Knight in Highland Armor

by Amy Jarecki

  “Aye. He’s going to be a lassie killer, with dimples like that.”

  “I daresay he will—just like his da.”

  Colin gazed into Margaret’s fathomless green eyes. She was attracted to him. He thought she’d been when they first met in the market, though since he’d behaved like such an arse, he scarcely gave her a chance know him. That she hadn’t decided to hate him for all eternity completely boggled his mind.

  He grasped her free hand and held it to his heart. “Can we start anew?”

  “Pardon?”

  Of course she wouldn’t make it easy for him. “I’m afraid I’ve been despondent, withdrawn since we married.”

  “Aye. You’ve been grieving.”

  “I was that obvious? You didn’t deem me indifferent?”

  She bit her bottom lip and lowered her lashes. “At first I thought you hated me, but Effie explained how much you loved Jonet, how hard it was to lose her.”

  Colin grew quiet at the mention of his former wife’s name. His lips quivered when he tried to smile. He tightened his grip on Margaret’s hand. “Aye, her death tore out my heart. I never thought I could…” He swallowed back the words.

  “Could?” she probed.

  Colin almost said “love again,” but stopped himself. Was he in love with Margaret? Her very presence picked up his senses, as if he were a predator and she the prey. Lately, when she was near, he could think of nothing else but to say he loved her. That would be irresponsible so early in their marriage—especially with the annulment papers still locked away. “I never thought I could ever feel again,” he corrected. Thank heavens he hadn’t signed them yet. He wouldn’t be needing them after all.

  Margaret chuckled and raised his hand to her lips. “Mayhap that knock on the head did you some good.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dunstaffnage Castle, 12th November, 1455

  Colin’s head didn’t feel much better the next day, but he refused Margaret’s tincture to soothe the throbbing pain. They agreed he should sit in the great hall and hear supplications. If he stayed abed too long, rumors could spread and embolden his enemies.

  Margaret clasped the Campbell plaid across his shoulder and fastened it with a bronze brooch. “I’d like to sit beside you this day.”

  He brushed her cheek with his finger. “Aye, but ’tis not a woman’s place.”

  “Then I shall bring my lute and provide entertainment for your lordship.”

  He eyed her. “I suppose no one will think the better of it. And your music shall calm my aching skull.”

  “My thought exactly.” She patted the brooch and smoothed the wool. “It will also give me an opportunity to observe without anyone the wiser.”

  “You shouldn’t become accustomed to it,” he warned.

  “Oh? And who will be hearing supplications when you’re gone?”

  Colin clamped his mouth shut. He’d not thought of his journey to Rome in days, and after realizing how much he needed to make up to Margaret, he hoped Jacques de Milly could do without him this crusade. Surely if the Hospitallers were in dire need, the grand master would dispatch another missive. No matter what Colin did, he’d feel guilty. He either must leave his new wife behind or turn his back on the brothers of the order. Neither choice was palatable. He preferred to put it off as long as possible.

  Lute in hand, Margaret followed him down the winding stairs to the great hall. An assortment of crofters and other poorly dressed men were already assembled around the tables near the door. Colin preferred to have the commoners sit at the low tables, where they wouldn’t be able to hear him on the dais. There was little privacy, but he tried to limit embarrassment for all parties.

  William manned the door and kept their weapons. No one approached Colin armed, though he was sufficiently fortified with a dirk in his belt and daggers in the flashes of his hose. Maxwell always stood behind Colin, fully armed with claymore and an assortment of weapons. The lad knew well any confidence he heard on the dais must never be repeated.

  The benches scraped over the floor while people stood and bowed. Colin nodded and bade them to sit.

  Margaret perched upon a stool across from Colin, a respectable distance away. She strummed. The pounding in his head ebbed. She was right to keep the atmosphere light. Colin nodded to Maxwell. The lad was never late.

  The first crofter climbed the steps, bonnet in hand, a bold plaid draped around his waist and shoulders, fastened with a thick leather belt.

