by Amy Jarecki
Men stopped by, carrying armfuls of wood and dropped them into a growing pile before setting out for more. Each one grinned in his own way, showing their appreciation of her willingness to help.
Colin hailed his squire. “Maxwell, come help me remove my armor.”
Margaret pretended not to notice when he slid his cloak from his sturdy form. But her insides shivered in concert with her skin. Why couldn’t he be reed thin or chubby, or anything but a rock-solid warrior? The man was so utterly distracting. But he doesn’t like me.
She shook her head. Earlier, she’d spotted a satchel of char cloth and flax tow in the back of the wagon. She collected it with a flint and striking iron.
Maxwell already had Colin’s leg irons removed. The redheaded lad had been trained well. Margaret gaped. God’s teeth, Lord Glenorchy needs to keep his body covered more than a woman ought. His form is scandalous.
Colin turned his head, and Margaret continued to the fire pit before he could catch her staring. On her knees, she placed the swatch of char cloth in the center of the pit and struck the flint to the iron. A spark immediately took flame, and she quickly piled it with quick-burning flax tow. She picked up a handful of twigs while blowing on the tiny flame. The flax ignited and she carefully added a twig, and then more, stacking them to allow air to the flame so not to snuff it.
“Margaret.”
The back of her neck prickled. Colin stood directly behind her. She chose not to turn, picked up a thicker branch and placed it on the growing flame. “Aye?”
“No wife of mine will dirty her hands when there’s a host of men about who can start a fire.” Before she had a chance to respond, he beckoned a pair of soldiers. “William, Fionn. Stoke the fire and fashion a spit whilst you’re at it.” Colin stepped beside her and offered his hand. “Are you chilled?”
She looked at his callused palm—as callused as his heart. “Not only cold, but damp as well.” Margaret stood without his assistance.
Persisting, he placed his hand in the small of her back. “I’ll fetch you a saddle blanket to sit upon whilst the fire warms you.”
She nodded, wishing he’d leave her alone. His sudden interest in her welfare was disconcerting. The blackguard made it difficult for her to maintain a deep level of hostility when he tried to be nice. And now that his armor had been removed, every muscle bulged under his tight-fitting woolens. Must he walk around the clearing in nothing but chausses and a short arming doublet? Yes, Margaret would have appreciated watching a man of his physical stature attend her, but not Black Colin. She would not succumb to his physical allure—he’d made it clear he had no amorous feelings for her. She turned away, willing him to wrap himself in his cloak to keep her eyes from straying over every inch of his muscular physique. No man should be thus endowed.
Colin placed a saddle blanket on the ground and retrieved his cloak from the wagon. “Allow me, m’lady.”
She gasped when he gently wrapped it around her shoulders. Tugging the fur-lined garment across her body, she stepped away. “You need your cloak. There’s a chill this eve.”
He slapped a hand through the air. “Bah. I’m toasty dry. I’ve been swathed in iron all day. I need a cool breeze to enliven my limbs.”
Margaret sat. Colin had no intention of covering up. The scent of spice and rugged warrior washed over her. She brushed her nose across the cloak’s soft fur and closed her eyes, inhaling. Curses. Why couldn’t he smell like a swine’s bog?
The blaze had grown into a bonfire by the time Argyll and his hunting crew crashed through the wood with a red deer suspended from a pole.
Slapping the men on their shoulders, Colin grinned. “Well done. We shall fill our bellies this night and sleep soundly.”
Argyll smiled at Margaret. “Hugh felled the beast with a single arrow.”
She looked at the archer admiringly. “Then Hugh shall have the first cut.”
Comfortable under Colin’s cloak, Margaret watched the men interact with each other, joking, taking turns spinning the carcass on the spit. They all stole glances her way, observing her with curiosity. She didn’t mind. She was assessing them as well—who had the sharpest wit, who was tallest, who carried pikes or swords or bows. Colin had amassed an impressive army. She suspected these were the men who followed him to Rome and back, and from their bantering, they’d been together for a long time.
