The Striker (38 page)

He didn't seem to appreciate the amended word any better than the first. “You know very well it wasn't an apology.”

“It wasn't?” She quirked a brow in mock surprise. “Well, it should have been.” She gave him a long look. “Is everything all right? You seem to be a little tense.”

His eyes flared, and she almost regretted baiting him. But she hadn't had this much fun in . . .

Her heart squeezed. Almost seven and a half years. Since those first days of their marriage.

“I should have let you stay dressed as a nun. Maybe you wouldn't have every man within a hundred yards panting after you.”

She shrugged indifferently. “Maybe.” There was only one man she'd ever wanted that kind of attention from. But he no longer wanted her.

Or did he?

Glancing over his hard-wrought control and tautly held body, she wondered.

“I'm taking you back to the convent.”

She shook her head. “I'll just keep coming back. You'll have to have them lock me in.”

“Don't tempt me,” he snapped.

Margaret had taken a quick glance around the wood-framed canvas tent, scared of what she might see. She drew a deep breath and forced herself to take closer inspection and was more relieved than she wanted to admit to see no signs of a female presence.

Simple was an understatement. On opposite sides of the room there were two basic wood-framed beds, she assumed tied with ropes for a mattress, with a few wool plaids and animal skins on top for warmth and comfort. In one corner, which she assumed belonged to Eoin, was a desk laden with rolls of parchment. Aside from two trunks, another table, a couple of stools, a handful of stone cresset oil lamps, and a brazier, there was little else in terms of comfort or decoration.

His mother would be appalled.

“You aren't sharing your tent with a woman, are you?”

She didn't think he was going to answer, but eventually his mouth fell in a hard line, and he shook his head. “With Lamont.”

She brightened. “Please let me stay, Eoin. I promise I won't be in the way. I can help, if you let me.”

She didn't realize she was touching him, until his eyes looked down at the hand that had fallen on his arm. “How?”

Did she imagine the huskiness in his voice?
Something
had made her skin prickle. “Let me talk to my father. I know I can convince him to let Eachann go.”

“Absolutely not. It's too dangerous.”

She drew back. “My father wouldn't hurt me.”

“Your father is desperate. There is nothing I would put past him.”

Maybe it was too soon to press him, but the opportunity was too tempting. “I wouldn't think you would care if something happened to me. It would make it easier for you to be rid of me.”

The tic jumped in his jaw, his reaction visceral, even if a moment later he hid it. “It's the added danger to the boy that I'm worried about.”

She held his gaze for a moment and nodded. “Of course.” But she didn't believe him. He did care about her—at least a little—even if he didn't want to.

For more reasons than one, she had to stay. “Please, Eoin, you can't send me back to the convent.”

He didn't say anything for a long moment, but just studied her carefully. “If I were smart that's exactly what I would do.”

Her hope soared. “But . . .”

He finished for her as she hoped he would. “But God knows what kind of trouble you will get in if I don't keep an eye on you.”

Without thinking what she was doing, Margaret threw her arms around him. “Oh Eoin, thank you!”

The moment her body pressed against his, Eoin knew he'd made a mistake. How the hell was he going to share a tent with her for God knows how many days without touching her, without kissing her, without making love to her, when every bone in his body was clamoring to do exactly that?

God, she felt good. He'd forgotten how good. Warm and soft, her body molded against his like a tight glove.

He cursed inwardly. It was the wrong thing to be thinking about when his cock was pressed up against another tight glove.

But he'd been down this path before. His desire for her had clouded his reason. He wouldn't let it happen again. No matter how much he wanted her.

Very purposefully, he set her away. “There are going to be a few rules.”

She blinked up at him, apparently still suffering from the delusion that he'd been moments away from kissing her. “Rules?”

“Aye. You won't interfere, you won't snoop, you'll do everything that I ask you, and you won't throw yourself at me. I told you I wasn't interested in redheads anymore.”

Her eyes flared. “I wasn't throwing myself at you!” Her gaze narrowed and moved down his body with familiarity that belied a six-year separation, lingering for a moment on the place that proved him a liar. “And you didn't seem all that
un
interested.”

His mouth flattened. “I hear the nuns calling, Margaret.”

She looked like she wanted to hurl something at him. But for once, discretion prevailed. Her smile was far too pleasant for his liking. “I promise I won't ‘throw' myself at you, interfere, or snoop. I'll be the perfectly biddable wife and do whatever you ask.”

He didn't believe her for an instant, but smiled, knowing how much that must have cost her. He
smiled
. Hell, how long had it been since he'd done that? “Then welcome to your new lodging. I shall send for your things from the convent.”

“Don't bother. I will not wear that dress again, and I had nothing else that belonged to me.”

He didn't comment on the dress, but just thinking about it made his back teeth grind. “Make a list of anything you need, and I'll send a lad to town and see what can be procured.”

“I don't have much coin with me. Only what I was carrying in my purse for the church offerings.”

He waved her off. “I will see to it.”

“Thank you. I will pay you back.”

