6
EOIN KNEW he should be trying to think of ways to impress Bruce, but he was too distracted. As the hunting party of a dozen men rode through the forested valley to the southwest below castle hill known as the King’s Park on a cool, gray morning, he wasn’t thinking about traps, strategies, terrain, or even the stag he’d just brought down. He couldn’t think about anything but the kiss he was supposed to be forgetting.
What the hell had come over him? His physical weakness for the lass was unsettling. It wasn’t like him at all. He’d never done anything like that in his life. He’d been moments away from pushing her back onto that bench in the mural chamber and doing something stupid. Something very stupid. Something that could have brought him a whole shite heap of trouble. From Bruce, from his father, and from MacDowell.
And she would have let him. That was what he couldn’t get out of his blasted mind. He could have had her, and the knowledge taunted him—and tempted him—far more than it should.
He still didn’t know how it had spun out of control like that. One minute he’d been kissing her and she’d been responding—in a way that made it clear that it wasn’t the first time she’d been kissed—and the next he’d had his cock wedged between her legs and they’d practically been swiving with their clothes on. The feel of that softly curved bottom in his hand and the press of her hip as she rode against him was not something he’d soon forget.
Hell, it was not something he’d ever forget. He’d probably go to his grave thinking about that kiss and those sweet little insistent moans.
He adjusted himself for what felt like the dozenth time as they’d ridden this morning as he swelled with the memory.
As the track through the forest widened, Fin rode up beside him.
“What’s the matter with you?” his foster brother said in a low voice. “You’ve barely said a word all morning.” He shot him a knowing sidelong glance. “Or maybe I don’t need to ask. From your dark expression, I take it you didn’t finish after I interrupted yesterday? The way the lass was moaning, I thought she wouldn’t be able to wait.”
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?”
The slight lift of Eoin’s mouth—only the hint of a smile—shot right to her heart. “We used to call it Highlanders and Vikings.”
She grinned back at him. “Same concept, I’d wager.”
“And which side did you play, Lady Margaret?” the Lord of Carrick asked.
From the twinkle in his eye, she suspected he could guess her answer. Though her father would be horrified, Margaret had to admit, she liked the young nobleman. His sense of humor that was every bit as wicked as hers.
“Why a Barbarian, of course.” She gave him a knowing smile. “They have much more fun.”
He chuckled. “Better not let Father Bertram hear you say that or you’ll be on your knees saying Hail Marys for the rest of the week.”
Margaret gave a not-so-exaggerated shudder. From her brief exposure to the dour castle priest, she did not doubt it. “I must admit, I’ve spent more time on my knees than most.”
There seemed to be a sharp moment of silence. The Lord of Carrick gave her an odd look, as if he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her correctly. She frowned and glanced at Eoin, who looked away uncomfortably. His face was slightly red, almost as if he were in pain or maybe embarrassed, she couldn’t tell which.
She was about to ask what horrible gaffe she’d committed this time, when Dougal and Duncan came galloping through the gate.
She took one look at her brothers’ disgruntled expressions and broke out into a broad grin. “Have a nice ride, laddies? Brige and I wondered what had happened to you. Hope you didn’t have any problems . . . at the ford perhaps?”
Dougal, who never had much of a sense of humor, looked like he wanted to throttle her, but Duncan, who shared her more easygoing temperament, appeared more annoyed than angry. He prided himself on being the clever one in the family and didn’t like being tricked.
Both men hopped down and came toward her. Though not as tall and with darker hair than Eoin, her brothers were both grim of visage, thick with muscle, had the rough and gritty look of brigands, and were undeniably formidable warriors. But she stood her ground, used to their attempts at intimidation. Which had worked until she’d been about five and realized they’d never hurt her.
“You aren’t too old to be bent over my knee, Maggie Beag,” Duncan said in a low voice. Wee Maggie. When she was young, she used to hate when he called her that. Now that she was older she didn’t mind so much. Of all her brothers she was closest to Duncan.
