by Amy Jarecki
The MacGregor men met him inside the stable. Robert, the clan chieftain, stepped forward. “We want to ride with you, m’lord. This menace has been a thorn in our sides. We aim to see him finished.”
Colin eyed him. “Lady Margaret said you suspected Walter MacCorkodale. Is that true?”
“Aye, but we had no proof. I would not point a finger at my lord’s factor unless I could come to you with unshakable evidence.”
“Very well.” Colin surveyed his army. “Tonight we ride against our enemies and solve this mystery once and for all.”
***
Margaret awoke in the cottage bed without a stitch of clothing. The fire had gone out during the night. She pulled the bedclothes up over her shoulders. The fragrance of cloves and spice, decidedly male, washed over her. She’d caught Colin’s scent as soon as she’d walked into the cottage last night.
He’d been so angry, she’d nearly backed down. Mercy, his massive size intimidated her. However, for all that was holy, she owed it to Mevan to stand her ground. Margaret cringed. Mother would have been mortified. She’d actually slapped the beast. But she had to do something to make her pigheaded husband listen. Goodness, she nearly thought he’d put her back on her horse and point her toward Dunstaffnage in the dead of night in a rainstorm.
He could forget her heading there now. She was back in Glen Orchy, and she aimed to uncover a few things before she left. With no time to stay abed, she pulled the plaid from the footboard and wrapped it around her body.
Last night she’d hung her clothes to dry in front of the fire, and thanked her stars Colin hadn’t returned to find her stark naked in bed. She fanned herself at the thought, praying he’d swiftly bring the plunderers to justice and confront his double-crossing factor. Oh how Margaret would like to be there when he did.
She pulled the dry linen shift over her head. Today, however, Mevan would be her first priority. She’d prayed for his rescue until she succumbed to sleep. She closed her eyes and prayed again.
A light rap sounded at the door. “M’lady?” A woman’s voice. “I’ve some porridge for you.”
Margaret quickly covered her shift by slinging the plaid around her shoulders. “Come in.”
The round-faced woman walked through the door carrying a tray. “After your ordeal last eve, I thought you’d need some oats to warm your insides.”
“That is very kind of you…ah…”
“Alana.”
“Such a lovely name.”
“Thank you.” Alana set the tray on the table. “’Tis cold in here.”
“Aye, I was just about to light the fire.”
“I’ll do it.” She gestured to the chair. “Sit and break your fast, m’lady.”
“’Tis ever so kind.” Margaret sat and lifted the wooden spoon. Worry squeezed her stomach. She had to know… “Did they find Mevan?”
“Two guards brought him in before dawn. The rest of the men are still out there chasing the brigands.”
Margaret swallowed. She didn’t want to ask. “Is he…?”
“He’s alive. Barely. The women are tending him.”
Margaret pushed back the chair and stood. “I must see him. His heroism cannot go unrewarded.”
Alana struck the flint. “Very well, I’ll take you after you eat your porridge. But you’ll have to be quick. An escort to Dunstaffnage is waiting.”
“I shan’t be going back there. Mevan is my responsibility. I will not ride away and leave him.”
“Aye?” Alana questioned over her shoulder. “I think Lord Campbell gave clear instructions for the guard to take you back to the castle.”
“He may very well have, but I am staying. My husband is not here to counter otherwise.” She sliced her hand through the air. “That’s the end of it.”
Alana rose from lighting the fire and brushed her hands on her apron. “I do like your spirit, m’lady.”
Margaret discarded her plaid and reached for her gown. “I’ll see to Mevan’s care and tend to a few things first. When I was here last, you told me the building project needs management.”
Alana’s eyebrows arched with surprise. “That I did.”
“I want to meet Tom Elliot and speak to the laborers, among other things.” Margaret turned for Alana to tie her laces. “Colin’s son is well cared for at Dunstaffnage and shan’t need anything from me for quite some time. I’m absolutely positive a few days here would be far more productive than at the castle.”
