“For what?” the Earl of Carrick asked, clearly impressed by the amount.
“He said a woman couldn’t drink a tankard of ale faster than he could—he was wrong.”
Margaret grinned. Although the MacDougalls were important allies of her father, she didn’t much like John of Lorn and had enjoyed seeing him choke on his words—literally.
Although Robert Bruce lifted a brow in her direction, there was nothing impressed in Eoin MacLean’s expression. Though inscrutable as usual, she sensed he did not approve of her wager.
She refrained from rolling her eyes... just. He really needed to relax and have more fun. Wagering was almost as much fun as winning.
“That’s quite a... feat,” Bruce said gamely.
She shrugged. “It’s easy if you know how to open your throat.”
For some reason, Duncan burst out into hysterical laughter, Dougal winced, and Bruce and Eoin had that pained, discomfited look again. She gazed at Duncan for explanation, but he just shook his head between guffaws, as if to say he’d explain later.
Duncan finally managed to get himself under control. “It was my fault. I should have known better than to accept a challenge with horses involved.”
“Why?” Finlaeie asked. “She won by trickery.”
Duncan started to explain, but Margaret held him back with a look that told him to wait, this might be amusing. She turned to Eoin’s foster brother. He was undoubtedly a fine-looking warrior. Tall and well built like Eoin, but with wavy, dark auburn hair and deep green eyes the color of emeralds. At first she’d even considered him as a possibility for Brigid. Brigid hadn’t shown much interest—in anyone actually—and now she was glad. There was something about him that rubbed her wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but she didn’t like him. “You do not think I could have bested him another way?”
There was a layer of steel beneath the lighthearted tone. Brigid recognized it, even if Finlaeie did not. She put her hand on Margaret’s arm. “It’s nearing time for the midday meal. Perhaps we should go—”
“Of course not,” Finlaeie said, cutting off Brigid’s attempt to pull her away.
“And why’s that?” Margaret asked.
“You’re a lass,” he replied, as if the answer should be obvious.
She looked at Duncan and Dougal, both who seemed to be enjoying themselves, guessing where this was headed. “How kind of you to notice,” she said with more amusement than sarcasm.
Eoin attempted to intervene, as if he, too, realized something was brewing. “Fin means you no disrespect, Lady Margaret. I’m sure you are an excellent horsewoman.”
She was. But why did she have the feeling she was being humored? She smiled, thinking the joke might end up being on them.
She forced her gaze from Eoin back to his foster brother. “It might surprise you to know that women can be just as good as men—even better—at some things.”
“Maybe things like having babes, sewing, and making sure a man’s meal is on the table,” Finlaeie said with a patronizing smirk. “But at more uh... physical and mental tasks women are inferior.”
She crossed her arms. “According to whom?”
“God. The church. The weaker vessel, you know.”
This time she couldn’t prevent her eyes from rolling. Not the “weaker vessel” and “the fall of man was Eve’s fault” argument again? It was listening to things like this that was the reason she avoided church as much as she could, which admittedly was far harder to do here than at Garthland. It seemed that all women did at Stirling was go back and forth from the chapel.
“It seems to me that the weaker one wasn’t the one who was deceived by Satan but the one who could be led into eating the apple.” She grinned in the face of their shock. This time at least she didn’t have to wonder at why. Irreverence was irreverence, even at Garthland. “But in the case of riding—and maybe sailing—I can say with certainty that they are wrong.”
King Edward was reported to have a menagerie of animals at his tower castle in London, where his guests could stare and gape at the strange, exotic creatures from faraway lands. Margaret suspected she knew exactly how those animals felt right now. She wasn’t sure whether it was her pronouncement itself or the heresy of questioning church doctrine, but the men in the earl’s party, including Eoin, were undeniably gaping.
She shrugged unapologetically. It was the truth. “I’ve bested many men in a race.”
Eoin’s foster brother spoke without thinking. “Perhaps you’ve never faced adequate competition.”
As Margaret could only pick one brother to step in front of she chose the more hotheaded one, Dougal. But both he and Duncan had made a low, threatening sound in their throats and instinctively gripped their swords.
Knowing she had to act quickly to prevent bloodshed, she said, “What a wonderful idea! I accept your challenge.”
Finlaeie, who didn’t seem to recognize the danger he was in from her brothers, whom he’d so casually slurred, looked at her as if she were mad. “Meraceyou?”
