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.
Shite. That was the moment Eoin knew what was wrong with him. He knew what he’d been trying to deny. He knew why instead of focusing all his efforts on impressing his kinsman for a job of which he could only dream, he was chasing down a woman to the garderobe.
His blood drained to the floor. The truth hit him square in the chest as she stood there like a damned queen, facing their condemnation with defiance and a look on her face that told them to go to hell.
I’m in love with her.
Bloody hell, how could he have let this happen? It didn’t make any damned sense! He didn’t want to believe that he could do something so completely and utterly stupid.
But he had. She was wild, outrageous, and didn’t dress or act anything like a noblewoman should, but seeing her standing there, facing those women, with more pride and dignity in her tiny slippered foot than those women could ever hope to have, he knew he loved her.
God knows he didn’t understand it, sure as hell wasn’t happy about it, and didn’t know what he was going to do about it, but neither could he deny it.
Regally, head held high, she walked across the small room. The women seemed stunned—and not a little shamed—and parted instinctively before her. Margaret’s pride, her bravado, never faltered. Until she turned the corner of the partition and saw him.
Their eyes met, and he could see that she knew he’d heard every word. Her golden eyes widened. Her fair skin paled. And then her proud, beautiful face simply crumpled.
He glimpsed something he’d never thought to see in her expression: vulnerability, and it cut him to the quick.
He reached for her. “Margaret, I’m sorry—”
He didn’t get to finish.
“Oh God, please . . . please, just leave me alone!” With a soft cry and sob that tore right through his chest, she twisted away from him and fled out the Hall as if the devil were nipping at her heels.
He’d heard. He’d heard every horrible word, every lie they said about her.
Margaret felt the tears sliding down her cheeks as she ran across the yard. For the first time in her life she wanted to run away. She wanted to crawl in a hole and hide. Shame was a new emotion for her, but it burned through every limb, every bone, and every corner of her body.
They thought she’d seduced Finlaeie MacFinnon. They thought she dressed like a whore so she must be one? Is that what Eoin thought? God knows with what had happened in the library he had every reason to.
She heard him call her name, but it only made her run faster. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away. She’d headed to the stables without even realizing it. A solitary stable lad sat at the entry. He took one look at her face and made himself scarce.
That was when Eoin caught up with her. He took her by the arm again. This time his grip was firm. When she tried to shrug away, he held fast. Blast it, he was strong, and right now, she hated all those muscles she so admired.
“Let go of me,” she cried, in between sobs that tore through her lungs like fire.
“Margaret—Maggie—look at me.”
She didn’t want to, but there was something in his voice that would not be denied. Maggie? She lifted her gaze. Dark, velvety blue eyes met hers. Not with condemnation but with understanding. And something else. Something that looked like tenderness.
“I’m not going anywhere until we talk,” he said in a voice that was both firm and gentle.
She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl into a ball and forget any of this had ever happened.
“Where were you going?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She sniffled. “I just wanted to ride.”
“I’ll go with you.”
She was too anxious to get away to argue with him. God knew her reputation couldn’t suffer any more. And if he didn’t mind being seen with the Whore of Babylon, she wasn’t going to stop him.
He helped her saddle Dubh, and then saddled his own horse before lifting her up. They passed the guards at the gate without comment, and soon they were riding down castle hill to the flat stretch of land she’d raced over earlier that day. They rode past the abbey and continued along the banks of the River Forth until the castle on the rock, the narrow wynds of tightly packed stone and wattle-and-daub houses, and the town of Stirling fell behind them.
Only then did she slow, realizing how fast she’d been riding. Dubh had sensed her urgency to get away and responded.
It was late afternoon, which at this time of year meant the sun was already beginning to sink on the horizon. It was also, she realized too late, extremely cold and damp. Dark clouds hovered threateningly above them.
“Here take this.”
They were the first words he’d spoken since the stable. She turned to find him riding beside her, holding out the plaid he’d had wrapped around his shoulders.
She shook her head to refuse, but he gave her a hard look that told her he was going to be stubborn.
“But it looks like it’s going to rain,” she protested. “Your fine surcoat will be ruined.”
It looked to be a costly garment, a dark blue velvet edged with intricately embroidered scroll and leaf pattern in gold thread.
“Aye, well perhaps the next time you decide to take a ride before a storm, you could grab a cloak?”
The slight lift of one corner of his mouth gave him away.
“Are you teasing me?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.
“Maybe.” He shrugged, as if it surprised him, too. “Take the plaid, Lady Margaret. I’ll survive.”
