by Amy Jarecki
“Agreed.” Margaret sipped. “Mmm. Your wine is delicious.”
Ewen swallowed against the flutter in his chest. “And how is the progress on Kilchurn?”
“Ahead of schedule this season. I’m looking forward to moving the boys into the new nursery.”
“And your chamber?”
“That too, though I daresay the cottage has been more than comfortable.”
He held the goblet to his lips. “Though a woman of your stature deserves grander comfort.”
Something flashed in her eyes. His comment hadn’t sat well with her. Perhaps she was not as prideful as most of the other highborn women he’d met. Interesting. A woman with her beauty should be pampered endlessly. Had Lord Campbell been lax in his attentions? I’m sure the beef-witted knight is far too arrogant to give a woman her due.
It had been two years since she’d last seen her husband. Ewen knew. He’d counted every last day.
He spared no expense, at least for the high table. His best wine, nutmeats and fruits shipped all the way from the Caribbean. Cook entered the hall carrying a masterpiece. Atop a trencher, the exact likeness of a peacock perched, its brilliant tail feathers flowing in waves to the floor.
Margaret clasped her hands under her chin. “Oh my, your efforts exceed that of the king’s table.”
She exaggerated. His idea for the peacock came directly from Stirling, but still, Ewen’s chest swelled. “I thought you’d like it.”
Cook made a show of placing the trencher on the table and arranging the feathers so Lady Margaret could admire them.
“Well done,” she bubbled.
The cook bowed. “Thank you, m’lady.” Then he lifted the peacock’s breast slightly. “The surprise is beneath.”
She closed her eyes and inhaled the aroma of the sweet meat. “My, ’tis too beautiful to eat.”
Ewen brushed his fingers across the back of her hand. “Nothing is too beautiful for you, Lady Margaret.”
Her smile waned and she pulled her hand away, turning the silver ring around her finger. It seemed a nervous gesture he’d noticed before. Ewen wasn’t dissuaded, confident he’d made a lasting impression. “I’ve killed a steer for the meal as well.” His insides fluttered at his ruse.
“Did you now?” She arched her delicate brow. “Tell me, laird. Have you noticed dwindling numbers in your herd?”
“Nay. Are you saying you have, m’lady?”
“Aye. Not too often, but every now and again, a beast turns up missing.”
Under the table, his foot began to twitch. “Thieves?”
“I believe so, someone trying to increase his own holdings.”
This conversation couldn’t have continued more to his liking if he’d written the script. “Or take advantage of a lady whose husband is away.”
Margaret frowned and sipped her wine. “Perhaps.”
Ewen pounded his fist on the table for added theatrics. “I will not stand for such a wrongdoing against a delicate lady such as yourself. Please allow me to intervene on your behalf.”
She tapped a finger to her lips. “Do you have an idea who is stealing my cattle, laird?”
Shaking his head, he held up his palms. “It shouldn’t take me long to find the culprit. My henchman can sniff out a thief in the next burgh. I’ll set him to task at first light.”
Margaret placed her hand over his and squeezed. “My thanks for your gracious kindness. My man, Mevan, would be more than happy to accompany your men.”
Ewen couldn’t help the sly grin spreading across his face. “That most likely won’t be necessary, m’lady.”
After the feast, the minstrels clambered onto the balcony. Margaret let out a little gasp. “Why, I believe those are the same musicians who played at Duncan’s christening.”
“Aye, the same.”
“Oh my. I daresay they are the best in the Highlands.” Her eyes flashed with excitement. “You shan’t keep me from dancing this evening.”
He stood and bowed. “I do hope you will do me the honor.”
She grasped his hand. “I’d love to.”
Ewen chuckled to himself. The last time he’d seen Margaret dance, her face made the entire room glow, and tonight was no different. When she’d arrived she could have even looked a tad melancholy, but swinging her around to the music made her laugh and clap, appropriate for a woman of her age.
