by Amy Jarecki
She opened the door to his chamber and stepped inside. A warning tickled the back of her neck as if she were trespassing. Margaret bravely took another step. Perhaps she could learn more about the man she’d married. He slept upon an enormous bed with thick maple headboard and posts. His comforter and canopy were red—bold colors for a bold knight. A threadbare, red plaid rug rested in front of the hearth. Though clean, it needed replacing. A round table with two padded chairs were off to the side—he undoubtedly read missives there, at least when he wasn’t in his solar.
She sat in one of his chairs and her toes skimmed the floor. A man as tall as Colin might find the seat comfortable, but Margaret preferred her feet to be flush with the floor. The fire in the hearth had burned to embers, and she shivered. Nothing in his chamber welcomed her.
Exploring further, she learned their apartments were not the “lords’” rooms, however. Argyll and the king occasioned an entire “royal” suite of rooms on the floor below.
She found Colin’s solar on the second floor, across from Argyll’s. The kitchens, bustling with activity, were immense, just like Dunalasdair. However, the cavernous catacombs of cellars with vaulted ceilings seemed to go on forever. As with most Scottish castles, as she’d noted the night before, the great hall was vast, and the kitchen catered not only to the lord’s family, but to the large number of clansmen and women who served the Campbells.
Margaret had yet to visit the stables to see if the mare she’d ridden from Stirling was stalled or turned out to pasture. She hoped to find her. Mayhap she’d ride to the chapel and offer up prayers that one day her husband might actually find her alluring or useful and treat her with kindness—not necessarily in that order.
Making her way past the gatehouse, hushed male voices came from the window above, the tone angry. Margaret stopped.
“What do you mean, he left this morning? He only arrived yesterday. Besides, my ploy will only be successful if he is here. The bastard’s supposed to be swivving his new wench.”
Margaret clapped a hand over her mouth to mute her gasp.
“I’m not responsible for the bloody Black Knight’s agenda.”
Silence—aside from Margaret’s racing heartbeat.
She held her breath, afraid to hear another word. Yet moving now might alert these men of her presence. And who were they, so full of self-importance?
“I had a bit of fun planned for the morrow.”
“Oh?”
“Aye, something that would damn the MacGregors once and for all.”
The deep voice emitted an evil chuckle. “I do like your tenacity, Walter.”
Walter? He must be Colin’s factor—the very man the MacGregor women warned about. Margaret’s heart thrummed louder.
“Och, I must call it off.”
“Reorganize for another time, aye?”
Parchment rustled. “Mayhap make a change. There’s a shipment of sand en route. We can strike there.” Footsteps clapped floorboards. “I must away,” intoned the faceless Walter.
Margaret’s hands shook. She darted toward the donjon. With any luck, Walter wouldn’t notice her, though her nape prickled. She placed her hand on the latch and glanced over her shoulder. A shortish man with dark hair and a cropped beard glared at her from across the courtyard then disappeared into the stables.
That is he, I’m sure of it. Margaret slipped inside and pressed her back against the door, calming her breath. She must warn Colin straight away.
Whom could she trust to accompany her? Argyll was already gone—left at first light. Walter had spoken openly with the other man in the gatehouse. How many others were in his confidence, swindling Lord Campbell? She couldn’t chance setting out alone, not for a day’s ride. That would be madness.
Margaret raced up the stairs and collected a few necessities in a satchel. She snatched her dagger from the drawer and slid it into her belt. She’d start in the stable. Surely a young lad with a pitchfork could make a recommendation. She doubted a man like Walter would pay mind to a common hand.
***
Mevan, a burly guard, rode beside her, grumbling all the while. “I still think we should’ve waited until the morrow to set out. As sure as I breathe, it will be dark afore we reach Glen Orchy.” His thick black beard sprouted in all directions, making his helm appear too small for his head.
“Not by much. Especially if we remain at a steady trot.”
He shook his head. “Och, Lord Colin will have me hide for this.”
Margaret clamped her reins. “Lord Colin would have your hide if you refused to escort me.”