“You called me Maggie before.”
“Did I?” He gave her a sidelong look. “Very well then, take it, Maggie.”
She did as he bid, wrapping the thick green and blue patterned wool around her shoulders. A feeling of warmth settled instantly around her. He settled around her, she realized, for the plaid still held the heat from his body. And it smelled of him, warm and cozy with just the faintest hint of heather. Drawing a deep breath, she sighed with contentment.
“Comfortable?” he asked dryly, as the first raindrops began to fall.
Their eyes met. She probably should have felt guilty, but something about his teasing made her happy. She sensed that he did not reveal this side of himself very often. So instead her mouth quirked. “Very.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You might at least feign a little concern for my suffering.”
She rolled her eyes. “And if you decide to play knight errant again, you should try not to whine. It rather ruins the effect.”
“Not to mention a good surcoat.”
This time it was she who laughed. It took her a moment to realize what he’d done. He’d made her feel better. “You’re very clever, aren’t you?”
His mouth quirked. “Not always apparently.”
It took her a moment to realize he was referring to her, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. Did he regret being here with her?
“We can return now, if you’d like,” she said.
He shook his head, eyeing the dark clouds. “I think it’s better if we get out of the storm.” He pointed to a dilapidated stone building nestled along the river up ahead that appeared to be a fisherman’s cottage. Long abandoned by the looks of it. “We can try in there. Half a roof is better than none.”
It was actually more than half. Only the far corner of the roughly eight-by-eight-foot stone building had lost its turf. Enough to let in the chill and damp, but at least they would be relatively dry.
While Eoin tended the horses, Margaret did her best to sweep away some of the dust and cobwebs with an old straw broom that, although a tad moldy, was still serviceable. There was little in the way of furniture. A table, a few stools, and a bed box stuffed with straw and covered by an old threadbare, dusty plaid. The floor was dirt and stone, but also covered by a thick, well-beaten-down layer of slightly moldy straw. She was grateful for it. Mold was vastly preferable to standing in mud.
Eoin entered not long after she sat on one of the stools. He stood in the doorway, scanning the small cottage. “I wouldn’t call it comfortable, but it’s better than I expected.”
Closing the door behind him, he stepped into the room. Nay, he dominated the room. The already small cottage grew even smaller.
Chill? What chill? It felt like someone had lit a fire. Inside her.
The air seemed to shift, and every tiny hair on her arms and neck stood on edge. Her heart was pounding, and her stomach had that sink-to-the-floor feeling again.
She didn’t know where to look, what to say, feeling suddenly awkward—almost shy. What was it about this man that made her feel so . . . uncertain? So tumultuous? So confoundingly vulnerable?
He pulled up a stool and sat beside her. “Are you ready to talk?”
Her chest pinched. She didn’t want to talk about it at all. “What is there to say? You heard them.” She gave a harsh laugh. “But it must have come as no surprise to you. God knows after what happened in the library, I’ve given you no reason to think differently.” Suddenly, her bravado vanished. When she looked at him it was with her feelings exposed. “But I don’t want you to think that of me.”
He looked almost mad at her. “I don’t. Of course I don’t. How could you think I could?”
“How could you not after what happened in the library? I let Brigid’s brother kiss me a few times, but I swear I’ve never done anything like that before.”
He held her gaze, his jaw seemed to clench a little tighter. “What happened was my fault.”
Her mouth curved. “I thought we established that no one was at fault.”
But this time she could not elicit a smile from him. His expression was painfully serious as he stared at her in the growing shadows. “Don’t jest, Maggie, not about this.”
She had to jest. What else could she do? God’s mercy, what did he want from her? Hadn’t she had enough blood drawn from her today? “Why are we here, Eoin?”
He seemed startled by her question. After a moment he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I doubt your family would approve.” She paused. “Or Lady Barbara.”
“Probably not.”
She felt another pinch. This one deeper and more persistent. It wouldn’t let go until her chest started to ache. Had a small part of her hoped he would disagree?
She looked away. “I think maybe you should go.”
“That would be the smart thing to do.”
The pinch was twisting now in pain. She stared at the damp toes of her soft leather shoes that were peeking out beneath the edge of her grayish-blue gown, and waited to hear him push back the stool.
Instead she felt the rough calluses of his fingers on her chin as he tilted her face to his. “But that isn’t what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
There was something warring in his eyes she didn’t understand. Torment? Indecision? Resolve?
Whatever it was, it was lost when his lips touched hers.