The Striker (11 page)

Eoin's jaw hardened, his mouth clenching with anger and distaste. He sent Fin a dark glare. “I told you last night nothing happened. What you saw was a mistake.”

Fin laughed. “It might have been a mistake, but if that was ‘nothing,' I wouldn't mind a taste of it. Where do I get in line?”

If they hadn't been riding, Fin would have been on his back. As it was, Eoin contemplated leaning over and wrapping his hand around his neck. Instead, his fingers tightened around the reins until his knuckles turned white. “Stay away from her, Fin. I mean it.”

Fin gave him a long look through narrowed eyes, as if he knew how close Eoin was to striking him. “You're acting a little possessive for ‘nothing.' Are you sure there isn't more to this than you are letting on? God's hooks, don't tell me you actually like the lass?”

Eoin's teeth hurt, his jaw was clenched so tight. He did like her. That was the problem. She was . . . different. Confident, good-natured, and charming with a wry, self-deprecating, slightly wicked sense of humor that made him wonder what outrageous thing was going to come out of her mouth next. “
I don't have any complaints on your end either
.”

The lass was incorrigible. And amusing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that with a woman. Probably because he never had.

Fin must have guessed his thoughts. “She isn't for you, MacLean. I know you, and a brazen minx like Margaret MacDowell would drive you out of your mind with her antics. Do you really want to take the time to mold her into a proper wife—even assuming it could be done? You might be bold and inventive on the battlefield, but you are reserved and conventional about everything else. I'll give you, there's something different and enticing about the lass in all of her primitive splendor, but do you want a wife who runs around the countryside as wild as a heathen and looks like a ripe peach waiting to be plucked? She won't be content to sit waiting contentedly by the home fires while you do whatever the hell you want. A lass like that demands attention. Yours is fixed elsewhere and always has been. How long do you think it will take her to find that attention somewhere else?” He paused letting that sink in. “Do you think she'll share your intellectual pursuits? The lass probably can't even read and write her own name.” Fin gave him a hard, unflinching stare. “Bed her if you want, but don't lose sight of what's important. You have a brilliant future ahead of you. The lass will hold you back. Have you forgotten about Lady Barbara?”

“Of course not,” Eoin snapped. “I don't need a damned lecture, and you are well off the mark about my intentions.”

“Am I?” Fin challenged.

Eoin slammed his mouth shut. His foster brother might be a crude arse at times, but he knew him too well. Eoin might have harbored a thought or two in Lady Margaret's direction after that kiss, but Fin was right in more ways than one. Lady Margaret was a temporary distraction—a beautiful one—but not the sophisticated, learned sort of woman who would content him in the long term.

For that he needed a woman like Lady Barbara. For an ambitious warrior there could be hardly better connection than with a Keith. Moreover, Lady Barbara knew what was expected of her. Demure and circumspect, she wouldn't draw attention wherever she went. She wouldn't make inappropriate jests or provide endless fodder for the gossipmongers at court. Fin was right. A man wouldn't have a moment's peace in his life with a wife like Margaret.

But there would never a dull moment.

And there would be fun.

And excitement.

And passion.

He'd never wanted that before, but she'd given him a taste of it, and he had to admit it was more enticing than he would have expected. Enticing
and
distracting.

Still furious with his friend, Eoin was saved from having to respond when Bruce called him forward. For the rest of the ride, Eoin concentrated on what he loved best—warfare—and on convincing his kinsman that he was the best man for the place in his secret army. This was his chance, and he wasn't going to bugger it up.

They were locked in a fierce debate about William Wallace as they reached the top of the steep hill and rode through the main gate into the outer bailey of the castle. Perched high on a rocky hill, inaccessible from three sides by sheer rock face, Stirling had not one but two walls protecting the towers and buildings within.

“Wallace failed because he could not rally Scotland's nobles behind him to stand as one against Edward,” Bruce said, dismounting.

“Partly,” Eoin agreed. Already off his horse, he handed off the courser to one of the stable lads who'd rushed out to meet them. “But he might have had a better chance had he stuck with his type of warfare and not relied on the nobles in battle.”

Bruce stiffened, obviously sensitive about the subject, though Eoin hadn't been referring to him but to Comyn's desertion at Falkirk. The Lord of Badenoch's decision to have his cavalry retreat on the battlefield had left the infantry unprotected and led to Wallace's disastrous defeat. Even with Badenoch's cavalry, victory would not have been assured, but without him the loss had been all but guaranteed.

Eoin hastened to clarify. “Wallace was at his best when he avoided pitched battle, when he made the English fight on
his
terms. It was his unconventional warfare—the surprise attacks and ambuscade—that gave him a chance against the English militarily. Winning over Scotland—and its nobles—politically was another matter.”

Bruce's mouth quirked. Eoin took that as a concession, as he followed his kinsman over to the wall that looked out over the town below. Most of the rest of the party did not follow them, retreating to the barracks or Hall, but Fin, Campbell, and a few others lingered.

“You speak of furtive ‘pirate' tactics,” Bruce said. “Yet here we are in the shadow of Wallace's greatest victory, and the one for which he will always be remembered.” He pointed to the bridge in the distance below to the northeast. “The pitched battle of Stirling Bridge.”

“Aye, it wasn't a skirmish or chance encounter, but even then he fought his war, using unconventional tactics—trickery of sorts. He took advantage of his position and lured the English into terrain of his choosing: a narrow bridge where he could trap them in a loop in the river and then cut them down as they came across to take away the power of their numbers. That's certainly a far cry from two armies meeting face-to-face and letting knights and strength of arms battle it out.” Eoin paused. “I'm not saying that we can never fight a pitched battle and win. I'm saying we should not fight one unless it is a place and setting of our choosing where we can even the odds. Until then, many small victories can be every bit as demoralizing and effective as one big one. It isn't vanguards and formations, or longbows, cavalry, and schiltrons that will defeat the English, it's our knowledge of the terrain, our ingenuity, and our ability to outthink them by using all the weapons in our arsenal, be they trickery, deviousness, or fear.”