As darkness crept over them, the air grew heady with the smell of roasting meat. Her stomach rumbled—she could taste the juicy venison already.
Colin opted to recline on his saddle across the fire. Margaret swallowed against the thickening in her throat. Why would he do that? Did he not ask the king to find him a wife? And now he had married her, he acted in the most peculiar ways, first catering to her comfort and then staying as far away from her as he could without removing himself from his company of men. A chill cut through the cloak.
Lord Argyll took a seat beside his uncle and flashed a lopsided grin at her. His twisted face formed an unspoken apology, followed by a quirk, as if he also didn’t understand why Colin had chosen that particular spot.
“Have you dried from the rain, m’lady?” Maxwell, the young squire, asked. At least he’d been bold enough to sit alongside her.
“Aye. All except my toes.”
“Where do you hail from?” another asked.
“My father is Lord Struan. His lands include Loch Rannoch, west of Pitlochry.”
“Is it nice there?” All eyes stared at her.
“’Tis a lovely Highland loch. Probably not much different to Loch Awe.”
A big fellow laughed. “Except Dunalasdair is a fine keep, unlike Kilchurn, which will never be complete if the grand master keeps hailing Lord Colin to Rome.”
Colin shot him a stern glare. “She’ll be done within the year.”
The men laughed, and Colin spread his palms toward Argyll. The younger man shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I questioned the same only a fortnight ago.”
“Do you miss your family?” Maxwell asked.
Margaret looked directly at Colin to ensure he was listening. “Yes. Very much. They were most kind and loving.”
“Do you have any siblings?” The boy was full of questions.
She narrowed her gaze. “Two elder brothers who would protect me with their lives.”
Colin shifted as if a rock prodded his backside.
Maxwell picked up a stick and poked the fire. “What sorts of things do you enjoy?”
“Music, but most of all, I love to dance.” Margaret glared at Colin across the flame. “I could dance for hours every night.”
Lord Glenorchy frowned. “Is that blasted meat cooked?”
The man at the spit leaned over the fire for a closer look. “Not yet, m’lord.”
“Can you make it?” Maxwell asked.
Margaret knitted her brows. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Make music? Do you play an instrument or sing?”
She chuckled. “Aye. I play the lute and sing a little. I daresay I wouldn’t be a Highland lassie if I didn’t.”
“Can you play for us?” the big man asked.
Margaret cast her gaze to the wagon. “I’m afraid my lute is in my trunks.”
Argyll jabbed Colin in the ribs. “Go fetch it for her, uncle. It will be a pleasant diversion to staring at all these ugly faces across the fire.” He bowed his head toward Margaret. “Excepting you, m’lady.”
“Och, come, m’lord,” the soldiers chorused.
“Wheesht, you’re all carrying on like a flock of hens.” Colin stood and eyed Margaret with his fists on his hips. “You’ll need to point out where it is. I’m not digging through all those trunks for naught.”
***
Colin let out a deep breath and trudged toward the wagon. He chose to sit across the fire from Margaret, thinking it a good idea to put distance between them. He’d not considered what the firelight would do to illuminate her porcelain skin, or how charming she’d look when interacting
with the men. He wanted to bark at them, tell the lot to keep their mouths shut and ignore the lass. Aye, that would put him in good favor with his men. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple.
He was behaving like an arse.
The lady came up behind him, making the hair at his nape stand on end. Those hypnotic green eyes bored into his back. Colin swiped his hand across his neck to quash his damnable tingling, and climbed into the wagon. He examined her assortment of trunks. “Which one is it?” he barked.
“The big one on the bottom.”
Of course it couldn’t be in one of the light little trunks that was easy to access. He had to untie his makeshift tent and move just about every piece of luggage aside to reach it, mussing his earlier work to make her a suitable place to sleep.
He’d run around like a lovesick newlywed seeing to her needs. He was such a complete and utter muttonhead. His gut was wound tight. He shoved a mid-sized trunk aside. After Colin finally cleared the path to Margaret’s mammoth trunk, he yanked open the hasp and threw back the lid a bit more vigorously than he ought.