“Try it and you’ll feel my knee,” she replied sweetly. As he was the one to teach her that particular method of defending herself, he knew it was not an idle promise and grimaced. “By the way that will be one shilling for each of us.” She held out her hand. “And don’t attempt to renege on our wager this time. I was careful with my wording. We reached the castle before you, so we won.”
Duncan turned to Dougal for help.
“Don’t look at me,” their eldest brother said. “I told you not to accept the challenge—even with the horse and head start.”
Duncan dug into his sporran, retrieved the coins, and with a look that promised retribution dropped them into her open palm.
Margaret turned to hand one to Brigid, but realized her friend was staring at Dougal with an odd look on her face, who in turn was glowering at the men behind her.
Margaret cursed silently, having forgotten that she was cavorting with the enemy—at least that’s how her family would see it, despite this purported gathering of temporary allies.
She hastened to dispel some of the brewing tension. “The earl and his party returned to the castle from their hunt just before we did. I’m afraid Brigid and I interrupted them with our excitement over the race.” She gave the Earl of Carrick a conspiratorial look. “Although fortunately the game we interrupted this time did not involve carved figures.”
Robert Bruce smiled, which neither of her brothers seemed to appreciate.
“Game?” Dougal asked.
“A jest.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand.
Duncan looked back and forth between her and the earl a few times and seemed satisfied. He relaxed and faced Robert Bruce with slightly less outward hostility. Dougal, however, was looking at Bruce as if he couldn’t decide whether to run him through with a sword or battle-axe.
“I wouldn’t bet against her,” Duncan said conversationally. “Not if you want to leave here with any silver in your sporran. Our Maggie Beag hasn’t met a challenge she doesn’t like. She took ten shillings off John of Lorn last time he was at Garthland.”
“For what?” the Earl of Carrick asked, clearly impressed by the amount.
“He said a woman couldn’t drink a tankard of ale faster than he could—he was wrong.”
Margaret grinned. Although the MacDougalls were important allies of her father, she didn’t much like John of Lorn and had enjoyed seeing him choke on his words—literally.
Although Robert Bruce lifted a brow in her direction, there was nothing impressed in Eoin MacLean’s expression. Though inscrutable as usual, she sensed he did not approve of her wager.
She refrained from rolling her eyes . . . just. He really needed to relax and have more fun. Wagering was almost as much fun as winning.
“That’s quite a . . . feat,” Bruce said gamely.
She shrugged. “It’s easy if you know how to open your throat.”
For some reason, Duncan burst out into hysterical laughter, Dougal winced, and Bruce and Eoin had that pained, discomfited look again. She gazed at Duncan for explanation, but he just shook his head between guffaws, as if to say he’d explain later.
Duncan finally managed to get himself under control. “It was my fault. I should have known better than to accept a challenge with horses involved.”
“Why?” Finlaeie asked. “She won by trickery.”
Duncan started to explain, but Margaret held him back with a look that told him to wait, this might be amusing. She turned to Eoin’s foster brother. He was undoubtedly a fine-looking warrior. Tall and well built like Eoin, but with wavy, dark auburn hair and deep green eyes the color of emeralds. At first she’d even considered him as a possibility for Brigid. Brigid hadn’t shown much interest—in anyone actually—and now she was glad. There was something about him that rubbed her wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but she didn’t like him. “You do not think I could have bested him another way?”
There was a layer of steel beneath the lighthearted tone. Brigid recognized it, even if Finlaeie did not. She put her hand on Margaret’s arm. “It’s nearing time for the midday meal. Perhaps we should go—”
“Of course not,” Finlaeie said, cutting off Brigid’s attempt to pull her away.
“And why’s that?” Margaret asked.
“You’re a lass,” he replied, as if the answer should be obvious.
