The Striker Read Online Free PDF Page B

around her shoulders in a wild disarray that was more appropriate to the bedchamber than the king’s solar of a royal castle.
    Aye, the bedchamber, which is exactly what he thought about when he looked at her.
    But probably the most un-ladyish thing about her was the boldness in her gaze. There was no reserve, no modesty, and in a room full of important men, she was perfectly at ease, as if she belonged there. It was bloody disconcerting.
    â€œLady Margaret is Dugald MacDowell’s daughter,” Bruce added.
    The Fair Maid of Galloway? Christ, that explained everything. Eoin had heard of the lass, who was reputed to be every bit as wild, unruly, and outrageous as the rest of her clan. Despite her youth, she lorded over her father’s lands when he was gone like a queen and had done so for years since her mother died. “Maid” was often said with irony, as the lass was reputed to be free with her favors.
    Somehow he recovered enough to bow and mumble, “Lady Margaret.”
    â€œThis is the young kinsman I was telling you about, my lady,” Bruce explained.
    She responded to Bruce with a wry grin, but her eyes hadn’t left Eoin’s. “I think the game was a little more serious than you let on, my lord Carrick.”
    Eoin was pretty certain his flush deepened. Bruce laughed. “ Everything is serious to my young cousin here. Don’t pay him any mind. Besides, he should be thanking you.”
    She broke the connection with Eoin and turned her slanted catlike eyes to Bruce. One delicately arched brow lifted. “Thanking me?”
    Bruce flashed a broad grin. “Aye, for saving him from the embarrassment of losing. I had him beaten, although he didn’t know it yet.”
    Lady Margaret laughed and turned back to Eoin. It felt as if every nerve ending in his body stood on edge as her eyes fell on him again.
    â€œIs that so?” If he’d ever heard a more husky voice in a woman he couldn’t recall it. “And do you agree, my lord?”

    Margaret didn’t know what to make of the young warrior standing before her. She must admit, she’d been taken aback when he’d stormed into the room just as the other men had been doing their best to assure her that touching the game—the chess —pieces was “nothing.” She didn’t know whether it was his fury or his handsome face, but something had made her heart beat a little faster. All right, a lot faster.
    He was dressed in a fine velvet surcoat like the other noblemen in the room, but he might as well have been wearing chain mail and wielding a long broadsword. Everything about this man bespoke warrior. It wasn’t just his size, which was formidable (he was even taller and more powerfully built than the Earl of Carrick), but the fierce intensity that seemed to radiate from him. When he walked, it was with the long, powerful strides of a man ready for battle. With eight brothers, all of whom were or would be warriors, and a father who’d spent the better part of the last twenty years on the battlefield, she recognized the type well enough.
    Men—even fierce, angry ones—didn’t usually intimidate her. Usually. But something about seeing all those muscles bunch and the fury burning in his piercing blue eyes had made her pulse dance.
    Although as she looked at him, waiting for him to respond, she realized the dancing could be a result of something else. Like maybe the surprisingly silky-looking honey-brown hair—streaked with enough sun-bleached chunks to recall what must have been the blondness of youth—that fell in careless waves to a clean-shaven, squared-off jaw with a slight dent, those striking eyes set below a seemingly perpetually furrowed brow (as if he were always concentrating), and sharp, carefully delineated features so finely carved they could have been chiseled from granite.
    Lud, he’s a handsome one . She’d always thought Brigid’s