  Margaret’s strumming grew a tad softer.

  Colin nodded. “Good morrow, Hamish.”

  “Good morrow.” The crofter’s timeworn face frowned woefully before he bowed.

  “What brings you to Dunstaffnage so early this morn?” Supplications always started slowly.

  “Malcolm is stealing my sheep. Three gone in a week, I say.”

  Colin picked a speck of dirt from under his thumbnail. “And have you proof?”

  The old fella spread his arms wide. “Me sheep are grazing in his paddock.”

  “Is Malcolm here to defend himself?” Colin scanned the faces in the hall.

  “Nay, that milk-livered barnacle wouldna show his face.”

  Colin had heard the same tale a hundred times before. One man’s word against another’s, most likely. “Are your animals firebranded?”

  “Aye, an X on the right hip of every lamb and ewe.”

  “Very original of you.” Colin looked to the rafters. “Sheep stealing? Bloody oath, you’d think we were on the borders.”

  Margaret strummed faster and knitted her brows. Evidently, she thought Colin should do something to retrieve Hamish’s sheep. That was exactly why women were omitted from supplications. Colin cleared his throat. “Hugh,” he hollered. “Go with Hamish and inspect Malcolm’s sheep. If any are firebranded with an X, they should be returned.”

  Hugh looked up from his morning meal. “Aye? But nearly everyone uses an X to firebrand their sheep.”

  Colin rapped his fist on the table. “Hamish shall lay claim to no more than three.”

  Margaret smiled. Hamish too, and he bowed obsequiously. “Thank you, m’lord. I’ll nay forget this.”

  Colin rolled his hand impatiently. He could wager Malcolm would present before him on the morrow.

  The next subject who climbed upon the dais blurted out he wanted an annulment.

  Margaret launched into a woeful ballad of lost love. Colin could scarcely keep a straight face. In hindsight, having her serenade him was not the best idea he’d ever had. He squared his jaw and regarded the older man with consternation. “Why on earth do you want an annulment, Jamie? Has Morag not provided you with three bairns?”

  “Four, m’lord, but she refuses to stop badgering me.”

  “Good God, man. Have you no cods? If a woman is nagging you, ’tis because you’ve allowed it.”

  Margaret’s lovely voice slid down a dreary scale.

  Jamie shook his shaggy, greying curls and stepped in closer. “I can no longer bear the sight of her.”

  Colin scratched his chin. Jamie looked a tad long in the tooth as well, fat belly and all. “Has your wife the means to support herself if you abandon her?”

  Margaret’s tune became suddenly cheerful.

  “Nay.”

  “Do you think so little of Morag that you are willing to let her starve? What of your offspring?”

  Jamie hung his head and clenched his fists.

  Ah ha, the old blighter. “You have been unfaithful, have you not?”

  He nodded.

  “Find ye a priest. Confess, and do not come back here seeking ruination of the woman who birthed ye four healthy Campbells and lived to tell about it. Women are to be respected for their pains. Mayhap ’tis why she’s nagging you—you haven’t shown her proper respect.”

  Margaret’s strumming became so invigorated, she might as well have stood and applauded. Though Jamie scowled, Margaret’s smile put Colin’s mind at ease. It wasn’t easy to settle disputes of th
e marriage bed.

  Colin’s head pounded. He should have taken Margaret up on her tincture.

  The day progressed with a barrage of petty woes, all of which were dispatched with little effort, until a man ascended the stairs, his haircut in the shape of a bowl, his hose dual colored—one leg green and the other red.

  Colin would have thought him a court jester if his doublet had matched his chausses. “’Tis a bit early for Yule, what say you?”

  “Yule? Nay. ’Tis the latest fashion.” The lad removed his feathered cap and bowed. “Donald MacLean, at your service. I’m told you are in need of a factor, m’lord.”

  “Have you now?” Colin stood and walked around the odd fellow. “And where do you hail from, Donald MacLean?”

  “Taynilt, the other side of Loch Etive.”