She looked at Duncan and Dougal, both who seemed to be enjoying themselves, guessing where this was headed. “How kind of you to notice,” she said with more amusement than sarcasm.
Eoin attempted to intervene, as if he, too, realized something was brewing. “Fin means you no disrespect, Lady Margaret. I’m sure you are an excellent horsewoman.”
She was. But why did she have the feeling she was being humored? She smiled, thinking the joke might end up being on them.
She forced her gaze from Eoin back to his foster brother. “It might surprise you to know that women can be just as good as men—even better—at some things.”
“Maybe things like having babes, sewing, and making sure a man’s meal is on the table,” Finlaeie said with a patronizing smirk. “But at more uh . . . physical and mental tasks women are inferior.”
She crossed her arms. “According to whom?”
“God. The church. The weaker vessel, you know.”
This time she couldn’t prevent her eyes from rolling. Not the “weaker vessel” and “the fall of man was Eve’s fault” argument again? It was listening to things like this that was the reason she avoided church as much as she could, which admittedly was far harder to do here than at Garthland. It seemed that all women did at Stirling was go back and forth from the chapel.
“It seems to me that the weaker one wasn’t the one who was deceived by Satan but the one who could be led into eating the apple.” She grinned in the face of their shock. This time at least she didn’t have to wonder at why. Irreverence was irreverence, even at Garthland. “But in the case of riding—and maybe sailing—I can say with certainty that they are wrong.”
King Edward was reported to have a menagerie of animals at his tower castle in London, where his guests could stare and gape at the strange, exotic creatures from faraway lands. Margaret suspected she knew exactly how those animals felt right now. She wasn’t sure whether it was her pronouncement itself or the heresy of questioning church doctrine, but the men in the earl’s party, including Eoin, were undeniably gaping.
She shrugged unapologetically. It was the truth. “I’ve bested many men in a race.”
Eoin’s foster brother spoke without thinking. “Perhaps you’ve never faced adequate competition.”
As Margaret could only pick one brother to step in front of she chose the more hotheaded one, Dougal. But both he and Duncan had made a low, threatening sound in their throats and instinctively gripped their swords.
Knowing she had to act quickly to prevent bloodshed, she said, “What a wonderful idea! I accept your challenge.”
Finlaeie, who didn’t seem to recognize the danger he was in from her brothers, whom he’d so casually slurred, looked at her as if she were mad. “Me race you?”
He sounded so appalled she had to smile. “Why not? It will be fun.” She shot a pointed look at the brother she hadn’t been able to block, who had taken a step toward him and was leaning forward ever so slightly as if ready to attack. “Don’t you agree, Duncan?”
They exchanged a long look. Eventually she got through to him, and her brother eased back, releasing his sword. She could feel the threat behind her dissipating from Dougal as well. What she planned would more than adequately avenge the blow to the MacDowell pride, without disrupting the peace of the talks.
“Aye, I think that is a brilliant idea,” Duncan agreed. “We could all use a little excitement around here.”
Eoin seemed to be aware of the potential conflict she’d just avoided. He glanced at her brothers, as if making sure the threat was gone, before he returned his gaze to hers. “Fin meant no offense. He was only jesting. But I’m afraid he wasn’t completely forthright with you—he’s probably the best rider here.”
She lifted a brow, eyeing the auburn-haired warrior speculatively. “Is he? Then this shall be even more fun than I thought. I like a challenge.”
Finlaeie had obviously warmed to the idea. He smiled, a slow, smug smile that made her eager to see it wiped away. “When?”
“Now if you’d like. Unless you are too tired and would prefer to wait.”
“Now is fine.” His gaze grew calculating. “What should we wager?”
She shrugged indifferently. The win would be enough. “Whatever you’d like.”
The lewd glint in his eye made her want to call back her words. It was clear what he wanted. He must have read her distaste because his gaze hardened. “The spirited black stallion your brother Duncan was just riding.”
