The Striker by Monica Mccarty Read Free Book Online

the focus of so many, but with the confident, take-no-prisoners grin of a pirate captain seizing a ship, and the jaunty walk to match.
    But if the comments he’d overheard so far were any indication, winning over this crew—at least the female half of it—wasn’t going to be easy. Gossip about what had happened earlier already had made it’s way through the Hall, and it was clearly disapproving. He’d had to fend off a half-dozen questions from his sister Marjory before the first tray of food arrived. Even his reserved and above-gossip mother had listened intently to his replies.
    But he made it clear that the matter was over. He wasn’t going to teach the lass to play anything. Although Eoin couldn’t help admiring Lady Margaret’s brash confidence, and undeniably her bold beauty held some appeal—all right, a lot of appeal—a lass like that spelled trouble. The kind of trouble he had no interest in pursuing, no matter how hard certain parts of him stirred.
    That had been a surprise. His reaction to the lass was as fierce, primitive, and physical as it was unexpected. He usually had better control. He frowned. Actually, he always had better control. No lass he’d ever met had stirred his blood with a look and a smile that made him wonder whether she was as naughty as she looked.
    But even if she weren’t the daughter of a man who would likely be his enemy soon—which was reason enough to look the other way—Margaret MacDowell with her smile that promised mischief and devil-may-care attitude was undoubtedly a demanding handful, and Eoin’s hands were firmly wrapped around his battle-axe.
    Still, as the meal progressed he found his gaze sliding in her direction more than once. God, that hair was incredible. And her skin was flawless—so powdery soft and creamy it looked unreal. But it was those knowing, slanted eyes and sensual mouth that taunted him.
    He’d been mildly surprised to see her seated beside young Comyn. It soon became apparent why, however, as the lass went out of her way to charm and dazzle the clearly uncomfortable and out-of-his element youth. Not that Eoin could blame the lad. Eoin was four and twenty—definitely not a stripling lad where lasses were concerned—and his bollocks tightened every time he heard that husky laugh all the way across the aisle.
    But if her barbarian of a father thought the Lord of Badenoch, the most powerful man in Scotland, would tie his precious heir to a MacDowell, he was even more out of his mind than Eoin thought. Badenoch might hold the ancient clan in high regard on the battlefield, and value them as allies, but he would look for a bride for his heir among the highest nobility of Scotland—hell, probably of England.
    If the half-in-love look on young Comyn’s face was any indication, however, the son might be having other ideas. From the deepening frown on Badenoch’s face as he looked down on his son from the dais, he appeared to have noticed it as well.
    Eoin couldn’t help wondering what they were talking about. The lass was speaking so animatedly, and that laugh was . . . damned distracting.
    He didn’t realize he was staring until their eyes met. He should have turned away. She should have turned away. And she sure as hell shouldn’t have drawn attention to the exchange by giving him that adorable but too-intimate little shrug.
    He knew exactly what she meant because he felt it, too, but others might misinterpret it.
    Which they did.
    â€œDid she just wink at you?”
    Eoin looked harshly away from Lady Margaret to his younger sister, whose eyes had widened to extraordinary proportions.
    â€œOf course not,” he said. It was more of a lift of the brow and shrug.
    â€œShe did!” Marjory said with an odd mix of horror and glee. “That brazen creature is flirting with you from across the room! After she propositioned you. She must be every bit as