The lute wasn’t on top. “I don’t see it here.” He slid his hand down the sides. Nothing.
The wagon jostled and Colin turned around. Margaret had deftly climbed up unassisted, standing inches from his nose. Sugared lavender. His damned knees practically wobbled.
She cleared her throat. “If I might pass, I’ll retrieve it.”
Colin glanced behind her. There was no place to move. “Uh.” He shuffled sideways. “Perhaps if we turn together we can switch places.”
She nodded, and stepped toward him, looking up with those huge almond-shaped eyes. In the dim light all he could see was the whites of her eyes and the outline of her oval face, but her fragrance gripped him like a vise. He scooted his feet as she moved. Something jabbed him in the back. His body squashed against hers. Soft, pliable breasts rubbed his chest. Colin tried to arch his hips back, but his manhood crushed against her. Her warm breath caressed his skin. Colin’s groin turned to fire.
She tipped up her chin. He could see the green of her eyes now. Rimmed by gold flecks, they glowed, reflecting the firelight. Colin’s tongue tapped his upper teeth and he sucked in a sharp breath. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he drew her even closer, overwhelmed by an urge to kiss her. He crooked his neck, his heart pounding.
With a gasp, Margaret averted her head. Colin’s lips nearly collided with her cheek, but she shoved her way past him and faced her trunk.
A cold breeze quashed his inner flame to embers. Christ, what in God’s name was that about? She’s a vixen sent to torment me.
Margaret slid her hand deep into the trunk. “I packed it in the middle of my gowns to keep it from breaking.”
Colin clenched his fists. He should have stepped aside as soon as he got the trunk free. What had come over him? He was no adolescent lad sneaking from the campfire to steal a kiss. He’d better shove a stopper in his flask, for obviously the whisky had made his unmentionables turn to lusty fire.
Jumping down, he offered his hand. Her slender fingers met his rough pads. Her hands were fine-boned and soft—even smaller than…
Damnation.
Once on the ground, Margaret raised her chin and headed back to the campfire, leaving him standing there, cursing under his breath like a tinker. He shook his head. Bloody hell, he had enough to worry about.
Before he resumed his seat beside Argyll, Margaret strummed a chord. The conversation stopped. She looked up and surveyed the expectant faces with a polite smile. Then her fingers struck the strings. A rich, airy tune danced upon the breeze, as if a butterfly were flitting round the circle.
Every eye focused upon her, every mouth open. Sitting, Colin watched her, transfixed. He’d never even heard a minstrel play with such precision or clarity. His heart leapt with every strum, and then her eyes met his across the flame. Her face appeared enchanted, as if he were dreaming. His feet itched with the urge to stand, walk around the fire and claim her.
For an instant, she lowered her lids. Colin gasped. Then her voice sailed to him with the breeze. Clear as a crystal bell, her tune caressed his skin and made gooseflesh stand proud. He never wanted the song to end. She raised her lids and met his eyes again. Endless emotion filled those eyes, and he wondered what life experiences a sheltered lord’s daughter could have endured to make them so expressive. She glanced aside, and suddenly he knew.
He’d violated her.
Bile burned the back of Colin’s throat. He had performed his duty as a husband. But the excuse didn’t matter. What he’d done was wrong. Colin stared at the ground before him. He couldn’t look at her now, not when she thought so little of him.
But why should I care what Margaret thinks? God help me, I need this journey to be over.
With a final strum, the music hung in the air for a moment, until silence spread across the clearing like a black-robed villain. Argyll led the applause. All the men chimed in, laughing, clapping—a couple even wiped their eyes.
With lead in his gut, Colin forced himself to glance up. Margaret had turned her attention to Maxwell, who showered her with unabashed praise.
God help him. Colin had not married a stepmother for Duncan. He’d married a woman—a stranger, layered with a great many talents he’d yet to uncover. Part of him would rather leave them hidden—yet his gut squeezed with an unwelcome yearning to discover them all.
He should not have wed so soon after Jonet’s death.
“The venison’s ready,” called the man by the spit.
Thank the good Lord for food. Colin had probably lost his wits due to hunger.