There were a few gasps of shock. The palfrey Duncan had been riding was worth what a knight made in a year.
Eoin looked like he was about to explode.
She stiffened, and Duncan started to object. “It’s not my—”
“Fine,” she agreed, cutting him off. Finlaeie didn’t need to know that she and Duncan had switched horses before the race. The palfrey was hers. John Comyn wasn’t the only one to receive a prized horse for his eighteenth saint’s day. “And if I win, I shall claim the horse you ride in the race.”
It was clear he didn’t take the threat seriously; he smiled. “Whatever the lady wants.”
Yes, she was going to enjoy wiping that smug smile off his face quite a lot.
Eoin watched the preparations for the race with growing frustration. Bruce refused to intervene, claiming that Fin was lucky the lass had prevented her brothers from challenging him instead. Eoin also suspected his kinsman didn’t mind seeing the MacDowells humbled, even if a lady was involved.
Fin wouldn’t back down, intent on making some kind of point to Eoin about Lady Margaret and her unsuitability—something Eoin was well aware of even without the race. She was outrageous even when she didn’t mean to be. “On my knees” and “open your throat” . . . God in heaven, was she trying to kill him?
And the lady herself seemed bent on a course of destruction from which nothing—and sure as hell not rationality—would intervene. Still, he had to try. The yard was already filling with gawkers as Eoin went in search of her. She’d claimed she needed something from her chamber and had gone racing into one of the towers, while her brother Duncan finalized the details of the race with Fin.
It would be a sprint of about ten furlongs on the road from the abbey at St. Mary’s to the castle, starting on the flat, fertile grounds of the Forth riverbed, and finishing with the steep climb up castle hill. The first one across the drawbridge and through the portcullis would be the winner.
When Eoin reached the tower, he had to push his way through the crowd of people flooding out.
Bloody hell, it was already a damned spectacle! Word of the wager must have raced through the castle like the plague. The vultures unable to resist the scent of death. Lady Margaret’s—though she seemed oblivious to the threat of condemnation—if she didn’t put a stop to this.
He waited at the bottom of the stairwell for her to emerge. When she did, he feared his eyes were in danger of popping out of his head.
She stopped in her tracks when she saw him and quirked her mouth in a smile that managed to look adorable and enticing at the same time. The knot that formed in his chest whenever she was around tightened.
“If you are here to ‘talk me into my senses’ like you started to say earlier, you are wasting your time.”
Eoin was too shocked by her attire to form a proper response. “You can’t wear that!”
She glanced down at the snug brown leather breeches, a linen shirt stuffed into the waist, and the equally snug sleeveless leather surcoat that was fitted at the waist. She’d exchanged soft leather boots for the slippers she’d been wearing earlier, and for once her flaming locks were tamed in a thick coiled plait at the back of her neck.
She was dressed like a lad, but never had she looked more feminine. She was more slender than he’d realized, the fitted breeches and surcoat revealing the dips and contours of the curvaceous figure that were hidden by the full skirts of her gowns. Her legs were sleekly muscled and long, her hips gently curved, her bottom rounded, and her waist small. Her breasts were generous but well rounded and firm over the flat plane of her stomach.
He didn’t need to imagine very hard what she would look like naked, and once formed, the image would not be dislodged.
Eoin was in trouble, and he knew it.
“I know it’s unconventional, but you can’t expect me to race in heavy skirts? They’ll be in the way, and I’ll fall and break my neck.”
“You shouldn’t race at all, and certainly not in that. You might as well be naked!”
She lifted a brow in amusement—probably because he sounded as flustered as he felt. “I didn’t realize so many men walked around in such a state of undress. I will have to pay more attention.”
She let her gaze drop from his eyes over the planes of his chest and down his leather-clad legs, lingering one cock-hardening instant on the heavy bulge between his legs. She might as well have stroked him, the heat enflamed every nerve ending in his body. He went as hard as a damned spike.
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.