“If you should need anything, mine is the first cottage up the hill.” The MacGregor woman patted her shoulder. “Thank you for listening back at the river. I’d been wondering if anything would come of it.”
“I only wish I could have acted sooner.” Margaret turned. “You’ve been ever so kind. I should like to come calling if it wouldn’t be any trouble.”
Alana’s cheeks shone bright red. “It would be an honor.”
Margaret quickly ate a few bites of porridge then followed Alana to Mevan’s cot, situated in a small room at the back of the stable.
“This is a hospital of sorts—where men are stitched up and that type of thing, since there’s no abbey nearby.”
Another thing to add to Margaret’s growing list. “Once the tower house is completed I’ll ensure a grand-sized chapel will follow.”
“That would be a blessing indeed, m’lady.”
A woman tended Mevan, cleansing his wounds. He lay on his back with linens pulled up to his waist. Margaret stepped to the bed to better inspect him. His shoulder was bandaged, with blood seeping through it. His face was bruised and swollen, his nose at an awkward angle, a nasty gash on one side. His eyes were closed, purple puffiness surrounding them.
This was her fault. Margaret wrung her hands. “Is he awake?”
He opened one eye to a mere slit. “Aye, m’lady,” he managed through puffy lips.
Margaret dropped to her knees and reached for his hand, the only thing she could touch without causing more pain. “Thank you, thank you, dear Mevan. You fought like a lion.”
He smiled, then grimaced.
She bent forward and kissed his fingers. “No need to say a word. We shall take you back to your family as soon as you are able to ride. I will see to it you are compensated for your gallantry.”
Mevan licked his lips. “M’lady.”
She stood and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Heal well, for there’s no one I’d rather have guarding my person than you, sir.” Turning, she placed a hand on the attendant’s shoulder. “See to it he receives uninterrupted care. If he should want for anything, notify me straight away.”
She curtseyed. “Aye, m’lady.”
***
It didn’t take much convincing to dismiss her escort and put them back to work on the castle. However, they made it clear all would face the lord’s ire when he returned. Margaret knew that well enough. She’d already faced Colin’s ire more than she cared, but she wasn’t afraid of him like the others seemed to be. He could affect a mean expression and bellow, but if he was going to raise a hand to her, he would have done it last night for certain.
She still couldn’t believe she’d slapped him. What was she thinking? Perhaps they simply were not compatible. She huffed. Now was not the time to dwell on her misshapen marriage.
Tom Elliot was working under a lean-to with his shirtsleeves rolled up, chiseling out a stone buttress for the kitchen ceiling. He proved all too happy to tell her about the problems he’d encountered on this project. He appeared so wound up about losing his job, Margaret needed to say something to appease him. “If Lord Glenorchy finds the plunderer, you’ll not be forced to continually make repairs. My guess is the supply will keep pace, as well.”
“I certainly hope so. I order timber and tools, and God only knows when or if they’ll arrive.”
“Have you not a blacksmith on site?” she asked.
He spread his palms in a woeful gesture. “No, m’lady. We use the smithy at Dunstaffnage.”
“Heaven
s, that is restrictive. Is there anyone in Glen Orchy who can work a bellows and an anvil?”
“Tormond Campbell is apprenticing at the castle now.”
“How long has he been there?”
“Longer than I’ve been building Kilchurn.”
“Hmm. It seems there’s something we could do about that.” She walked beside Tom and studied the foundation site. “I’d like to see this completed before Lord Colin returns.”
Tom scratched his head. “That’s unlikely.”
“What do you need?”
He kicked a stone. “A steady stream of supplies and a great deal of prayers.”
“I’ll see to that.” Margaret patted his shoulder. “Tell the men there will be extra rations if their goals are met.”
Two men lumbered past, each carrying a yoke with buckets of water tethered to the ends. Margaret stared. “What’s that?”
Tom clapped his chest with pride. “Water for the mortar, m’lady.”
“You must be jesting.”
“No.” He eyed her as if she were daft. “We need water to mix mortar.”