She danced tirelessly, though rarely cast her gaze his way. She watched the other dancers or kept her eyes downcast. If he asked a question, she’d offer a guarded response at best. Did she not know the wine, the minstrels, the fact that he was dancing with her through the night were all for her? Bloody hell, this was the first time in his life he’d held a St. Michaelmas Feast.
Patience. Earn her trust.
When the music ended, Ewen offered his elbow. “Allow me to escort you to your chamber.”
She bit her bottom lip. Her gaze darted around the hall. Ewen smiled inwardly. Laird Robert and his wife had retired long before the music ended. “Surely there is a serving maid who can show me the way.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it. Come, m’lady. You are my esteemed guest.” He led her up the tower stairs. “I know not how you’re managing alone.”
“I say, you do underestimate me. Lord Glenorchy has been gone two years, and his estate has prospered. Forgive my pride in saying so.”
“Not at all.” He led her down a passage on the third floor. “But I was referring to more delicate matters.”
He stopped outside the guest chamber and lifted her chin with the crook of his pointer finger. Her green eyes were so penetrating, he swore she could read his mind. Her beauty emboldened him. “Your bed must be cold at night.”
She snatched her arm from his and stepped back. “I am quite certain I do not care for the direction of your conversation, m’laird.”
Blast. He’d warned himself over and over, yet meeting her gaze had turned him into a lecherous cur. “E-excuse me, m’lady. I meant no disrespect.”
“I’d thank you to remember my station. I dearly hope that we can remain friends, but I will always and forever be faithful to my husband.” She opened the door and gave a curtsey. “My gratitude for a lovely evening.”
He bowed. “M’lady.”
The lock clicked. Ewen turned on his heel and bounded down the passageway to the laird’s chamber. He’d spent the entire evening gaining her trust, plying her with his wealth, and then he had to push her in the last hour. He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a tot of whisky.
He would coax Lady Margaret into his bed, but he must do so short of a scandal—and with the promise of her hand. Without her lands, the alluring woman was useless to him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Island of Symi, February, 1458
The piss-soaked straw still burned Colin’s eyes. He’d been in the Ottoman pit for six months now. The only thing keeping him alive was his memories. Had Margaret birthed a son or a daughter? Of course she’d have survived the birth. He knew it in his soul. A woman with her grit could bring a brawny lad into the world. Another son would be nice—but a daughter would also be a blessing. Regardless, the child would be healthy and loved. When he closed his eyes he could see Margaret smiling, chatting, naked. Thoughts of his leannan gave him strength in his darkest hours.
No other prisoners had been interned. He, Maxwell, William and a handful of other knights rotted in the bowels of a fortress. He’d been on the brink of death the first three months of his tenure. Thank God for Maxwell. The squire had tended Colin and nursed him back to some semblance of health.
He reached up and rubbed the knot at the back of his head. It still brought on vicious headaches, but Colin’s vision and memory had returned. At least for the most part. Not a man in the pit knew where in God’s name they were.
Getting information out of the guards was a useless effort. They spat and spoke in an indecipherable tongue.
The iron gate above creaked open. A man tumbled d
own the stone steps, his back bleeding from welts of the lash. Colin scurried over to him. Dark hair and dark skin. He looked as if he could be one of the infidels. “Maxwell, bring a cup of water.” Colin levered up the man’s shoulders. “Who are you?”
He wailed and shook his head.
“Que êtes-vous?” Colin asked in French, the language of the order. He made the sign of the cross known only to the Hospitallers.
The man drew a cross on his chest in a weak reply. “Pierre Laurent.”
“Français?”
“Oui.”
“But you look like a Turk.”
“’Tis why I’m here.”
“A spy?”
Pierre took a moment to catch his breath. “Oui.”
“Where are we?”
“Symi.”
Colin balled his fist. They were close enough to Rhodes that they could swim. Maxwell arrived with the water. Colin held the dirty, communal wooden cup to Pierre’s lips. “Drink.”
The man guzzled and sputtered. “Merci.”
