At this pace they wouldn't reach Oban, where they would ferry to Kerrera, for another week. In the Western Isles, travel by ship was usually much faster and far more efficient, but Lady Rignach did not like the sea.

She found Eoin on the opposite side of camp, gathered near the horses with a handful of his men—including Finlaeie MacFinnon. Eoin had his back to her, and the men seemed to be arguing about something.

Finlaeie glanced over and saw her first. She stiffened reflexively, but forced herself to smile. For Eoin's sake she was making an effort to forget what had happened at Stirling and befriend his foster brother. But it wasn't easy when Finlaeie looked at her as if she belonged in the lowest stews of London.

She would never forget what he'd said to her before the race, but she told herself she could try to forgive him. Of course, he had to
want
to be forgiven first, and thus far he'd given her no indication that he felt sorry for anything.

There seemed to be a coolness between the foster brothers though, and from the nasty-looking mottled bruise on Finlaeie's jaw, she suspected it had something to do with that.

From the intensity of the conversation, she could tell it wasn't a good time and would have backed away, but Finlaeie nudged Eoin, said something in a low voice, and nodded in her direction.

Eoin turned, saw her, and gave her a pleasant “my lady,” but he was too preoccupied to completely mask that her interruption was not a welcome one.

It was a look that a good wife would have read, made some excuse, and scurried away. Unfortunately for him, she was not a good wife—actually right now she didn't feel like much of a wife at all—and the look only fueled her frustration, hurt, and anger.

She had left the only family she'd ever known behind three days ago, been “welcomed” into his with about as much enthusiasm as a leper, and he couldn't spare her a few minutes?

“Is there something you need, Margaret?” Eoin asked.

“I should like to speak with you. Alone, if you will.”

“Can it wait? We were just about to ride out—”

“It's important,” she said firmly, refusing to back down.

She had to find out why he was avoiding her, and that look she'd caught left her with no doubt that he was doing exactly that.

Eoin told his men he would be back in a few minutes and walked to his wife, ignoring the snide glance from Fin that said “I told you so.”

Just because she interrupted him didn't make her demanding and needing attention, damn it.

Fin was lucky Eoin was talking to him at all, after what he'd said about their marriage.

“Why the hell did you marry her? The lass probably wasn't even a virgin. I hope you checked for fresh cut marks when you saw the blood.”

Eoin had struck him as hard as he'd ever struck anyone in his life. He'd laid him flat with that one fist to the jaw and had his hands around his throat a minute later. “If you ever say anything like that again,” he'd sworn, “I'll kill you.”

He meant it, too. Margaret was his wife, and Eoin wouldn't allow any man to speak ill of her—even the man who was like a brother to him.

He just wished Fin hadn't said what he'd said. Eoin hadn't even thought about blood—or the absence of it. Damn Fin to hell. Just because there hadn't been blood, it didn't mean anything. It had been obvious that she'd been a maid.

Why was he even thinking about this?

Taking her arm, he led her through the trees to the edge of the river, where some of the lads were fetching buckets of fresh water for the camp.

He pointed to a low rock for her to sit on, but she shook her head and turned to face him.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“It's nothing for you to be concerned about. One of the scouts discovered that a bridge has been washed out ahead of us. We are riding out to see what will be the best route for the carts.”

“That isn't what I meant.” He hadn't thought so but had hoped. “Are you upset with me for some reason?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I'm not avoiding you.” But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. He had been avoiding her. Unconsciously maybe, but that wasn't an excuse. The promise he'd made to Bruce didn't sit well with him, and he regretted it. Even if it had been the only way to salvage the opportunity his kinsman was giving him.

The reaction from his family had been worse than he'd anticipated. The negotiations for a betrothal agreement with the Keiths had been much further along than Eoin realized, and his actions had impugned the clan's honor and pride. His father had been humiliated and forced to apologize and make amends. But Eoin had ruined any chance he had of working with the great Marischal of Scotland and would probably do best to avoid crossing paths with Robert Keith in the future.

Eoin suspected that his father's disappointment was worse because Eoin's actions had been so unexpected. Unlike his two elder brothers, Eoin never did anything rash or unwise. He was calculated. Thoughtful.
Smart
.

But not this time. His father couldn't believe he'd thrown away a bright future for a tumble with a lass. “
She'll hold you back
,” he'd said, his words an eerie echo of Fin's.

The words had seemed all too prophetic when his father told him Bruce was refusing now to consider Eoin for the secret guard. The earl wouldn't risk a man so closely tied to the enemy—especially Dugald MacDowell. Losing the chance with Keith was bad enough, but the thought of missing out on a place in Bruce's secret guard was unthinkable.