She sighed. “I helped my father build the west tower at Dunalasdair, and I assure you, men were not carrying water on their backs. That takes far too long.”
Tom’s face turned scarlet. “It works…”
Margaret pointed toward the loch. “Build a trough. One man simply stands beside it and pours in buckets of water. Gravity moves the water to your site. Simple. Have it done by the end of the day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a blacksmith to hail.”
Drop-jawed, Tom stared after her as she turned and strode away. She would have this building project moving. Colin would see some improvement before he returned—providing he didn’t arrive too quickly.
After sending a messenger to Dunstaffnage to fetch Tormond Campbell, Margaret sat down with Tom’s ledgers. She would understand the problems behind this project, and find ways to solve them one by one. If Lord Glenorchy didn’t want her meddling, he could go sit in a meadow of stinging nettles.
Chapter Thirteen
The Highlands, 15th October, 1455
If only this blasted drizzle would stop. At least the trail hadn’t been difficult to follow. Water filled the hoof prints. The only problem was that it seemed to be leading them nowhere. Colin had spent three damp and bloody miserable days in the saddle, watching the tracks of three horses pass beneath him until his eyes crossed.
He’d sent Robert MacGregor and his men to ensure the shipment of sand arrived in the Firth of Lorn without incident, and then to see it safely delivered to Kilchurn. But that was only one shipment of many. Though Robert had vowed an oath of fealty and demanded vengeance, Colin waffled. He dearly wanted to trust the clan chieftain, but trusting anyone outside his inner circle had become nigh impossible.
Too many things needled at his mind during this unholy, wretched chase. Margaret had risked her life to warn him about Walter MacCorkodale. For Christ’s sake, the woman is incorrigible. She should have sent a messenger. Perhaps an annulment would be necessary after all…and it appeared he needed to find another factor quickly.
Ballocks.
Walter had been a trusted servant for years. He collected the rents, bought and sold cattle and other livestock, paid for shipments of sand, among other things. Had he been skimming coin from Colin, as well as supplies? A raging fire burned in his chest. No one stole from a Campbell and lived.
Moreover, no one attacked Colin’s family. However, he held on to a thread of hope for Walter’s innocence. It was unlikely a learned man like he would play outlaw and attack a noblewoman and her guard—especially his lord’s wife. Surely, Walter wouldn’t be bold enough to act with such incredible stupidity.
Colin would dig to the bottom of this, and it had better be soon, lest his armor and his limbs turn to rust. His inner circle of six trusted men who always traveled with him looked as bedraggled as he felt. Yes, these were Highlanders of rugged stock. Each of his loyal men would follow Colin into the fiercest battle and lay down his life without question. But no man was impervious to constant rain and bone-chilling wind. Winter stopped entire armies in Scotland, and sure as he breathed, winter was coming early this year.
“They’re leading us into the Mamore Forest,” Maxwell said, pulling Colin from his thoughts.
“Aye, this is becoming a mockery,” Fionn agreed. “We go up there, and we’ll end up atop Ben Nevis, neck deep in snow.”
Colin quickly surveyed their surroundings. He’d been through this land before—so had his men, and not all that long ago, chasing after the Douglas traitor. “How far ahead do you reckon they are?”
Hugh, the best tracker in the Highlands, scratched his shaggy beard. “We’ve gained on them, ’tis certain. I’d say a half-day, mayhap less.”
Colin pulled up his horse and drew the men into a circle. “You want out of this rain and into some dry braies?”
“Aye,” the six warriors chorused.
“This isn’t going to be easy, but we’ll end this nonsense by nightfall.” Every man nodded, eyes fierce. “Fionn and William, come with me. We’ll head up the outcropping and cut them off.”
Hugh shook the droplets of water from his helm. “Are ye bloody daft? One misstep on those cliffs and you’ll meet your end.”
“Do you want to chase these mongrels up the mountain—see us caught in a blizzard or worse?”
Hugh shut his mouth and glared.
Colin pointed a gauntleted finger at him. “Take the others and continue to follow the mongrel’s tracks. We’ll cut them off and drive them back toward you. If they make it that far.”