“What are our chances for escape?”
The man laughed. “From here? We’re in a pit, if you hadn’t noticed. There’s only one way out.”
“How many guards above?”
“Too many to count.”
“Guess,” Colin demanded.
“A dozen.”
“How many paces from the gaol to the sea?”
Pierre hung his head, as if all was lost. “How should I know?”
“We cannot be far. I can smell it when the wind comes through the window.” Colin glanced at the small hole at least fifteen feet above them.
He pulled the knight to the wall and piled the somewhat clean hay he used for his pallet behind him. “Rest here. I wish I had something to cleanse your wounds, brother.”
“Merci. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”
Colin frowned. “Do you know why they’re keeping us here?”
“No. There’s been some talk of using Christians for human shields when they march on Jerusalem.”
“Or public hanging,” William said.
“Oui.” Pierre swallowed with effort. “Or worse.”
Colin stood. Restlessness jittered through his limbs for the first time since he awoke in this dank dungeon. He scanned the defeated faces of the men around him. “Who wants to break out of here?”
A few laughed. “As if there’s a remote possibility of that,” said the Englishman. “We’ll all rot if they don’t hang us first.”
“You’re right,” Colin agreed. “If we do nothing, eventually the Turks will tire of feeding us and we’ll be led to the gallows or the stake.”
Every single man shuddered at the thought of being burned like their brothers, the Templars, over a century before.
“I pose a challenge.” Colin stood erect and strode across the line of bedraggled prisoners. “We tone our bodies day and night—become fit beyond anything we’ve ever imagined.”
“Then what? Muscle our way out of here?”
“Exactly.” Colin eyed the narrow flight of stone steps. “When they open the gate to toss our bread, we push forward and overtake them. The strongest man first.”
They all brayed like bleating sheep and dismissed his idea with waves of their hands. All except the big Scot on the end—his man, William. Willy’s eyes blazed. He shoved himself to his feet and stood beside Colin. “I’d rather die fighting for freedom than let them put my neck in a noose.”
Colin eyed the others. “Who else is with me?”
A Frenchman stood. “Death or freedom.”
Colin jammed his fists into his hips. “That’s right. We’re close enough to Rhodes to swim.”
“I’m in,” said the Englishman.
“We start tonight.” The miserable Turks would keep him from Margaret’s side no more.
***
Another year passed. Fortunately, as Laird Ewen had promised, he’d caught the cattle thief straight away. Though he didn’t say exactly how the culprit met his end, he assured Lady Margaret the problem had been snuffed for good. No more cattle had gone missing and her herd prospered. She owed the neighboring laird a debt of gratitude.
John was now two and Duncan, three. Margaret watched the boys trot across the nursery with hobby horses between their legs. John’s legs were stubby like a toddler, though Duncan had become leaner and longer. He led his younger brother in a circle. “To Rome, to Rome.”
John shook his fist in the air. “To Woam!”
Margaret laughed and clapped her hands. “Good knights, save me.”
They both dropped their toy horses and barreled to their mother’s side.
“Story,” John said.
Duncan pushed for a place on Mama’s lap. As far as the lad was aware, Margaret was his flesh-and-blood mother. “Tell us about Da.”
He asked about his father several times per day. She only wished she’d had years of happiness with Colin rather than a few short months. Margaret tugged John up so each child shared a knee.
“Of course you know he’s a fierce knight.”
“Black Colin.” Duncan thumped his chest proudly.
John threw his head back and squealed.
Margaret sat straight with pride. “Aye, and he puts fear in the hearts of all who face him. No one can wield a fiercer sword than he.”
“How tall is he, Mummy?”
“So tall you have to stack two Duncans and two Johns right on top of each other.” They were growing so fast, the measurement was probably off, but she didn’t want to favor one lad over the other. In Margaret’s mind they were both her boys. Goodness, she was the only parent either lad knew.
“When will he come home?” Duncan asked for the ten thousandth time.
