When she lifted those tilted golden cat-eyes to his, he felt caught in the seductive pull. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs to ravish her like one of his marauding Viking ancestors.
Where in Hades had that come from? What was it about her that made him feel so damned primitive? For a man who’d always prided himself on rationality, this base, unthinking reaction was a bitter blow. Not to mention confusing. She was a problem he couldn’t solve, and for the first time he couldn’t see a way around it in his head.
“And yet, you are wearing similar clothes and do not appear naked at all,” she pointed out.
Was that a tinge of disappointment in her voice? God’s breath she was trying to kill him!
“You’re a lass,” he said, as if the distinction should be obvious.
“As that’s the second time I’ve had that pointed out to me today, I think it’s been established.” She laughed. “Now, if we are finished discussing my attire, I have a race to win.”
She attempted to sweep past him but he caught her arm. He wasn’t fool enough to bring her closer than arm’s length, but it was still close enough to wreak havoc on his senses. She might be dressed like a man but she sure as hell didn’t smell like one. “That’s just it, you can’t win. Don’t you see? Even if you beat him, you lose.”
She frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Ladies don’t stage a public race with men and they certainly don’t win. It isn’t done.”
Christ, he sounded every bit as prudish and uptight as the nun Fin had accused him of being. And she knew it, too. She seemed to be fighting back more laughter.
“Maybe not here, but I do it all the time at home and no one bats an eye. They’ll get over it. It’s a harmless bit of fun.” She smiled up at him. “You take things too seriously. It’s sweet, but I know what I’m doing.”
Sweet? He wasn’t sweet. “Do you?” Damn it, he didn’t want to hurt her, but it needed to be said. “They will never accept you, if you do this.”
Her smile turned wry. “I’m not sure that was likely to happen anyway. But really you are making too much of this.”
Was he? Maybe. He was just trying to protect her because . . .
He didn’t want to finish that thought.
“Look, even if I wanted to, my family wouldn’t let me back out of it. It’s too late.”
Realizing the truth in that statement, and that her mind was made up, he stepped back and let her go. What else could he do? This wasn’t his battle. She wasn’t his.
She was already outside when he called out to her. “Fin is one of the best riders I’ve ever seen. Do you really think you can win?”
Her family must believe she could to let her go through with this.
“I wouldn’t have made the challenge if I didn’t.”
He couldn’t help smiling as the lass threw him a dimply grin before darting across the yard.
She sure as hell didn’t lack for confidence. And damned if he didn’t admire it.
7
MARGARET’S CONFIDENCE was well deserved. The race was over in less than five minutes. Barely had the shock died down from her unusual attire, than the crowd was stunned by her more-dramatic-than-she’d-intended finish through the portcullis gate.
First, thank goodness.
But it had been closer than she would have liked. Finlaeie had been ahead of her until the turn up the hill. He’d slowed at the sharp corner and she’d taken the straighter line by jumping across. She’d had to clear a few rocks to do so, but Dubh had been more than up to the challenge.
The horse was her secret weapon, and the reason she had been so confident. Dubh had never let her down (although he did require a set of steel nerves, as he liked to hang back until the end of the race). The skill of the eochaidh, or what the English called “eochy” or horseman, only accounted for a small part of a race.
Not that she wasn’t a skilled rider—she was. Duncan had always said she had an eerie way with horses. Even spirited stallions like Dubh, which would have been thought unsuitable mounts for a woman, seemed to quiet when she drew near.
She smiled when she thought of Finlaeie’s shocked expression as the “spirited black stallion” had been led out for her to ride. She must admit that she had suffered a moment of doubt or two when he’d brought out his own horse. Whatever the reason for her dislike of him, she couldn’t fault his taste in horseflesh. The beast was every bit as magnificent as Dubh.
She also could not fault his riding. They were probably equally matched in that as well. But size was her other advantage, and one of the reasons she thought women could compete with men when it came to speed—especially against big, heavily mailed warriors. Since she was a foot shorter and probably half Finlaeie’s weight—or more with all that armor—Dubh had much less weight to carry. Had Finlaeie MacFinnon been a smaller, slighter man, and removed his armor, he might have bested her.
She’d barely come to a stop before her exuberant brothers were pulling her off the horse and hugging her. “Hell’s bells, Maggie Beag, what a jump!” Duncan said, spinning her around. “I wasn’t sure you would clear.”
Truth be told, she hadn’t been either.
“You nearly stopped my heart, gel,” her father said sternly, but with undeniable pride in his eyes. “I thought I told you to stop jumping or you were going to kill one of us.”
“You did, Father, and I promised to stop.” She dimpled. “I just didn’t say when.”
Brigid came over and gave her a quick hug. There were a few more congratulations from her father’s men and some of his allies, but after the initial excitement wore down, Margaret realized it was rather quiet—especially compared to similar occurrences at Garthland. She frowned, glancing around the courtyard and realizing that the crowd had already dispersed.
She felt the first prickle of uncertainty, but quickly brushed it away. It was to be expected. The people were much more reserved at Stirling, and much less inclined to prolonged celebration. At Garthland something like this would send them feasting into all hours of the night.