It had taken days of discussion—pleading—but eventually Bruce had relented. Only, however, after he'd exacted a promise from Eoin to tell Margaret nothing about what he was doing, where he was going, or what he was a part of. She would be kept completely in the dark about that part of his life.

He would have to lie to her.

And maybe that was why he was avoiding her. It was almost as if he knew that the more time he spent with her, and the closer they became, the more of a betrayal it would be when she learned the truth. Although he would keep his vow to Bruce, Eoin had no doubt that if this progressed as they expected, one day she would find out.

His beautiful young wife, however, looked none to happy with him right now. She glared up at him through narrowed eyes. “Are we married or not?”

The question took him aback. “What are you talking about? Of course we're married.”

“I wasn't sure, as I seem to be sharing a bed with everyone but you!”

Her voice had risen in her anger, and he pulled her away from a few of his men, who from their shocked expressions had heard what she'd said.

Still, his mouth quirked. “I don't think you meant it like that.”

She thought for a moment, and then blushed. “Of course I didn't mean that. I simply meant that I just wanted . . . I just hoped . . .” Her eyes caught his, and he felt his chest squeeze. “I miss you,” she said softly.

Eoin swore and pulled her into his arms. He was a thoughtless arse. He'd been so caught up in his own guilt about the promise he'd given Bruce that he hadn't considered what his avoidance was doing to her. She felt abandoned—understandably so.

And it would only get worse. But he pushed that troubling thought aside for now.

God knows the past week and a half had probably been just as hideous for her as it had been for him. None of this was her fault, but he was acting as if he blamed her. He didn't. He just cared for her too much and feared the toll joining his cousin's secret army was going to take on them.

But what Bruce offered him was the dream of a lifetime and a challenge he couldn't resist. It would give him a chance to test himself and operate at the highest, most elite level. He couldn't walk away from that. He'd been working toward this moment his whole life. And he was fighting for something he believed in—deeply. His cousin was the rightful king and Scotland's best—only—chance of seeing and end to Edward's overlordship. He couldn't walk away from that. Even for the wife he loved.

It wouldn't be easy, but he was determined to have both Margaret and a place in the Guard.

“I'm sorry,
a leanbh
. I've been . . . preoccupied.”

It had been ten days since that day in the cottage, and his body was reacting to her closeness. She was soft and sweet and smelled like she'd just alighted from a steamy bath of wildflowers. He was probably responsible for the steam—his body heat had shot up about a hundred degrees just holding her—but how the hell her hair still smelled like flowers after a long day in he saddle, he had no idea.

She let her cheek rest against his dusty, leather-clad chest for a moment before pushing back to look up at him. “So you have not changed your mind?”

“About what?”

“Having a wife.”

What in Hades? “Of course not.”

She scanned his face, as if looking for any hesitation. “Then why are we not sharing a bed?”

God have mercy, the things that came out of her mouth! “Christ, Maggie, it's not like there's a lot of privacy.” He let her go, thinking that the heat must be getting too much for him. His face even felt hot. He couldn't be blushing, damn it. Jerking off his helm, he dragged his fingers through his hair and tried not to stammer. “I'm not going to kick my mother and sister out of their tent.”

She studied him until he felt like a bug under a rock. “I'm not suggesting that. But there is no reason you can't sleep in the tent with us.”

His face no longer felt hot. Actually it felt as if every drop of blood had drained right out of it as he stared at her in mute horror.

She held a straight face for as long as she could, and then burst into laughter. “I was only jesting. Good gracious, I wish you could have seen your face.”

She shook her head and giggled a few more times, while he scowled forbiddingly at her. To no effect, he noticed.
Handful
.

“I know there isn't much privacy on the road,” she explained, “but your mother's tiring woman sleeps near the fire with her husband—and a few of the married servants as well. We don't have to . . .” She didn't need to finish, the pink in her cheeks said exactly what she was thinking. She bit her lip a few times and looked up at him again. “It will be enough to sleep beside you.”

The soft plea ate at him. “I was only thinking of your comfort.”

She smiled. “Well, the tent is certainly that. I can't imagine there is much furniture left in your castle with all that is in those carts. But I don't need all that. I shall be perfectly comfortable beside you.”

At least one of them would be. He couldn't think of anything more excruciatingly
un
comfortable than sleeping next to her night after night and not being able to touch her—or touch her in the way he wanted.