Knight in Highland Armor

by Amy Jarecki

  ’Tis said armor maketh the warrior.

  Father tugged Margaret’s arm, and they continued down the center of the parting crowd under the scrutiny of all eyes. As they neared, Margaret stared at Lord Glenorchy’s breastplate. It was emblazoned with a square cross—the same one she’d seen on the knight’s tunic at the fete yesterday.

  She risked a glance at his face.

  Gasp.

  He was staring at her with a stunned expression. Her stomach turned inside out. It was the same dun-haired, brown-eyed knight from the market. Oh, praises, he’s not a toothless, grey-haired miser. Goodness, at the fete he’d been so agreeable, so pleasant. How could the man standing beside the priest be Black Colin of Rome?

  They strolled past her beaming mother, and Father stopped. Margaret craned her neck and regarded the man who in the coming minutes would become her husband. His shocked expression had been replaced with a cool gaze, his lips thinning. Did she displease him?

  If she could dive behind her mother’s skirts, she would. Holy Mary, Mother of God, help me.

  Father took her right hand and placed it in the knight’s palm. Fingers covered with cold iron gauntlets closed around hers. He gave her a clipped nod, and they turned to face the priest. Margaret tried to watch Colin out the corner of her eye, but her vision was blocked by her veil. There was certainly no emotion flowing from his icy finger armor.

  The priest, clad in long black robes, chanted the ceremony in Latin. Trembling, Margaret closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the foreign words. Over and over her mind replayed their brief encounter. She’d admired him. Was it a sign? Would he be kind? Would he accept her with all her flaws, including her opinionated comments that constantly irritated her mother?

  The priest stopped and nodded to Lord Glenorchy—Colin. His right hand had no gauntlets, only a black leather glove. A man standing next to him handed him the ring. Colin turned to her, his face incredibly handsome, yet unreadable. He slid the band over her finger. Margaret only had enough time to glance at the stone—a sapphire set in silver—then he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

  Chapter Five

  Stirling Palace 8th October, 1455

  Colin couldn’t bring himself to look at Margaret through the entire ceremony. Yesterday, if he’d known the king had chosen the lass with the penetrating green eyes, he would have called off the wedding at once. Colin thought he’d been clear, requested a matronly woman who could tend Duncan’s needs. A widow would have suited well. But this woman was fresh as a raspberry on the vine, ready to be plucked—right up to her expertly rouged lips.

  Her gown was exquisite. Of course, he’d expect no less from Lord Struan’s daughter. Any woman would present a vision wrapped in red velvet—lips drawn into the shape of Cupid’s bow. But did she have to look at him like that? Her jade-green eyes were so intense, he swore she could expose his darkest secrets. Oh no, he mustn’t encourage her to look upon him at all.

  He’d meant it when he vowed not to allow himself heartfelt yearnings for any woman. He would not give his heart again, no matter if she did have eyebrows arched over almond-shaped eyes the color of moss. He could not allow her to tempt him. He would resist silken skin and hair the color of polished autumn chestnuts. Colin would have none of it. He’d perform his duty as a husband and involve his heart no more.

  Demonstrating his resolve right there in front of God and the high priest, he kissed her forehead. No lovesick mouth-kissing for him.

  The crowd mumbled their approval. At once, he swiftly escorted her out the door and into the great hall. The tables were arranged around the perimeter of the room, the center later to be filled with dancers. Colin walked at a steady pace, expecting her to keep up regardless of her folds upon folds of heavy velvet skirts. He led her to the dais and pulled out a chair, gesturing for her to be seated. “My lady.”

  Margaret’s gaze met his for an instant. His gut clenched—merely an attack of jitters, similar to the queasiness a man feels before going into battle. She glanced to the green upholstered seat and bit her lip, as if she needed to contemplate what to do. “Are we not to remain standing until the king and queen make their entrance?”

  Colin didn’t care to be second-guessed by anyone—though she was probably right. He peered through the tapestry-lined hall—guests were pouring in, though no one had yet taken a seat. Before he could reply, trumpets on the balcony blared the announcement of the royal couple’s advance.