Maxwell chuckled. “There’s only three of them. I ought to be able to take them with one hand.”
Close enough to reach, Colin clamped the young squire’s arm and squeezed. “Never underestimate a foe you’ve not faced. The first time you do could be your last.”
Colin split the men and took the treacherous pass. He probably hated heights more than any warrior in his company, but he would never ask a one to do something he wouldn’t attempt himself. Fionn and William were the most skilled horsemen, and they’d both taken this route before. Colin couldn’t consider taking the others across the slippery, wet narrow ridge.
They followed the game trail straight up through the forest until the foliage opened onto a rugged outcropping—mountain, in all truth. Colin stopped for a moment and scanned the forest below, looking for movement.
William pointed. “There.”
Sure enough, riders flickered through the trees. Colin rested a hand on his pommel and leaned forward. “Why the blazes are they heading to nowhere?”
“Trying to keep us away from Kilchurn?” Fionn guessed.
Colin’s fist tightened around his reins. “Bloody bastards. They’re leading us away from a great many things.” He met the eyes of each man. “Are you ready for this?”
Fionn nodded. “Aye.”
William did too. “Aye. I’ll lead.”
Colin let him pass. William’s horse could pick his way over a crossing no wider than three hands. The other horses would follow without spooking—he prayed.
When they stepped onto the stony shelf, Colin’s stomach clenched into a hard ball. His sweaty fingers slipped inside his doeskin gloves. He glanced down and perspiration streamed into his eyes. He could face an entire army, but putting his faith in a horse to safely carry him across a treacherous path pushed his limits.
He clenched his teeth and focused his gaze on William’s horse. The bay walked slowly, hooves clicking the stone. The sky above darkened.
Could we bloody go faster?
A sloppy drop hit his helm’s nose guard. Colin’s grip again slipped inside his gloves. A bolt of lightning flashed overhead. Colin jolted in his seat. His horse stutter-stepped.
Colin grimaced and prepared for death, every muscle taut.
The horse steadied.
Taking in a quick breath, he willed his bum cheeks to ease, sending a so
othing message to his steed. It took every bit of self-control he had to maintain a relaxed posture.
Rain poured down in sheets. Within two strides, Colin could scarcely see the horse’s rump in front of him. He resisted the urge to pull up and stop. There was nowhere to go but forward.
His big warhorse stumbled. Rocks broke away and hit the cliff hundreds of feet below. Colin’s body jerked downward. Thunder rumbled like the deafening bellow of twelve cannons. With a grunt, Colin closed his eyes and tried to swallow.
Margaret’s beautiful smile filled his chest, lightened it as if he were floating in midair. Her chestnut locks shimmered with sunlight. Her hypnotic green eyes focused on him, filled him with strength. Colin gathered his reins and pushed his heels down in the stirrups. “Stay with it, lad.”
With his next breath, the warhorse found his footing. Colin tried to relax. “Good boy,” he cooed. “Keep up, we’re nearly there, lad.”
The shelf opened to a rocky plateau. Colin shook his head. Every time he blinked, Margaret smiled at him. What the devil was that about? He squeezed his eyes and conjured a picture of Jonet. At first her face was clear, and then it faded.
“Are you all right, m’lord?”
Colin snapped his eyes open. Both Fionn and William had stopped their mounts beside him. Their expressions were filled with concern.
“What the bloody hell are we stopping for?” Colin barked.
William spread his palms to his sides. “You’re the one who pulled up, m’lord.”
Colin straightened and looked down the steep gorge. Waterfalls gushed with the newly fallen rain. “Have you spotted them?”
“They’d be behind us yet.”
Colin clicked his heels and took the lead. “Good. Let’s move off this mountain before the rain washes us down.”
Colin led the way, hoping he’d never have to take that crossing again in his life. Lord, it did unholy, irrational things to his mind. The further down the slope his horse trod, the more his heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm. Never would he admit how much that crossing bothered him—especially in the driving rain.