  Colin focused on the man’s ridiculous hose. “I’m well aware of where Taynilt is, but not of you. Why haven’t I seen your face around these parts?”

  “I know not. I’ve lived here all me life.”

  “And what do you know about factoring?”

  “I’m good with numbers, m’lord.”

  “I see.”

  Margaret strummed a minor chord, launching into another of her sad ballads. Colin resumed his seat.

  “Tell me, Mr. MacLean, have you ever had dealings with the MacCorkodale clan?”

  Colin caught the slight shift in the man’s eyes. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his bonnet tighter. “Ah, no, m’lord.”

  Margaret stopped strumming and locked eyes with Colin. He nodded, appreciating the silent delivery of her opinion. He felt the same. Never trust a man in two-toned tights. Colin scratched his chin. “I’m sorry, but you are a little late. I’m afraid I’ve already appointed someone to the job—someone from the Campbell clan.”

  “But—”

  “That is all, sir. Good day.”

  Margaret climbed down from her stool and sat beside Colin. “You’re looking a bit pale. Shall I send for some willow bark tea?”

  Colin pressed the heel of his hand over the sore spot. “I need something a bit stronger. Perhaps a tot of good whisky.”

  “That can be arranged.” Margaret stood, but hesitated. “I didn’t know you’d appointed a factor.”

  “I haven’t, but the next man will be my kin.”

  “What about me? I supervised my father’s factor.” She kept her eyes averted.

  Colin couldn’t consider allowing his wife to perform the job of a hired hand. “’Tis too much for a noble lady with a keep to run and bairns to look after.”

  She frowned and started away. Colin caught her hand with the tips of his fingers. “I’ll expect you to oversee the man I appoint. He won’t take or spend a farthing without your knowing about it first.”

  Her grin lit up the room. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. “Thank you. Your trust means more to me than you know.”

  ***

  A sennight later, Margaret hummed while she embroidered the silk christening gown to match the skullcap she’d made.

  Effie rocked Duncan beside the hearth. “You seem happy today, m’lady.”

  “Aye. I removed Colin’s stitches this morning.”

  A distant look filled Effie’s eyes. “I take it things with the lord have improved. I’ve noticed he’s not quite so melancholy.”

  Margaret bubbled inside. “’Tis as if the blow to his head is what Colin needed to set himself to rights.”

  Effie laughed. “I wish it were that way with every man. Then all we women would need do is carry around a wooden club.”

  “You are terrible.” Margaret chuckled, tying off her thread. “But I do think he’s come to realize life continues on for the living.”

  “That it does.”

  Duncan made a cooing sound and stretched his little arms. Margaret had developed a fondness for her tiny stepson, with his crown of wispy black locks. “He’s growing every day.”

  “Aye. I hope he’ll not be too fat for that lovely gown you’re making.”

  Margaret held it up. “’Twill be perfect. Besides, I’ve invited all the shire—the MacGregors as well.”

  “My heavens, surely the great hall will not be able to hold them all at once.”

  Margaret tossed the gown into her sewing basket. “We must. ’Tis important to me to see everyone fed and recognized, no matter their station. I shan’t turn a soul away.”

  “You are generous, I’ll say.”

  “I learned a thing or two helping my father collect rents from the crofters. There’s no one who works harder or suffers more.”

  Effie nodded. “I daresay you’re right.”

  “And why has the king appointed lords and ladies if not to show consideration to their subjects? The crofters till our land, the shepherds care for our livestock and the warriors fight to defend what is ours.”

  “It would be virtuous if all the gentry saw it like that. I’m afraid you’re in the minority, m’lady.”

  Margaret looked away. Unfortunately, she was well aware charity was not important to all nobles. Her own mother had been too tight-fisted.

  Effie rocked a tad slower. “Have you given more thought to redecorating your chamber?”

  “I ordered a new comforter and pillows made. That should do for now. I’ll ensure everything else is to my taste when we move into Kilchurn.”

  “But that could take years.”

  Margaret shook her finger. “Not if I’m overseeing the work, I assure you.”