She felt a pang in her chest, acknowledging only for a moment how much she missed her home and the life she knew. A life where she didn’t feel as if she were treading on eggs all the time.
She supposed there was also the delicacy of the situation that could explain the lack of excitement, given the tendency of everything in Scotland to boil down to Bruce or Comyn. Though the race had nothing to do with that, some would see it as a victory for Comyn over Bruce. Finlaeie MacFinnon, like Eoin, might not be publicly aligned in Bruce’s camp, but he’d been part of the earl’s hunting party. Too much cheering for one side might be taken the wrong way at what was supposed to be a gathering to come together.
She finally glanced at the much less ecstatic group standing a short distance away. Finlaeie was staring at her with an expression on his face that chilled her blood. Dark, thunderous, and seething with resentment, it wouldn’t be too fanciful to say that he looked as if he wanted to kill her. Eoin had his back to her and was clearly trying to say something to his friend, but Finlaeie wasn’t listening. He was glowering at her too hard.
With what he’d said to her before the race, she shouldn’t care. “When I win, maybe you’ll give me some of what you gave MacLean last night.” She’d been furious and even more intent on seeing him humbled. But she would have been a fool not to be a little scared. She’d seen men angry at loss of pride before, but never had she been the recipient of such virulent animosity.
Whatever satisfaction and joy in victory she’d been feeling a few moments ago fled. She’d won, but she’d made a dangerous enemy in doing so. One she didn’t want. She might not like Finlaeie, but he was Eoin’s friend. And for some reason that mattered to her.
Finlaeie said something harsh to Eoin—if she read lips she might say it was a curse about what he could do to himself—and pulled away. Mouth white, he marched toward her, leading the magnificent chestnut palfrey
behind him. When Eoin started after him, their eyes met. He looked upset, worried, and something else she couldn’t identify.
Her brothers and father had seen Finlaeie’s approach and instinctively formed a protective wall on either side of her. He stopped a few feet away from her and smiled, though it was the surliest smile she’d ever seen. “My lady.” He had a way of drawing the word out that made it feel like a slur. “I congratulate you on your victory. It seems I underestimated your riding ability. I heard you were good. Lots of practice, I assume.”
There was nothing specific in his voice, but something about what he said made the men at her side tense, and Eoin’s face go white with fury.
“It was a close race,” she said hastily. “Anyone could have won.”
For some reason her attempt at graciousness was met with even more rage by Finlaeie. “But the victor was you,” he said flatly. “Because of that jump.”
Margaret thought there were other reasons as well, but frankly she just wanted to have this conversation over. “Yes, I was quite lucky. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid we are frightfully late for the midday meal as it is, and I probably should change unless I want half the Hall to faint in shock.”
No one smiled at the jest.
“Aren’t you forgetting our wager?” Finlaeie said, pulling forward the horse.
Margaret caught Eoin’s gaze and at that moment knew exactly what she had to do. “Wager?” she repeated, as if she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Oh, you mean the jest about the horse. I will not hold you to that, of course.” Her brothers exploded, voicing their objections, but she ignored them. “Had you won, I know you would not have taken Dubh from me.”
They both knew he would have done exactly that. But she’d given him a way out. A way to keep the horse that he could ill afford to lose. The loss of such an animal would be a huge blow to a warrior trying to prove himself. God knows, the palfrey must have cost a small fortune.
Forced to agree, Finlaeie bowed his head as if acceding to the truth of her statement.
“Good,” she said. “Then we will speak no more on the subject.”
She knew she would have hell to pay with her father and brothers later. They would be furious at her refusing such a fine animal, but it would be worth it if the gesture dulled some of the sting of her victory.
A glance in Finlaeie’s direction, however, told her that it may have—marginally—eased his anger, but it had increased his resentment.
Eoin, however, looked relieved. She caught his gaze and wanted to hold on to it, but mindful of their audience, excused herself again.
Brigid was unusually quiet as they quickly washed and changed for the meal, but lost in her own thoughts, Margaret didn’t press her for an explanation.
The crowd’s reaction to the race bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She couldn’t escape the twinge of apprehension that Eoin had been right. But what could she have done? Let a war break out between her brothers and Bruce’s men in the midst of truce for the peace talks?
It was so blasted different here, with all these rules and conventions that seemed so silly. She told herself that the good opinion of these people didn’t matter to her, but that wasn’t completely true. Eoin’s opinion mattered. And though she’d wanted to forget it, she was here for a reason. John Comyn’s opinion should matter to her as well. There was also Brigid. She knew her friend had been having a difficult time here, and swore to do her best to try to make it better for her.
No more races, she vowed. And maybe once her father’s anger cooled over losing the horse, he could be persuaded to lighten his sporran and buy them a few new dresses. Perhaps even a veil or two? That should make Brigid happy.
Indeed, as the girls made their way down to the Hall and Margaret confessed her plans, Brigid did seem a bit brighter.
Until they entered the Hall.
It was worse than Eoin had anticipated. The condemnation and disdain toward Margaret MacDowell by some of the women had never been subtle, but now it fairly reverberated throughout the room.
