The Striker by Monica Mccarty Read Free Book Online Page A

wicked as they say.”
    â€œKeep your voice down, Marjory,” Eoin said sternly. “I said it was nothing.”
    But it was too late, his mother had heard. She looked with barely veiled distaste at Lady Margaret, and then back to him with a hard look that he didn’t need interpreted for him. Watch it , it said. There is much riding on this . A shift of her gaze to Lady Barbara, who was seated a few seats away next to his father, and who had thankfully missed the exchange, told him what she meant.
    But he didn’t need the reminder. Eoin’s gaze didn’t stray across the aisle again. Although with the growing crowd of men around Lady Margaret, he probably wouldn’t have been able to see her anyway.

    â€œWho in Hades are you looking at, daughter?”
    Caught in the private exchange with Eoin MacLean by her father, Margaret was forced to explain how she’d come to meet him. Her description of how she’d accidentally disturbed the hotly contested, two-day-long chess match between the Earl of Carrick and his kinsman had her father and brothers laughing uproariously. They found it hilarious that men could put so much store in a child’s game.
    â€œGod’s breath, I should have liked to see their faces. It should be a lesson for Bruce in how easy it is to be defeated by a MacDowell.”
    John Comyn, who played the game but claimed to have little patience for it (which Margaret took to mean he wasn’t very good at it), chuckled as well, especially when she mentioned how they’d moved the pieces into the shape of a flower and then a heart.
    Her father called over some of his friends—many of whom were new to her—and she was forced to repeat the tale a number of times during the meal. She didn’t mind though, as entertaining was what she was used to, and it made the formal, foreign atmosphere of Stirling feel a little more like home. She was finding her footing.
    At least with the men.
    She was aware of the disapproving stares being directed her way by more than a few of the women, but it didn’t bother her. They would take more time to win over, that was all.
    In her retelling of the story, she left out the part about asking Eoin MacLean to teach her how to play, but she did take the opportunity while the servants cleared the trestle tables for dancing to ask her father about him.
    Apparently, although Eoin was young and only the third son of the chief, he’d already made a name for himself as a brilliant tactician, leading a series of bold raids against the English in Carrick. He’d been educated in the lowlands, and despite his clan’s Western Isles Norse background, he was reputed to be as learned as a monk. Margaret couldn’t help but think that she hoped that was the only monk-like comparison.
    A sharp look by her father made her wonder if her thoughts had been too transparent. He wasn’t chiding her for her wickedness or her irreverence—neither of which he cared about—but for her interest.
    The MacLeans were formidable warriors, he continued, and despite their ties of kinship with the Bruces, they were still giving signs of indecision on whether they would fight for him if war came.
    Her gaze might have turned too speculative. For although her father might not have much schooling and he had as much idea on how to play chess as she did, he was shrewd, and the look he subsequently directed to John Comyn reminded her of what was expected of her.
    He need not have worried. Margaret knew her part. She liked the young nobleman well enough, and when the dancing began, she was surprised to discover that he was a good—if slightly stiff—dancer. When another man claimed her for the next dance, he was clearly reluctant to let her go, which Margaret took as a good sign.
    Swept up in the dancing and three cups of wernage—the sweetened wine having gone to her head—it took her awhile to realize that Brigid was trying