“Aye? Then why the secrecy? You should tell me what’s afoot.”
“I will as soon as my husband can vouch for your trustworthiness.” True, the stable boy had recommended Mevan as the strongest and most loyal to the Campbell Clan, but she would take no chances. She was not unfamiliar with men like Walter MacCorkodale. They could worm their way through a man’s armor with the most unexpected twists.
He tapped his heels into his warhorse’s barrel. “I’m the master-at-arms, is that not enough?”
“Apologies, but nay. At this stage, I’ve no idea whom I can trust.”
Mevan mumbled something that sounded like a curse. Margaret chose not to ask him to repeat it. In all honesty, she liked the big guardsman. At first, he’d been adamant Margaret remain at the castle while he delivered a missive on her behalf. But she couldn’t put a written note in anyone’s hands. When she’d ridden out the gate, he’d followed, armed to the teeth. Once they arrived at Kilchurn, she’d ask Colin to appoint him to guard her permanently—providing he was free of skullduggery.
She chuckled under her breath. Mevan reminded Margaret of her brother, Robert. They both were stocky, with full beards and blue eyes. Hopefully, she could make a friend of him—in time—if he ever forgave her present, yet necessary secrecy.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Children?”
“Two. A boy, age five, and a girl, age two.”
“You must be very proud.”
His eyes twinkled when he glanced her way. “I am, m’lady.”
“I shall ensure you are rewarded for coming to my aid. Surely I pulled you away from a great many responsibilities.” It never hurt to give due recognition, and the more Margaret considered it, the more she believed him to be innocent.
“Thank you, m’lady.” A hint of surprise in his voice, Mevan’s posture relaxed. “Me wife will be much obliged.”
They stopped once to rest their horses. Fortunately, Mevan carried a parcel of oatcakes and a skin of ale tied to his saddle.
Margaret’s legs were stiff. They’d been riding much harder than the procession from Stirling. She stretched her arms forward and reached her fingers to her toes. “I didn’t think about food, but I’m hungry.”
“I tie a parcel of food to my saddle every morn. It comes in of use more often than not. Most days I patrol the grounds with the guard. You caught me before we were about to ride.”
“’Tis a good thing I did. I wouldn’t want to be out here alone.”
He handed her two oatcakes slathered with butter. “You would have set out on your own?”
“Aye.” Her mouth watered when she bit into the crunchy cake, creamy butter smoothing across her tongue.
Mevan offered her the skin of ale. “Whatever news you have for Lord Glenorchy must be grave.”
“It is indeed.” She tipped it back and took a healthy swig. None too ladylike, but what did one do without a cup?
“Then we’d best not dally.”
They rode though late afternoon. When the air turned cold, Margaret shivered and pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders. The autumn day had been chilly, and now the clouds rolled in. It most definitely smelled like rain.
With the heavy covering gathered above them, darkness fell early. They continued along the vaguely familiar, narrow path. Shadows in the trees made Margaret uneasy, as if someone or s
omething stalked them.
A shadow lurked on their flank.
She could have sworn she saw something move, though when she peered through the dim forest, there was nothing at all. She patted her face to pull herself together. It had been a long day, and there was a fair distance yet to travel.
Her heart leapt when Mevan drew his sword in one hissing motion. He held a finger to his lips and inclined his head toward the bend ahead. “Just a precaution,” he whispered.
Margaret ran her fingers across the hilt of her dagger. If anything went awry, it was her last defense. With two older brothers, she knew how to use it. God forbid she’d ever need to.
Mevan slowed his horse to a walk. Margaret followed his lead. Slowly, they rounded the stony outcropping. All was quiet—not even the call of a bird filled the air. Margaret grimaced, her eyes wide, each breath whistling in her ears. Her skin crawled as if alive with spiders.
Ahead, a twig snapped.
Margaret’s mouth grew dry with her gasp.
Blood-curdling roars erupted from the trees. Every muscle in her body clamped taut. Ice shot through her blood. Three men with swords and poleaxes barreled toward them, though it sounded like more.
