Margaret looked back and forth between the two kinsmen. Her heart was still thudding from that laugh. Deep and rough as if from disuse, it had swept over her skin like a callused caress, setting every nerve ending on edge. She thought it the most sensual sound she’d ever heard and feared she’d do almost anything to hear it again.
“Perhaps you aren’t the only one good at this ‘game,’ cousin,” Robert Bruce said. “Maybe I should ask the lass to play?”
“Game?” she asked.
Bruce explained what they’d been talking about, and she shook her head. She’d wondered why Eoin had appeared so animated when she and Brigid had first ridden up. She should have guessed. The older she got, the more she realized men were simply grown-up little boys content to play in the dirt, construct forts, and devise ways to kill each other.
She lifted her brow and turned to Eoin. “When I was young my brothers and I used to play a game called Christians and Barbarians. Perhaps you’d be interested in a contest?”
The slight lift of Eoin’s mouth—only the hint of a smile—shot right to her heart. “We used to call it Highlanders and Vikings.”
She grinned back at him. “Same concept, I’d wager.”
“And which side did you play, Lady Margaret?” the Lord of Carrick asked.
From the twinkle in his eye, she suspected he could guess her answer. Though her father would be horrified, Margaret had to admit, she liked the young nobleman. His sense of humor that was every bit as wicked as hers.
“Why a Barbarian, of course.” She gave him a knowing smile. “They have much more fun.”
He chuckled. “Better not let Father Bertram hear you say that or you’ll be on your knees saying Hail Marys for the rest of the week.”
Margaret gave a not-so-exaggerated shudder. From her brief exposure to the dour castle priest, she did not doubt it. “I must admit, I’ve spent more time on my knees than most.”
There seemed to be a sharp moment of silence. The Lord of Carrick gave her an odd look, as if he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her correctly. She frowned and glanced at Eoin, who looked away uncomfortably. His face was slightly red, almost as if he were in pain or maybe embarrassed, she couldn’t tell which.
She was about to ask what horrible gaffe she’d committed this time, when Dougal and Duncan came galloping through the gate.
She took one look at her brothers’ disgruntled expressions and broke out into a broad grin. “Have a nice ride, laddies? Brige and I wondered what had happened to you. Hope you didn’t have any problems... at the ford perhaps?”
Dougal, who never had much of a sense of humor, looked like he wanted to throttle her, but Duncan, who shared her more easygoing temperament, appeared more annoyed than angry. He prided himself on being the clever one in the family and didn’t like being tricked.
Both men hopped down and came toward her. Though not as tall and with darker hair than Eoin, her brothers were both grim of visage, thick with muscle, had the rough and gritty look of brigands, and were undeniably formidable warriors. But she stood her ground, used to their attempts at intimidation. Which had worked until she’d been about five and realized they’d never hurt her.
“You aren’t too old to be bent over my knee, Maggie Beag,” Duncan said in a low voice. Wee Maggie. When she was young, she used to hate when he called her that. Now that she was older she didn’t mind so much. Of all her brothers she was closest to Duncan.
“Try it and you’ll feel my knee,” she replied sweetly. As he was the one to teach her that particular method of defending herself, he knew it was not an idle promise and grimaced. “By the way that will be one shilling for each of us.” She held out her hand. “And don’t attempt to renege on our wager this time. I was careful with my wording. We reached the castle before you, so we won.”
Duncan turned to Dougal for help.
“Don’t look at me,” their eldest brother said. “I told you not to accept the challenge—even with the horse and head start.”
Duncan dug into his sporran, retrieved the coins, and with a look that promised retribution dropped them into her open palm.
Margaret turned to hand one to Brigid, but realized her friend was staring at Dougal with an odd look on her face, who in turn was glowering at the men behind her.
Margaret cursed silently, having forgotten that she was cavorting with the enemy—at least that’s how her family would see it, despite this purported gathering of temporary allies.
She hastened to dispel some of the brewing tension. “The earl and his party returned to the castle from their hunt just before we did. I’m afraid Brigid and I interrupted them with our excitement over the race.” She gave the Earl of Carrick a conspiratorial look. “Although fortunately the game we interrupted this time did not involve carved figures.”
Robert Bruce smiled, which neither of her brothers seemed to appreciate.
“Game?” Dougal asked.
“A jest.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand.
Duncan looked back and forth between her and the earl a few times and seemed satisfied. He relaxed and faced Robert Bruce with slightly less outward hostility. Dougal, however, was looking at Bruce as if he couldn’t decide whether to run him through with a sword or battle-axe.
“I wouldn’t bet against her,” Duncan said conversationally. “Not if you want to leave here with any silver in your sporran. Our Maggie Beag hasn’t met a challenge she doesn’t like. She took ten shillings off John of Lorn last time he was at Garthland.”