Bruce smiled. “That's probably the longest speech I've ever heard you give, cousin. In fact, I don't think I've ever heard you speak so enthusiastically about anything.”

“He lives for this shite, my lord,” Fin interjected. “Don't let that serious, scholarly reputation fool you. MacLean might be smart, but he's also the most devious bastard I know on the battlefield. You don't know how glad I was to have him on my side when we were young. I almost pitied John of Lorn's sons, when we were all being fostered on Islay. I can't tell you how many times MacLean got the best of them after some prank they pulled. It's like a game to him. But he's the only one smart enough to play.”

As the MacDougalls were shared foes, Bruce seemed to appreciate the example. He also looked very intrigued—as if this were exactly the type of information about Eoin that he'd wanted to hear.

Eoin was surprised by but grateful for Fin's praise after the near blows they'd come to earlier. He was closer to Fin than he was to anyone, and he didn't like to have discord between them. The way his foster brother spoke of women had always made him uncomfortable, but never had Eoin felt it so personally.

It wasn't just the crude comment about Lady Margaret, however, but also the cold, hard truth he'd imparted. Truth that Eoin didn't want to hear.

“Well, if he plays it half as well as he plays chess, I'd like to see it,” Bruce said.

Before Eoin could ask him what he had in mind, Fin interjected, “Speaking of chess . . .” He nodded his head in the direction of the two women who'd just ridden through the gate behind him.

Eoin stiffened, almost as if he were bracing himself.

It wasn't enough to dull the impact.

God's blood, she was breathtaking. Gut wrenching. Knee buckling. The Fair Maid? What an understatement. Bold Enchantress, Seductive Siren, Brazen Beauty, those were more fitting.

What had Fin said? Primitive splendor? She certainly fit that description right now. Her fiery hair was streaming around her shoulders in wild disarray, her cheeks were rosy from exertion, and her eyes were bright and sparkling with laughter. Against the background of the burnished countryside and gray walls of the castle, she looked vibrant and alive. Like a part of life that he'd been missing. He wanted to breathe her in, let her wash over him, and bask in all that joyful radiance.

She might be trouble, utterly “wrong” for him, and show none of the restraint and modesty of a noblewoman, but she made him want to bother.

Their eyes met for one long heartbeat. He told himself he was relieved when she shifted her gaze away. But the hand that had wrapped around his chest wouldn't seem to let go.

He wanted her. So much that for the first time he didn't trust himself to do the smart thing.

She would have turned away, but Bruce had never met a woman he didn't want to charm—even one who was the daughter of his enemy. “Ah, it's your little
maid
,” Bruce teased under his breath.

Christ, even his cousin had noticed?

Eoin tried to cover his embarrassment as Bruce gave the ladies a gallant bow. “Lady Margaret, Lady Brigid, I see that we were not the only ones to enjoy a ride this morning.” He looked behind them and frowned. “But where are your escorts?”

Margaret and her friend looked at each other, clearly trying not to break out into fresh peals of laughter.

“Behind us,” Margaret said. “
Far
behind us, I hope. Seeing as it was a race.”

She gave the Lord of Carrick a cheeky grin as she dismounted with the help of one of the stable lads and walked toward them. Even her walk was enticing, the gentle sway of her hips a seductive promise. Eoin couldn't look away.

“With whom?” Fin asked.

“My brothers,” Margaret replied with a glance in Fin's direction that seemed oddly cautious. “I even gave them a five-minute head start.”

The two women exchanged glances again, and this time both of them burst into laughter.

Eoin could tell that Margaret was up to something, but Fin seemed confused. “You mean they gave
you
a five-minute head start.”

Her gaze hardened almost imperceptibly. “Nay, I spoke correctly.”

Fin didn't hide his incredulity. “And you won?”

“Well, I am a fast rider.” Her mouth twisted. “We were on the road from Cornton a few miles from the ford at Kildean when we decided to race.”

Eoin frowned. “But that ford isn't passable until low tide. You'd have to cross the Forth at Stirling Bridge to reach the castle from there.”

She turned on him with pure mischief sparkling in her golden eyes. “Is that so? Now that I think about it, I do recall someone mentioning that. I wonder if my brothers know? I do hope they didn't ride all the way to the ford before realizing they would have to turn around.”

He couldn't help it, he laughed. As did Bruce and the others. The lass wasn't just beautiful and outrageous, she was clever.

God help him.

Margaret looked back and forth between the two kinsmen. Her heart was still thudding from that laugh. Deep and rough as if from disuse, it had swept over her skin like a callused caress, setting every nerve ending on edge. She thought it the most sensual sound she'd ever heard and feared she'd do almost anything to hear it again.

“Perhaps you aren't the only one good at this ‘game,' cousin,” Robert Bruce said. “Maybe I should ask the lass to play?”

“Game?” she asked.

Bruce explained what they'd been talking about, and she shook her head. She'd wondered why Eoin had appeared so animated when she and Brigid had first ridden up. She should have guessed. The older she got, the more she realized men were simply grown-up little boys content to play in the dirt, construct forts, and devise ways to kill each other.

She lifted her brow and turned to Eoin. “When I was young my brothers and I used to play a game called Christians and Barbarians. Perhaps you'd be interested in a contest?”