The Striker (37 page)

The captain let her go so quickly she almost stumbled.

“MacLean isn't married.”

MacGowan must have heard the same uncertainty in his voice that she had and responded to the captain, “You better hope he isn't.”

Malcolm's face had taken on a decidedly ashen hue. “We meant no offense, my lady. It was a misunderstanding.”

Margaret would have been inclined to let it go, if the captain hadn't decided to take his foiled plans out on her rescuer. Without warning, the captain's fist plowed into MacGowan's jaw. A second landed in his ribs. And then a third. In between shots, the captain was mumbling about “knowing his place,” and “peasant get.”

As it was clear, MacGowan wasn't going to fight back, Margaret tried to put a stop to it herself. Unfortunately, the captain was too angry, too belligerent, and perhaps too drunk to notice that his next punch was headed toward her face and not the young warrior's shoulder.

She cried out as her head was slammed back with the force of the punch and pain exploded in her head. The last thing she heard before she fell back was a great roar.

T
HE SOUNDS OF
a disturbance outside interrupted their meeting. “What in Hades is going on out there?” Edward Bruce asked his squire. “Find out.”

The lad ran out and Eoin tried to get the king's brother back on track. Of Bruce's four brothers, Edward was the only who still lived and the only one whom Eoin had never liked. His dislike had only grown after fighting beside him for the better part of five years.

When the king had sent his brother as his lieutenant to try to wrestle the troublesome south and Borders into submission, in addition to Sir James Douglas and Sir Thomas Randolph, four members of the Highland Guard had gone with him: Eoin, Lamont, Boyd, and—until he'd defected to the enemy—Seton. Though they were sometimes called elsewhere for various missions, and at times the rest of the Guard would join them, Eoin had spent most of his time since their return to Scotland in the south with Edward.

At his best, Edward Bruce was an arrogant prig, impetuous, and mercurial. He was both fiercely loyal to his brother and deeply jealous of him. The love that “the Bruce” inspired in his men was conspicuously missing toward his brother. It wasn't hard to see why. Edward was not half the leader his brother was. He didn't like taking advice or letting anyone else get the credit, which often put him at direct odds with the members of the Highland Guard—like now.

“We can get in there,” Eoin said with forced evenness. “What harm is there in at least letting us try?”

“The harm is having you killed. What do you think my brother would say if I ordered a mission that had some of his prized warriors killed? Nay. We'll proceed with the siege. MacDowell won't be able to hold out for long. You and your brethren have seen to that. There hasn't been a shipment of provisions that has made its way through in months.”

Eoin's patience was running out fast. This wasn't about them getting killed, it was about Edward getting credit for bringing down MacDowell. He'd barely been able to hide his glee when Eoin had returned from England without him.

But there was more to this than getting MacDowell now. “My son is in there,” Eoin said.

Edward's gaze sharpened, hearing the warning—or threat—in Eoin's voice. “That is unfortunate. But I'm sure the boy will not be harmed. He's MacDowell's grandson, after all.”

The sneer was unmistakable. Edward would never let Eoin forget that it was his wife and her family who'd been responsible for the death of two of his brothers. Eoin had never blamed him for the sentiment, but something pricked now. He was saved from what would probably have been an ugly exchange of words with his kinsman by the return of the squire. “It's a fight, my lord,” the lad said. “Between the captain and one of your men-at-arms over a lass.”

“A lass?” Edward asked.

The boy nodded. “Aye, a beautiful one with red hair.”

Eoin's blood went cold. It couldn't be. There were a lot of beautiful lasses with red hair. But he couldn't convince himself that it wasn't her. He'd half-expected Margaret to defy him. Hell, he was more surprised it had taken her three days to do so.

Trouble
.

He left the tent without a word. As soon as he stopped outside he could hear them. But it was what he saw that made his heart drop like a rock at his feet. It was Margaret all right, smack dab in the middle of a brawl. Fury rose inside him. What the hell was she doing? She was going to get herself killed!

Eoin saw the man's fist fly back, but he was too far away to stop it. All he could do was roar as a primal rage tore through him. He watched in agonizing helplessness as Margaret's head snapped back, and she flew to the ground with the force of the fist that pummeled into her jaw.

She didn't move.

Eoin crossed the distance of fifty or so yards in seconds flat. He couldn't think. A red cloud swarmed in front of his eyes. Like his Viking ancestors before him, he went berserk. He slammed his fist into the captain again and again. He would have killed him had Boyd, Lamont, and Douglas not pulled him off.

It took all three of them.

“What the hell is going on here, MacGowan?” Douglas addressed the tall, dark-haired warrior a few moments later. From his biting tone, it was clear Douglas didn't like the man.

Slowly the red haze started to dissipate; Eoin's head cleared. Vaguely he realized that MacGowan had been fighting the captain until Eoin had intervened. Now, however, Eoin was patently aware that this MacGowan had gone over to help Margaret and was carefully easing her up. Suddenly, he could sympathize with Douglas's animosity.

But Margaret wasn't looking at the young warrior. She was looking at Eoin. Their eyes met and he could see her fear, her worry, and her concern. For him. “I'm fine,” she whispered.

