The Striker by Monica Mccarty

Dougal asked.
    â€œA 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œFor what?” the Earl of Carrick asked, clearly impressed by the amount.
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œWhy?” 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—”
    â€œOf course not,” Finlaeie said, cutting off Brigid’s attempt to pull her away.
    â€œAnd why’s that?” Margaret asked.
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œMaybe 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