“Run!” Mevan yelled, reining his horse around to face the attackers.
Margaret slammed her riding crop against her mare’s rump and leaned forward. “Go, go, go!” Slapping her crop in a steady beat, the mare raced into a gallop. The young horse caught wind of Margaret’s fear and sprinted faster than Margaret had ever ridden in her life.
The wind picked up her veil, snatching it from her head. Her gut clenched as hoof beats pummeled the earth behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. A hooded man with a cloth tied across his mouth gained on her.
Blast her sidesaddle. In no way could she outrun a man with her legs aside. She rounded the next bend. He’d nearly overtaken her. Margaret slapped her crop and kicked with all her strength. The mare beneath her snorted in a steady, terrifyingly fast rhythm.
The outlaw pulled alongside. Eyes wild, he reached for her reins. With all her strength, Margaret slapped his hands with her crop. Her mare pulled ahead. The brute closed the distance. He reached again. Margaret slapped. His other hand came across and grabbed the crop.
Oh God, save me.
He pulled on her reins. Margaret kicked and leaned out over her mare’s head, demanding more speed. Her stomach flew to her throat.
Skimming the top of her hair, a thick branch flew past.
The man’s fingers released her reins.
Thud.
Margaret didn’t turn around. She’d heard it. Caught by the branch, the dastard had been thrown from his mount. She slapped her hand to urge her horse to continue the frantic pace. They barreled ahead until white foam leached from the mare’s neck. Margaret pulled on the reins and ran her fingers along the horse’s mane. “There, there, lass. We can ease up a bit.” She’d said it more for her own sake than the horse’s. She glanced back. No one else followed her, at least not yet.
What had become of Mevan? The brave warrior had been outnumbered.
She couldn’t turn back now. It would be madness. She must ride for help—swiftly send a party to Mevan’s aid. The problem? Darkness had spread its eerie blanket over her. Rain spewed from the rumbling clouds.
Ahead she made out a narrow path, but recognized nothing.
Chapter Twelve
Kilchurn Building Site, 12th October, 1455
Colin sat in front of the hearth, sipping a tot of whisky. The muffled rain drove into the thatched roof, and the sloppy drips from the eaves slapped the ground outside the cottage window. It had been a long day, but the stone for the tower house foundation had been started at long last. They needed more supplies before they could continue. Finishing the foundation was all he could hope for until they’d be forced to mud up the freshly laid mortar for winter.
The whisky slid down his throat with a fiery bite and warmed his insides. It was nice to spend some time away from Margaret and focus his mind on things in need of his attention. She distracted him like no woman he’d ever met. Now he’d delivered her to Dunstaffnage, her time would be occupied with Duncan’s care. With them tucked away within the fortress walls, Colin would have no need to worry about their safety.
Rapid footsteps clapped the soggy ground. The door flew open and Maxwell burst inside. “M’lord, come quickly. ’Tis Lady Margaret.”
Colin sprang from his seat. “What the…” His words were spoken in vain as Maxwell dashed away.
The whisky in Colin’s belly roiled. What the bloody hell is Margaret doing here? Colin hurried through the cottage and out into the pelting rain.
Guards followed her from the stables. She strode toward him with purpose. “I must speak to Lord Glenorchy at once.”
Colin dashed up to his errant wife and grasped her elbow. “Why the blazes are you here, woman?” He waved a dismissive hand at his men and led her into the cottage, slamming the door behind.
Margaret stood in the center of the room, pools of water forming around the bottom of her cloak, shivering like a maple leaf in the wind. “My lord…”
He paced in a circle around her. “If you were a child, I’d bend you over my knee. What are you doing out alone? In the dark. In. The. Rain?”
“I…”
He stopped at her side and glared at her profile. He couldn’t shout at her when looking in her eyes. “Why are you not with my son?”
She faced him. “He…”
Colin fisted his hips. “Do you realize you could have been killed?”