“Home,” John echoed.
Margaret’s heart twisted into a knot. “Soon. We must pray every night that he returns to us soon.”
The door opened and a serving maid popped her head inside. “Lord MacCorkodale has come to call, m’lady.”
Margaret sighed. True, Ewen’s company was better than spending the afternoon alone, but the neighboring laird had been calling a bit too frequently for her taste. However, she would never forget his kindness. She kissed her boys. “Be good for Miss Lena.” Effie had retired to her son’s cottage a few months back. Margaret missed the old nursemaid.
“Och, but we want to hear more about Da,” Duncan complained.
Margaret tapped his nose. “I’ll tell you about the day we met when I come to tuck you in tonight.”
John clapped. “Da, come home.” He was cute as a button, and still looked so much like Colin.
Margaret straightened her wimple and headed to the stables. She and Ewen had planned to go riding to check on her cattle. Now that her herd had grown, she needed to ensure the shepherds weren’t overgrazing. Business was prospering. At least when Colin returns, he’ll not have to worry about the family coffers.
Ewen had her mare saddled. “Looking lovely as always, m’lady.”
She took the reins and allowed him to give her a leg-up. “Thank you. I do appreciate your taking the time to ride with me, though I could have had Mevan do it. ’Tis his duty, after all.”
“Aye, but I couldn’t resist riding on such a lovely day, and with such pleasant company.”
Margaret chuckled. “As of late, you’ve wasted far too much time frittering away your afternoons with me.”
He mounted his steed. “’Tis no bother.”
“It should be. You ought to be at court looking for a woman to marry and bear your heirs.”
“Alas, I have no interest in court.”
“Oh? And to whom do you plan to pass your estate if you die without issue?”
He shrugged and looked her way. Margaret had seen that look in his eye more than once, and it gave her pause. If she weren’t a married woman, she’d think he wanted to court her.
“Margaret.”
She laced her reins through her fingers. “Hmm?”
�
��I’ve stopped asking if you’ve received word.”
Three years. She was grateful he hadn’t asked in some time. She cued her horse to a fast trot.
Ewen pulled beside her. “Have you considered that perhaps he hasn’t written because—”
A fire ignited in the pit of her stomach. “No.” She shook her finger. “And I pray you would not think it.” Margaret leaned forward and thrashed her mare with her crop, spurring her to a fast gallop. What in God’s name was Ewen alluding to? How on earth could he make assumptions? Until she received Colin’s token, she would never believe him dead.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Simi, the Mediterranean, March, 1459
Colin watched the sun pass through the gap above. He used it as a sundial. One more quarter and the sun would set. A quarter after that, food would come. The prisoners got the slops, which contained very little meat. But at last, after months of training and watching, the men were ready to mount their escape.
“What is the first thing you’ll do when we arrive back on Rhodes?” Maxwell whispered.
“I shall pen a missive to Margaret. God’s teeth. The poor woman probably thinks me dead after living in this hell for the greater part of two years.” Colin glanced at the young man’s filthy face. “And you?”
“I shall eat an entire steer all by myself.”
“Meat?” Colin rested his head against the stone wall and swallowed. “The word makes my mouth water.”
Darkness slowly cast a shadow across the cell. Colin climbed the stairs and took his position. If his plan didn’t work, they’d never be free. The men crept into the shadows below, out of sight of the gate. The hinges of a heavy door screeched in the distance. Colin recognized the guards’ greeting, giving praise to Allah—the same one the Turks bellowed when they attacked.
Footsteps echoed down the passage. His heart thundered in his ears. He wiped his sweaty palms on his ragged tunic and sucked in a deep breath. When the guard rounded the corner, Colin hunched over and grabbed his gut. “H-help me,” he groaned, watching the enemy from beneath his stringy hair.
The guard stared at him and growled something in his foreign tongue.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh…my innards.” Colin curled down a little further, eyeing the placement of the man’s sword and the dagger bound to his ankle.