Chapter Nine
The Highlands, 10th October, 1455
After Lady Margaret excused herself for the night, Argyll leaned toward Colin’s ear. “You’re not going to allow your wife to sleep alone?”
Colin shrugged. “She’ll be fine in the wagon.”
“Will she?” Argyll elbowed him. “Have you noticed the way the men have been looking at her?”
Of course he’d noticed—could have planted his fist in every single face. Nonetheless, he trusted his men. “Mind your tongue.”
“You’re a fool when it comes to women.”
“Wheesht. Put a stopper in your gob.” Colin stood. He’d best set the wagon to rights and ensure Margaret had the privacy she needed to—well, to take care of her female needs.
She emerged from behind a bush, smoothing out her skirts. “M’lord?”
Colin hopped back into the wagon. “I’ll rearrange these things again.” He spied her instrument resting on the floorboards. “Shall I place your lute back in your trunk?”
“Please.”
He shoved things into order, doubled his plaid over and laid it down. He then affixed the oiled deerskin over the top like he’d done before. “It’s nay a four-poster bed, but should be comfortable enough for the night.”
“I’m sure it shall be fine.” She removed his cloak from her shoulders. “Thank you for lending this to me. I’m dry now.”
He hopped down and grasped it. Margaret rubbed her outer arms.
Away from the fire, it was bloody cold—even felt like they might see an unseasonal snow. “Have you anything warmer?”
She pulled her woolen mantle around her body. “This one serves me well.”
Colin growled and looked toward the heavens. Thick clouds loomed overhead. He’d lost his mind, going against his better judgment. “Come, climb into the wagon. I’ll keep you warm.”
“’Tis very kind, but I assure you it is unnecessary.”
He grasped her waist and plunked her arse onto the wagon. “I’ll not hear another word about it.” He flicked his wrist. “Climb under the tarpaulin and lie on your side.”
She stared. “But—”
“Do it, I say. I’ll not touch you—you have my word.”
Her lips formed a line and she gave him a single nod before she crawled under his makeshift shelter. In her wake, she left
behind a fragrance that made his head swim. Colin reached inside the leather purse at his hip and pulled out a flask. Mayhap he needed one more tot of whisky before he climbed beside the lady and kept himself celibate for the night—especially when she smelled so bloody intoxicating.
He pulled the stopper off with his teeth and tossed back a healthy swig. The liquid warmed him as it slid down his gullet. He coughed. “Are you set, Lady Margaret?”
“Aye.” There was a tremor in her voice.
The whisky did nothing to allay the guilt clamping his gut. He climbed into the wagon. Damn it, he owed an apology to no one. Everything would be back to normal as soon as they reached Dunstaffnage. He could manage anything for a couple of days, especially a woman.
He pulled himself alongside her, trying not to touch his body to hers. He preferred to lie on his back, but his shoulders were too wide. He rolled to his side, mirroring her. There was nowhere for his arm to rest—he tried to slip it between them, but shoved Margaret in the back. “Sorry.”
“’Tis all right.”
Och, must she sound so bonny?
He huffed and peered over her shoulder. “I’ll have to drape my arm across you.”
“Must you?”
“’Tis just an arm, lass.”
Gingerly, he slid it over her waist and let out a breath. She did too.
Colin tried to keep his nose away from her hair, but gave up, resigning himself to an eve surrounded by her scent. He’d likely be awake all night thinking of brutal battles—anything to keep his cock from jutting into her buttocks. He closed his eyes and pictured Jonet—lovely raven hair, pale blue eyes—nothing like Margaret, with her green eyes and voice that could lull a man into bonded servitude.
Margaret’s breathing took on the slow cadence of sleep. She seemed so tiny, frail beneath his arm.
Something in his chest tightened, made his mind go completely blank. He tried to remember his lost love, but when he closed his lids, green eyes stared back.
***
Margaret opened her eyes and resisted the urge to bolt upright. Colin’s heavy arm tugged her tighter to his body. His deep bass voice moaned, sending a rumble through her chest. He shifted his hips against her.