Margaret stamped her foot. “If you would allow me to speak…”
Narrowing his eyes against her gaze, he leaned forward. “You should not be here…”
She actually snarled. A flash of rage emblazoned her face. Before he could think, she landed a jarring slap across his jaw.
Dazed, Colin stumbled backward. “What the devil?” Never before had he wanted to strike a woman, but she’d pushed him to the ragged edge.
She marched into him, red rims around her eyes. “You may hate me, but I am your wife and I will have your respect.” She jammed her finger into his sternum. “I should stand aside and watch you fall into ruin. But I will not.” Her teeth chattered, but she jutted her face up to his, her full lips red from the chill. “Because I care.”
If his chest weren’t burning with the need to hit something, he’d crush her into his embrace and stifle her pouty mouth with a heated kiss. Colin forced his lips to curl into a sneer. He drew in a deep breath, willing his anger to simmer below the surface. “This had best be good.”
She gestured to the hearth. “If you would sit, I’d prefer to stand by the fire.”
With a nod, Colin humored her, at least for the moment.
She removed her cloak, draped it over the table and stood with her back to the fire. God save him, her gown clung to her like skin. Even her nipples stood proud beneath the wet wool. “I overheard a man named Walter explain how he’s planning to ambush your next load of sand.”
Colin crossed his legs against his untimely surge of desire. She must be mistaken. “Walter?”
Margaret held up her palm, her chest heaving from exertion. “But first, I must vindicate myself. I am not daft enough to leave the castle alone. My guard, Mevan, faced an attack by outlaws and bade me to run. He’s back there on the trail.” She clenched her fists to her mouth. “I know not if he’s alive or dead. Your men are now preparing to go after him.”
Colin stood and averted his gaze from the wet cloth clinging to her breasts. “I must go as well.”
“Must you? Can the guard not handle this on your behalf?”
“I cannot sit idle when my wife and sentry have been assaulted.” He most especially couldn’t remain behind in the small cottage with her heaving breasts.
“Very well, but before you leave, allow me to explain.” Margaret rubbed her hands and held them to the fire—the view of her backside more alluring than her front. “
I wanted to tell you what I learned from the MacGregor women, but didn’t gain the chance before you left me alone at Dunstaffnage.”
“I didn’t—”
She faced him and sliced a hand through the air. “It doesn’t matter now. The MacGregor men are innocent.”
Blast her wet dress. It befuddled his mind at a most inconvenient time. He rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on her words. “How do you know this?”
“Remember when I spoke to the women at the river?”
“Aye.”
“They told me a great many things. The MacGregors want to see the castle completed as much as you do. They’ve been trying to discover the plunderer—thought it was Walter MacCorkodale, but had no proof.”
Colin crossed his arms and shook his head, refusing to look her way. “He has been my trusted factor for years.”
“Has he?”
Her defiance was maddening. How dare she question him—dripping wet, attacking every sensible bone in his body? “I have no idea what I would have done without his services whilst I was on crusade.”
“Good men can turn to evil.”
Lady Margaret’s tongue could use restraint as well. “Are you asking me to change my opinion of a trusted servant because you overheard a conversation? Are you certain? Was it he who attacked you?”
“I ken what I heard, but I know not who set upon us. I counted three men. There could have been more. They wore hoods and masks.”
Colin dropped his arms. This was the first real lead he’d had to expose the vandals. “Then I will withhold judgment until I know for certain.”
“I would do the same if I were in your place.” Margaret grasped his elbow. Tingles skittered all the way up to the top of his head. “I would like to attend Mevan’s wounds. I feel responsible.”
Colin pulled away and strapped on his sword. “I believe you’ve done enough. I’ll appoint a retinue to accompany you to Dunstaffnage in the morning.”
Shoving his helm onto his head, he stormed off to the stables. He couldn’t spend another moment with Margaret standing in the same room in her wet gown. She may as well have been completely naked. He must act quickly, yet all he could think about was taking his dirk, cutting off her clothing and taking her to the bed—or the floor. That was much closer.