  He offered Margaret a thin-lipped nod, and they stood until the king and queen made their way to the dais, with Lord and Lady Struan following closely behind. Margaret grasped the edges of her skirts and curtseyed while Colin bowed, hovering over her silken white shoulder. Damn her succulent smell. Colin licked his lips. By God, with what fragrance did the woman use to bathe? He’d have to make a point of insisting on something more practical and less feminine. He absolutely could not tolerate her distracting him every time she came within an arm’s length of his person.

  Of course, he wouldn’t have to worry about that once he returned to Rome.

  The royal party sat in their respective thrones, and Colin again gestured to the chair. Margaret smiled. “Thank you, m’lord.”

  King James caught his eye. “I must say, the queen offered up quite a suitable solution to satisfy your need for a wife.”

  Queen Mary raised her goblet. “I spied Lady Margaret at court, and her father was all too eager to tell me of her skills with the factor’s books and her ability to run a keep.”

  “True, my dear,” the king said. “She has the utmost qualifications to manage whilst Lord Glenorchy is in Rome.”

  Margaret gaped at him. “You’re off to Rome?”

  Colin reached for the ewer of wine and filled her goblet. “We have a great many things to discuss.” He poured for himself. “You have talent with figures?”

  Her gaze slid from the top of his head to the seat of his chair. “Among other things.”

  Colin shifted uncomfortably. “What about children?”

  She bit her bottom lip—blast her coyness. “Absolutely no experience whatsoever.”

  Groaning, Colin raised his goblet and guzzled. What in God’s name? He may have not mentioned a “matron” in his missive, but he’d made it clear he needed a mother for Duncan. His infant son was the only reason he’d gone through with this madness—of course, it didn’t seem like madness when he penned the missive, but presently, he feared he’d lost his mind. “You are aware the king arranged this marriage because I need a mother for my son?”

  Margaret lifted her goblet and sipped daintily. “Aye. ’Tis about the only thing in this whole affair that has been made clear.” She leaned in, blasting him with her damnable perfume. “But no one made mention that I’d be performing the task without his father.”

  Colin needed another drink—but something stronger than wine. Evidently the woman was skilled with her tongue as well as her quill.

  Trenchers laden with food arrived. Colin removed the gauntlets from his left hand and pulled off his gloves. Lord and Lady Struan smiled approvingly, out of earshot at the far end of the table.

  Margaret’s gaze roved over him again, making him bloody uncomfortable. “Your armor is magnificent. Why did you wear your gauntlets only on one hand?”

  He tugged at his collar plate. “I needed dexterity to handle your ring.”

  Margaret held her hand up to the candlelight. Colin had brought the sapphire back from the Holy Land, planning to give it to Jonet one day. But now another woman examined it in a silver setting.

  “’Tis a magnificent wedding gift. Thank you.”

  He sighed when he caught sincere appreciation in her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

  With no whisky in sight, Colin poured himself another goblet of wine then held up a trencher. Margaret selected a slice of lamb with her eating knife. She averted her eyes and focused on her food. He let out a deep breath and sipped his wine. He usually didn’t feel awkward around women. After
all, this was his third marriage. He should be relieved the ceremony was over and on the morrow they could begin the journey back to Dunstaffnage.

  Eating, Margaret watched him out of the corner of her eye. He should say something to her, but damned if he could think of a thing. If he complimented her, she might just like him, and he wasn’t sure he wanted that. He looked to the vaulted ceiling. Bloody hell. Of course he wanted her to like him. Their interactions might be more palatable if she didn’t hate him, at least. But he would tolerate no nagging.

  Colin reached for the bread. Simultaneously, Margaret did as well. Their naked fingers brushed. Colin’s skin tingled and the hair at the back of his hand stood on end. With a gasp, she snatched her fingers away and nodded to the loaf. “You first, m’lord.”

  He raised his brows. She was nervous. He broke the bread and offered her a piece. “Allow me.”

  “Thank you.”

