The girls were still laughing as the men rose to greet them. When her eldest brother, Dougal, asked what was so funny, Brigid couldn’t seem to meet his gaze, but Margaret, knowing her humorless brother wouldn’t understand, replied that it was nothing. She imagined her family would hear of their earlier encounter soon enough.
It was then that she noticed the young man standing next to her father. Fair of hair and coloring, he was gazing at her with an expression that could only be described as dazed. Slightly taller than her father, who stood a few inches under six feet, he was only a fraction of his width, with the long-limbed coltishness of youth. From the lack of significant stubble on his jaw, she guessed he was a year or two younger than her own eight and ten.
His identity dawned as her father was making the introductions.John Comyn. This was the Lord of Badenoch’s son and heir, and the man to whom her father would see her betrothed. She’d known he was young, but...
Quickly covering any disappointment she might be feeling—so what if he didn’t look much older than her sixteen-year-old brother, Uchtred? He was a fine-looking young man, and more important, the son of one of Scotland’s greatest lords!—she took the seat that had been set out for her between the young lordling and her father, and spent most of the first course of the meal trying to make him relax.
He was shy, and seemed perhaps a little in awe of her, but Margaret was good at drawing people out. She asked him about his family. He had two sisters, Elizabeth and Joan, both of whom were here, and he’d served as a squire for his great-uncle King John Balliol before he’d been exiled to France, but now was with his father at Dalswinton Castle. She discovered that they shared a love of horses, and when he described the prized jennet that’d been his eighteenth saint’s day gift (she hid her surprise at that), she found herself genuinely interested and enjoying herself.
It wasn’t until the platters of roasted fowl were brought out for the second course that she felt the weight of a gaze upon her. Turning to the table directly opposite theirs—just below the dais to the right—she found herself looking into the penetrating blue-eyed gaze of Eoin MacLean.
She felt a jolt as if something had just taken hold of her. It raced up her spine and spread over her skin in a prickling heat.
It wasn’t the first time Margaret had caught a man staring at her, but it was the first time she’d found herself flushing in response.
It wasn’t embarrassment for what had happened earlier... exactly. At Garthland there was nothing wrong with a woman asking a man to teach her how to play a game. Lud, it wasn’t as if she’d asked him to teach her how to swim naked! Yet that’s how every man in the room had looked at her.
Although maybe naked wasn’t something she should be thinking about when she was looking at Eoin MacLean, because she couldn’t help wondering what his chest would look like when it wasn’t covered in velvet and linen. He had such broad shoulders and his arms were very large. He must be exceedingly muscular.
The warmth in her cheeks intensified. She suspected it was wicked thoughts like that that had made her blush in the first place. It wasn’t embarrassment, it was something more akin to awareness. Aye, definitely awareness.
And if the intensity of his gaze was any indication, he felt it, too.
The connection was so strong it seemed they did not need to talk to communicate. She smiled cheekily, lifted her brow, and shrugged her shoulders as if to say she didn’t understand it either.
Unfortunately, Margaret had forgotten they were not the only two people in the room.
Eoin noticed her the moment she entered the Hall. He wasn’t alone. It seemed as if the entire room held its collective breath as the two young women appeared at the entrance. But it was the indecently sensual redhead to whom all eyes were turned. The pretty, pale blonde beside her seemed to fade into the background; she was just like every other woman in the Hall.
But Margaret MacDowell was different. Like a wildflower in a rose garden, she did not belong. And it wasn’t just because of the soft tumble of hair that was streaming down her back rather than being covered by a veil, or because in a room full of ladies dressed in velvets and jewels she managed to look more regal in a simple wool gown and brightly colored plaid. Nay, it was far more elemental. She was carefree and unabashedly happy in a room of modesty and reserve. She was wild and untamed in a sea of constraint and conformity.
But either she was unaware of the attention or she did not care about it. She met the silence—half of which was admiring and half of which was condemning—not with a dropped gaze and maidenly blush of shyness at being 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 lotof 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, healwayshad 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.
“Did she just wink at you?”