Eoin's mouth clamped shut. She wasn't fine, damn it. She was hurt. Even now he could see the bruise forming on her jaw. God, she could have been killed.

His fists clenched. He must have looked like he was going to finish the job because she added insistently, “It was a misunderstanding, Eoin.”

“Someone better tell me what is going on here,” Edward Bruce demanded. “Who is this woman?”

“My wife,” Eoin said without hesitation, although he knew what the response would provoke.

Edward Bruce's face turned livid. His gaze slid over Margaret with unrepressed hatred before turning back to Eoin. “What is she doing here? How the hell could you bring a spy into camp?”

Margaret wobbled as she stood, and Eoin would have lurched for her, but MacGowan steadied her. “I'm not a spy,” she said. “I'm here to help free my son.”

Edward ignored her. He turned on Eoin with fury raging in his eyes. “Get the bitch out of here. She is responsible for the deaths of my brothers. She's a fucking
MacDowell
.”

Edward Bruce wasn't saying anything that Eoin hadn't thought a hundred times in the past six years. But hearing the words from someone else—especially from Edward—grated on every nerve ending in his body. It was wrong, and Eoin couldn't let it stand.

He took a threatening step toward Bruce's second-in-command. “She is also my wife,
cousin
, and as long as she remains so, you will give her the respect that position deserves. What happened was not Margaret's fault. She made a mistake but didn't intend to betray us. If you want someone to blame, blame me.”

It was clear from the look on his face that Edward did. But he'd seen Eoin fight and was wise enough to hold his tongue—or Douglas held it for him by steering the conversation away from Margaret.

“So what happened?” Douglas was looking at MacGowan again with barely contained animosity. “You do know that you can be punished for hitting a superior? Perhaps Carrick should send you home?”

“Stay out of it, Jamie,” MacGowan clipped back at him. Eoin had never heard anyone call Douglas Jamie before. “Besides, I thought you were happy to see me gone from Douglas.”

Douglas clenched his fists and looked like he might strike the other man when Edward intervened. “I've told you before to stop interfering, Douglas. MacGowan is my man, and a good soldier. I don't care about your past—leave it there.” He turned to MacGowan. “But in this case, I'm going to have to agree with him. You better have a damned good excuse.”

“He does,” Margaret said. “He was protecting me.”

Eoin didn't like the sound of that at all. Douglas wasn't the only one clenching his fists. “From what?” he demanded.

Margaret bit her lip and a soft blush rose to her cheeks. A different kind of swelling rose inside him. “These men mistook me for someone else. MacGowan corrected them, and the captain took offense. When MacGowan wouldn't defend himself,” she turned to Edward, “I assume because he was following protocol not to fight with a commander, I tried to stop it and got in the way. It wasn't until after I was struck that he fought back. I hope he will not be punished for my mistake.”

They all understood for whom she'd been mistaken. Eoin would have been furious, if he wasn't too busy being proud. After the way Edward had verbally attacked her minutes before—not to mention having to admit to being mistaken for a camp follower—Eoin couldn't help but admire how confidently and matter-of-factly she faced her detractor. It was a glimpse of the girl he'd fallen in love with. The devil-may-care girl who knew her own worth and didn't care whether those around her agreed.

Even Edward appeared taken aback. He wasn't wholly unlike his brother, and he, too, had been steeped in chivalry for most of his life. It reappeared now. “I would not punish a man for defending a woman's honor—any woman's,” he added.

Margaret didn't seem to mind, even if Eoin did. She brightened. “Then I think it's best if we forget all about this.”

She must have sensed Eoin's gaze on her. She turned and their eyes met. When she bit her lip again, he knew she'd gotten the message: there was no way in hell he was going to forget about this.

Margaret tried to tell herself it didn't mean anything. But how could she ignore what Eoin had done? He'd come to her defense. Not only had he practically killed that vile captain for striking her (she decided it prudent not to mention how the captain had groped her—the brute had paid enough in broken bones and bruises), Eoin had also told Edward Bruce that it wasn't her fault.

Had he meant it?

Unfortunately, she knew there was going to be hell to pay before she could find out. She did not mistake the calmness with which he led her to his tent. A storm was brewing inside him, and she was right in the center of it. Why that gave her a thrill, she didn't know.

By all rights she should be terrified. But big and scary, or brooding and serious, it didn't matter. She knew he would never hurt her.

Barely had the flap fallen behind them when he turned on her. “What the hell did you think you were doing coming here alone?”

“I assumed you had changed your mind.”

“You assumed
what
?”

She winced at the sound of his raised voice. “You didn't used to bellow so much.”

From the white lines forming around his mouth she sensed he was quickly running out of patience. “I'd say you didn't used to be so much trouble, but that wouldn't be true, would it?”

She couldn't help smiling. “Probably not. Although I will state—just to be clear—that I am not usually trouble anymore.”

He made a sharp sound of disbelief. “What in Hades made you think I changed my mind?”

She pushed back the edges of the cloak to hold out the dress and beamed. “Why this beautiful dress, of course. I assumed it was your way of apologizing for being such an ars—” She stopped, as if the word had been a slip, which they both knew it wasn't. She smiled. “Such a bully.”