  Again the silence created a void between them. Roaring in his ears, the crowd’s hum picked up, and the king’s laughter rolled from the center of the table. Colin hadn’t paid a lick of attention to the royal party. He rubbed his fingers against the hem of his velvet doublet to quash the damned tingling. Colin never tingled. He was a knight, for Christ’s sake.

  He popped a piece of bread in his mouth and washed it down with wine. The festivities couldn’t end soon enough. He needed the solace of his chamber, where he could think. Margaret glanced at him and smiled. His lips turned up. Damnation. He shouldn’t have smiled in return.

  Margaret rested her eating knife on the table. “I thought we might talk a bit before…” Her eyes trailed away.

  Ah. The wedding night. She would be nervous about that. Colin didn’t even want to think about it. “Talking is not necessary.”

  She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Oh? And how else do you suggest we come to know one another?”

  “Time, m’lady.”

  Margaret’s gaze drifted. Colin couldn’t read her—though he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to know what her pretty head was thinking, or her opinion of him. He wanted this night to be over.

  The musicians on the balcony increased in volume.

  Margaret clapped. “Do you dance, m’lord?”

  Colin’s stomach muscles clenched. “Not really.” He prayed he could make it through the evening without dancing with the lass.

  Margaret’s face fell, and she folded her hands in her lap.

  King James rapped his fist on the table. “We shall see the wedding couple in the first dance.”

  The entire hall erupted in polite applause. Blast the king. Pushing back his chair, Colin stood and bowed. “M’lady.”

  Margaret grasped his hand, and he led her down the steps and to the center of hall. Her hands were soft and ever so much smaller than his. Her palms perspired—so did his, and Colin wished he’d thought to put his gloves back on. The doeskin would provide the slightest distance.

  No other couples joined them. Fye.

  One of the musicians called for a volta. Colin assumed his position, roiling on his insides. Must they choose the most provocative dance known to modern man? Could they not have settled for a circle dance where he’d merely have to swing this woman by her elbow and look pleasant?

  Margaret stood opposite him and curtseyed. A sultry drum started a sensuous rhythm. Her intelligent gaze didn’t leave his face. She studied him as if memorizing a map. The flute began. Margaret sprang to life, her chin held high, expertly executing the steps. Together they danced. Her skirts brushed the back of Colin’s legs, the part not protected by armor—it almost tickled.

  She ran toward him for the lift, not once blinking her deep pools of green. Colin had no recourse but to grasp her waist and raise her up, twirling her across the floor. In the recesses of his mind, the crowd’s applause registered.

  Slowly, he lowered her toward the floor as the dance demanded. Her sweet fragrance, more sultry than a field of wildflowers in summer’s heat, wafted over him. Colin sucked in a ragged breath, tried to step away, but she matched his pace. Hand in hand they danced until the music ended with Margaret in a deep curtsey.

  Again the crowd applauded—louder this time.

  Smiling, she placed her palm in the crook of his elbow. “I say, you dance quite well for a man who was expecting to spend the evening draining the ewer of wine.”

  Ruing her sharp tongue, Colin clenched his jaw and led her back to the dais without a word. Perhaps he’d been heavy-handed with the ewer, but that was none of her concern.

  Resuming their seats, he wanted nothing more than to take a stroll along the palace battlements to clear his head.

  Fortunately, half the gentlemen in the hall sought to dance with his new bride. Colin switched to ale, rather than whisky. Becoming dead drunk would not help him later when he needed his wits to perform his duty, though inebriation would be a welcomed state. He reclined in his chair and kept to himself. The room aflutter with jovial laughing and clapping, he chose to refrain from joining in. He would not easily forget Jonet, the quiet woman who’d been his partner for the past six years. A complete stranger could not step in and replace his lost love, nor did he care for an outspoken, comely lass to try.

  It was far easier on his heavy heart to have Margaret off dancing, enjoying herself where he could not touch her, or smell her, or talk to her. He did, however, watch the lady from behind his goblet, akin to watching quarry when hunting.