The Hall had seemed subdued before she and her friend entered, but it had turned holy-week-in-the-abbey quiet the moment they did.
It wasn’t just the race, but the alleged reason for it. It had taken Eoin awhile to figure out what people were buzzing about, but eventually his brother Neil filled him in. He seemed surprised Eoin didn’t know. Margaret had been seen leaving the old donjon last night after Fin in a state of dishabille. She’d challenged Fin to the race (and then “cheated” by jumping) to retaliate at him for spurning her. By the time Eoin heard the story from Bruce again near the end of the meal, she and Fin had not just been seen leaving, they’d been seen in the actual act of fornicating.
Eoin hotly denied it and tried to dispel the rumors, but people seemed inclined to want to believe the worst of her. She was different—too bold, too confident, too indifferent to their approbation—and they were making her pay.
Eoin was furious, with the person who’d started the false rumor but also with himself. This was his fault. He was the one who’d kissed her. If she’d looked disheveled, it was because of him. Someone must have seen Fin leave the room after he’d discovered them, and then seen Margaret when she’d left before Eoin. He knew it could have just as easily been him rather than Fin who was the subject of the rumors.
Not that Fin seemed to mind. Eoin eyed his friend, whose temper seemed to improve considerably as the meal wore on and the rumor spread. Eoin understood his friend’s anger at the blow to his pride over the race—Fin felt he’d been humiliated—but Eoin didn’t understand the glee that Fin seemed to take in her shunning.
Especially after what she’d done with the horse. She’d had every right to claim Fin’s palfrey as her prize. Despite the claim of “trickery” with the jump, she’d outridden Fin plain and simple.
Eoin had never seen anything like it. She seemed to sink into the saddle, to disappear into the beast until they’d been of one flesh. She was fearless. Light. Agile. Wild and unrestrained. It had been a sight to behold.
Although he could still feel the knot in his chest from where his heart had leapt out of his body when she’d jumped the corner over all those rocks.
The lass was wild. Outrageous. Too courageous for her own good.
And she was magnificent.
It was getting harder and harder to heed the reasons why she was so wrong for him.
He didn’t realize how closely he’d been keeping an eye on her during the meal until it was finished and he couldn’t find her.
Was something wrong? Had she heard something? Had someone been cruel to her?
He couldn’t stand the idea of someone hurting her and wished to hell he could shield her from all this.
Thinking she might be with Comyn, Eoin looked for him to no avail. He was about to go in search of him when his sister raced up to the table.
She looked ready to burst. “Did you hear?”
Anticipating what she was about to say, he stood and pulled her off to the side. “I hope you aren’t repeating gossip, Marjory.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You should consider yourself lucky.” She sighed. “Poor Fin.”
His sister had a young maid’s crush on his friend, but this was ridiculous. Fin wasn’t the one who deserved sympathy. “Poor Fin?”
She nodded. “Aye, to have escaped that harlot’s web. She seduced him and then tried to make him marry her!”
Eoin had had enough. He couldn’t listen to this anymore. He took his sister’s arm and forced her to look at him with a shake that he hoped knocked some sense into that pretty dark head. “Fin had nothing to do with it. It was me. I was the one in the room with her and nothing happened. Nothing. I will not hear you repeat any of this again. Do you understand?”
Eyes wide, she nodded. “You?”
“Aye, me. So if anyone is responsible for these rumors, it’s me.”
She looked horrified. But also contrite.
; “Have you seen her?” he asked. Marjory shook her head. “How about young Comyn?”
She shook her head again. “I saw his sisters standing by the entry a few minutes ago.”
Eoin grimaced. He didn’t much like Comyn’s sisters. Frankly, they reminded him too much of his own. Mean-spirited, judgmental, and gossipy. He and Marjory were going to have a long talk later. He could no longer pretend she was going to grow out of it.
There was a small, screened-off section of the Hall between the main entry and the corridor to the kitchens. With the garderobe nearby, the ladies tended to gather there to wait in groups. That was where he found them.
He stood near the entry and seeing no sign of Margaret was about to leave when he heard her name. He thought it was Elizabeth Comyn who spoke—John’s eldest sister. In addition to Joan, Comyn’s other sister, there were a few other ladies Eoin didn’t recognize.
“Margaret MacDowell? You thought wrong! My brother would never consider marrying a woman like that. If her father is fool enough to think my brother would marry someone so utterly in lack of dignity, manners, and morals, that’s his fault. Have you seen her? She might as well wear the yellow hood of a harlot with the way she dresses and looks; I wasn’t surprised to hear she seduced Finlaeie MacFinnon.” The woman who must have spoken first tried to put up some argument, but Comyn’s sister shut her down. “They were seen. What more proof do you need? If there was any question before—which there wasn’t,” she emphasized, “there isn’t now. My brother will not marry soiled goods.”
If Eoin were the kind of man to strike a woman, Elizabeth Comyn would be in grave danger right now. Not trusting himself to listen to another minute of this shite without saying something to straighten these harpies out—something that would only worsen the gossip—he was about to leave when one of the women complained, “Who is taking so long in there?”
The door to the garderobe opened and a woman stepped out. “The soiled goods,” Margaret said.