The Striker Read Free Page A

thing about her husband dying was that she didn’t have to live with the knowledge of how much he would have despised her for betraying him.
    â€œMargaret?” Sir John’s voice shook her from the memories. “They are waiting for us.”
    The priest and her father, who had been talking, were both now staring at her, the priest questioningly, her father with a dark frown. Ignoring them both, she turned to Sir John. “Then let us begin.”
    Side by side, they stood before the church door and publicly repeated the vows that would bind them together.
    If memories of another exchange of vows tried to intrude, she refused to let them. Of course it was different this time. This time she was doing it right. The banns. The public exchange of vows outside the church door. The only thing they wouldn’t have was the mass afterward. As she was a widow, it was not permitted.
    If she secretly didn’t mind missing a long mass, she was wise enough not to admit it. Now . She wasn’t the wild, irreverent “heathen” from “the God Forsaken” corner of Galloway anymore. She would never give Sir John a reason to be ashamed of or embarrassed by her.
    When the priest asked if there was anyone who objected or knew of a reason why these two could not be joined, her heart stopped. The silence seemed to stretch intolerably. Surely that was long enough to wait—
    â€œI do.”
    The voice rang out loud and clear, yet for one confused moment, she thought she’d imagined it. The uncomfortable murmuring of the crowd, and the heads turned in the direction of the voice, however, told her she hadn’t.
    Sir John swore. “If this is some kind of joke, someone is going to regret it.”
    â€œYou there,” the priest said loudly. “Step forward if you have something to say.”
    The crowd parted, revealing a soldier—an exceptionally tall and powerfully built soldier. Strangely, the visor of his helm was flipped down.
    He took a few steps forward, and Margaret froze. Stricken, her breath caught in her throat as she watched the powerful stride that seemed so familiar. Only one man walked with that kind of impatience—as if he was waiting for the world to catch up to him.
    No . . . no . . . it can’t be .
    All eyes were on the soldier wearing the blue and white surcoat of the Conyers’s arms. She sensed the movement of a few other soldiers, circling around the crowd in the churchyard, but paid them no mind. Like everyone else, her gaze was riveted on the man striding purposefully forward.
    He stopped a few feet away.
    He stood motionlessly, his head turned in her direction. It was ridiculous—fanciful—his eyes were hidden in the shadow of the steel helm, but somehow she could feel them burning into her. Condemning. Accusing. Despising .
    Her legs could no longer hold her up; they started to wobble.
    â€œWhat is the meaning of this, Conyers?” her father said angrily, apparently blaming Sir John for the conduct of one of his men.
    â€œSpeak,” the priest said impatiently to the man. “Is there an impediment of which you are aware?”
    The soldier flipped up his visor, and for one agonizing, heart-wrenching moment his midnight-blue eyes met hers. Eyes she could never forget. Pain seared through her in a devastating blast. White-hot, it sucked every last bit of air from her lungs. Her head started to spin. She barely heard the words that would shock the crowd to the core.
    â€œAye, there’s an impediment.” Oh God, that voice. She’d dreamed of that voice so many nights. A low, gravelly voice with the lilt of the Gael. Oh God, Maggie, that feels so good. I’m going to . . . “The lass is already married.”
    â€œTo whom?” the priest demanded furiously, obviously believing the man was playing some kind of game.
    But he wasn’t.
    Eoin is alive .
    â€œTo me.”
    Margaret was