  She moved with uncanny grace and laughed like she had not a care. Colin recalled the days when he laughed with such abandon. But war and death had robbed him of his ability to chuckle from his gut like an inexperienced lad. Margaret was made for the dance floor. She executed every step with grace, and Colin imagined she practiced in her father’s keep for hours to become so adept.

  Her gaze shot to his and connected before he lowered his lashes and stared into his ale. He couldn’t allow his young wife to cause irrational stirrings. Her eyes had affected him at the fete. Yes, the color was unusual, but more so, her expression had grasped his attention. Intelligence lurked behind those pools of green. Have mercy, her small nose suited her face and her lightly moistened, plump lips had practically begged him to kiss them. He must guard himself. It was a warrior’s duty to understand his weakness and devise ways to protect and strengthen against it.

  “And what say you, Glenorchy?” The king’s voice cut through his thoughts. “She is a lovely bride.”

  Colin straightened in his chair. “Aye. I hope she will be a suitable stepmother for my heir.”

  “You are aware she can read and write. She will be an excellent tutor for Duncan’s early years,” the queen added.

  Colin dipped his chin respectfully. “Then I agree. Lady Margaret is the perfect choice. I could not have found a more suitable replacement for Jonet if I had searched for years myself.” Except she could be five year’ older, a stone heavier and great deal less comely.

  The queen offered a pleased smile and then turned her attention toward the other side of the table. Colin took a healthy swig of ale, content to once again be left alone with his grief.

  ***

  Margaret stood in the center of her chamber while two maids removed the heavy gown. Colin had walked her to the door and excused himself, saying he must attend to a few things. Her new husband had been nothing but polite. Though he lacked the glint of humor she’d noticed at the fete. His dark brown eyes also held a sadness she hadn’t noticed the day prior. Was he dissatisfied with her? Did he not find her attractive? The tension in her shoulders might actually ease a wee bit if she’d sensed he approved of his new bride.

  She thought she’d danced well, but he hadn’t even smiled at her from across the room—just leered behind his tankard of ale.

  That he’d left her outside her chamber was a relief. Perhaps he wouldn’t return and give her a chance to come to know him before…before.

  She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She couldn’t even think about it.


  Surely they both were nervous. Yes, Colin had been married formerly, but she doubted he’d not met his previous brides prior to the ceremony. Had he? She might ask him if the opportunity presented itself—if she would ever in her lifetime feel comfortable around him. Heaven’s stars, from the stern way he glared at her, Margaret feared she’d apprised poorly on all accounts.

  The maid lifted the hennin from her head. Margaret smoothed her hands over her braids.

  “Sit on the stool so I can brush out yer tresses, m’lady.”

  Divested of the heavy gown, Margaret sat wearing only her linen shift. Once again she felt like herself—no wooden slats binding her ribs, no ridiculous wired hennin pinching her head. The soft brush running through her hair soothed her concerns away. Margaret closed her eyes and let the maid work until her tresses had been brushed to a luminous sheen.

  “Shall I turn down the bed, m’lady?”

  Her tension raced back tenfold and Margaret’s shoulders stiffened. “That will be fine.” She tried to keep her voice even.

  All too soon, the chambermaids took their leave. Margaret still perched on the stool. Alone. Would Colin come to her? Having feigned sleep the night before, her eyelids were heavy. Perhaps he would consummate the marriage some other time? But what about the old hens on the morrow? Her virtue must show on the linens. Shuddering, Margaret rose and blew out all the candles except the one on the bedside table.

  After she splashed her face in the basin, rubbed her teeth with mint leaves and rinsed, she climbed between the crisp linens and stared at the velvet canopy above her bed. She was married. Lady Margaret of Glenorchy.

  Her fingers clenched the bedclothes and tugged them under her chin.

  Chapter Six

  Stirling Palace, 8th October, 1455

  As if in a stupor, Colin stared at his ceremonial armor resting on the settee. He wore it only on special occasions. The suit had cost him more than his battle armor, yet it wouldn’t provide much protection in a fight. He’d now worn the suit in three weddings and to his father’s funeral. He hated the blasted thing and hoped never to wear it again.