  The nursery door opened, and Colin stepped inside. “Are you ready for your nooning, Lady Margaret?”

  “Aye.” She stood and stretched. “I’m famished.”

  Effie placed Duncan in Colin’s arms. “Did you know your wife has invited all the Campbells and MacGregors to the christening?”

  He gave the bairn a wide-eyed look. “Aye, we agreed ’tis the right thing to do.” Duncan kicked his legs and cooed.

  Effie snorted. “What on earth are you planning to feed them?”

  Margaret lifted the babe from Colin’s arms and placed him in his cradle. “Venison would be nice. We should plan a hunt.”

  Colin stepped in beside her, still enraptured with his son. “Do you hunt, Lady Margaret?”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “If you think Lord Struan’s daughter doesn’t know how to handle a bow, then everything they say about the western Highlands being completely backward is true.”

  Colin looked to Effie. “’Tis settled, then—we shall plan a hunt.”

  “Ye need an entire herd,” the old woman mumbled as Colin grasped Margaret’s hand and led her out the door.

  Margaret’s heart fluttered. Would she ever tire of Colin’s rough hands and his rugged touch? She hoped not. She loved the way he made her heart leap with every look and every caress. Marriage to the Black Knight had become perfect in the past fortnight. She never asked him why he had been so incorrigible when they first married. Besides, she knew he’d been in mourning. She still caught him distant at times. He even admitted he couldn’t spend time in her chamber because of the memories there.

  “Will you promise me something?” she asked, surprising herself at her boldness.

  Colin stopped before they stepped down the stairs. “What is that, mo leannan?” Lowering his gaze, he bowed his head and fluttered kisses along her neck.

  It tickled, but she didn’t want to play, not quite yet. She placed her hand on his chest and sought his gaze. “Promise you will never behave like a tyrant again.”

  His face fell, and for an instant she feared the overbearing, feared knight would return and bite her ear clean off. “On my oath, I will never behave so badly.” He then clasped her hands to his chest. “You didn’t deserve my callousness. Forgive me?”

  “Aye.” She pushed up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Now I ken the real Black Knight. He’s locked away in a special place in my heart.”

  Colin emitted a low growl. Cupping her face in his powerful palms, he claimed her com
pletely with his mouth. His kiss ignited a bone-melting fire that spread through her blood. He gradually edged her toward his chamber door.

  Margaret paused and drew a ragged breath. “I do believe we should eat first, m’lord. I need my strength before we do that again.”

  Colin threw his head back with a rolling laugh. “You do have a way with words, wife. Come sup then, before I change my mind.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Dunstaffnage, 30th November, 1455

  Colin picked some late-blooming heather and walked down the tree-lined path to the graveyard beside the chapel. He hadn’t visited Jonet’s grave since the day they interred her into the ground. The dirt had settled. Moss and grass covered the plot, marked with a headstone that read: Lady Jonet Campbell, Loving wife of Colin, Born 1432, Delivered into the arms of our Lord 1455. The raven-haired lass had been only sixteen when they married.

  A cold wind whirled its way under his cloak. He stared at the headstone—a lovely piece of granite, though as lifeless as Mariot’s beside it. Emptiness surrounded him. The only sound was dried leaves on the forest floor crackling as gusts of wind swirled them on the air. Colin knelt and placed the clump of heather on her grave. “I’m sorry I haven’t a rose for you, but there are none to be found.”

  Chilled, he glanced behind him as if Jonet’s spirit might appear, but the wind just blew harder. “Duncan is growing. You’d be proud.

  “But that’s not why I came.” Colin swiped a hand across his brow. “I need to release you, my beloved. I’ve found a mother for Duncan, someone I ken you’d like. I thought I could keep her at arm’s length, but I cannot—and ’tis not fair to her if I continue to do so.”

  His nose started to run. He pulled a kerchief from his sleeve and blew. “’Tis best I get this over with. Goodbye, Lady Jonet. I shall nay forget you.”