Like hell she would.

She looked around the tent. “Where shall I sleep?”

He pointed to his bed on the right. He would sleep in Lamont's. He wasn't going to analyze why he didn't want her in his partner's bed.

She frowned. “What about your friend?”

“He will bed down in one of the other tents.”

She bit her lip contritely. “I didn't mean to force him from his bed.”

“Lamont won't mind,” he assured her. “I do the same when his wife is with him.”

“He is married?”

“You sound surprised.”

She shrugged. “He doesn't say much.”

Eoin couldn't help smiling, thinking of Lamont's wife, Janet of Mar. The lass hadn't met a word she didn't like. “His wife makes up for it. When you meet her—”

He stopped, suddenly realizing that was very unlikely.
Part ways permanently
. That's exactly what he wanted.

An awkward pause followed. Eoin didn't miss the flash of hurt in Margaret's eyes, before she broke the silence by asking, “Is there any word on Eachann?”

Grateful for the change of subject, Eoin shook his head. “Nay.”

“How do you plan to get him back?”

He was surprised by the question. “Why do you think I have a plan?”

She rolled her eyes. “I might not be able to keep up with it all the time, but I know the way your mind works. You always have a plan.”

“Aye, well little good it will do me this time.” He couldn't hide his bitterness. “Carrick has refused to consider it.”

“What did it involve?”

He didn't say anything. He wasn't going to tell her the details. Not just because he didn't trust her—which he didn't—but also because the less he said about the Highland Guard the better. MacGregor's recent unmasking and the abduction of his betrothed by the English was a reminder to them all about the importance of keeping their identities secret.

He didn't want her asking too many questions, which she was bound to do if he spoke of a small highly-trained group of warriors who would attempt a sneak attack on an entire garrison. Word of their exploits had spread too wide.

It would be even more difficult when Bruce and the rest of the Guard arrived. The rest, that is, with the exception of MacGregor. The expert marksman—and the man known as the most handsome in Scotland—was apparently having some difficulty with his betrothed. Used to seeing women throw themselves at the famed archer, Eoin was looking forward to meeting the lass who had trapped the untrappable.

But the imminent arrival of his brethren was the one thing Eoin hadn't considered when he'd agreed to let her stay here. Margaret was too observant. This was bound to get complicated—as if it wasn't already.

“I'd rather not say,” he answered finally. “But I will have a better chance when the king arrives.”

She blinked. He hoped to hell that wasn't dampness in her eyes, but he found his chest growing a little heavier.

“I understand,” she said softly. “When do you expect him?”

“Soon.”

She nodded and turned away. She looked so dejected that he reached for her before he caught himself and had to pull his hand back sharply to his side.

Bloody hell. What was it about her that made him act like an idiot even when he knew better? Where the hell was all that hate and bitterness when he needed it? Without it he was weak.

He could never forget what had happened. Loch Ryan would always be between them. She might not be the treacherous bitch that he'd thought for years, but her mistake—his mistake—had cost too much.

But he had better find some damned self-control or the next few days—weeks—were going to be torture.

T
ORTURE WAS
putting it mildly. Even though Eoin found every possible excuse to stay away, every time he walked into that tent and saw her—or caught the faint whiff of whatever floral concoction she'd decided to wallow in that day—it was as if someone was punching a hole through his resolve. Pretty soon, there wasn't going to be anything left
but
holes.

Two days ago, he'd made the mistake of returning to the tent after breaking his fast only to find her in the bath. Somehow she'd talked the lad who was serving as his squire of sorts into “borrowing” someone's wooden tub. Unfortunately, it didn't hide much of her, and the pink expanse of creamy skin that he'd glimpsed before turning on his heel and walking—all right, bolting—out had been haunting him ever since. Night
and
day.

He was having a hard time remembering why touching her was a bad idea. The little voice that kept telling him he could have her and still walk away was getting louder.

It was just lust. It didn't need to be anything more. Emotion didn't need to get in the way—not if he didn't let it. After six years he'd earned it, hadn't he?

But even if she'd welcome him into her—his—bed, which he wasn't all that sure she would (she no longer looked at him as if he were a treat she couldn't wait to devour, which he was sure he was grateful for, damn it!), he knew it would only complicate matters between them.

An annulment was no longer an option. He would not make his son a bastard. But that left him with the difficult prospect of seeking a divorce. It wouldn't be easy to obtain—and might take years—but he didn't have any other choice. Not if he wanted to be rid of her. Which he did, didn't he? He'd thought of nothing else for six years.

But seeing her again . . .

It was harder than he thought it would be. Harder than it should be, damn it. And Eachann made it doubly so. He wanted to know his son. He couldn't just walk away from him, but neither could he take him away from his mother.

Bloody hell.

By the time Bruce and the rest of the Guard arrived an excruciating three days after she'd moved into his tent, Eoin was at the end of his rope. His temper—which admittedly had veered toward “on edge” since Loch Ryan—was decidedly black. Foul might be a better description. Even Lamont had avoided him for the past few days.