by Amy Jarecki
She grasped his hand, and Duncan’s lids opened. “I’m concerned about you.”
Her blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight and reflected the color of the sky. This was the first day the sun had made an appearance since he’d met Meg. Her intelligent brows arched in question. Duncan cleared his throat. “I’m well enough. You needn’t worry overmuch.”
She offered an anxious smile and tried to pull her hand away, but Duncan tightened his grasp. He liked the silken smoothness of her fingers in his rough palm. “Your hands are cold.”
A lovely blush crawled up her cheeks, her eyes nowhere near as happy as her demeanor. “Aye.”
He studied her face. How she could be wise yet so innocent perplexed him. “Do you have any clue how beautiful you are?”
“I beg your pardon?” Again she tugged her hand, but he held it fast. “You must be horribly fevered.” Her eyes drifted to the appendage she’d ashamedly named “the claw.” He’d never understand how a woman so incredible could consider herself ruined because of a minor deformity. Aside from her hand, Meg possessed everything a man desired—eyes that could see through to his soul, a full mane of wild tresses with natural curls, a figure that was not too slight and not too round.
A satisfied moan rumbled from Duncan’s chest. The dip in her waist had cradled his arm perfectly in the wee hours last eve. He lowered his chin and pressed his lips against her ear. “Mo leannan.” He knew he’d uttered the endearment in the wee hours as well, though he hadn’t really been awake.
Meg gasped, her cherry-red lips tempting him.
“Aye.” He grinned—swaying as if drunk. “I did say it, and I wish it could be so.”
The deep pools of blue stared into his eyes, as if she read his every thought. “I couldn’t dare to dream . . .”
His mind a wee bit blurry, all he focused on was Meg. He leaned closer to inhale the wildflower scent of her hair. “Only in my dreams have I ever held a woman as ravishing and desirable as you.”
She pushed her hair under her veil with her claw as though it were a nervous habit.
“I like to see your tresses peek from beneath your headpiece.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “My sister Elizabeth says they’re wild as Scotland.”
“Aye? I like that.” Duncan swirled his palm over her hand in his lap. “What else does your sister say?”
“She agrees I should join a nunnery—says I’m too headstrong.” Meg hid the claw under her cloak. “She knows my deformity isn’t the devil’s work, but she—the whole family—fears it might be taken that way outside of Tantallon’s walls, except in a place of worship, of course.”
“You’re serious?” Duncan blinked. “Your family agrees you should be hidden?”
“All except Arthur. He’d prefer to arrange my marriage to some unsuspecting baron to strengthen the family alliances.”
Duncan wiped the clammy sweat from his forehead with the crook of his elbow. “So, Arthur doesn’t fear your hand?”
“No, but the family is torn about what should be done with me. I suppose that’s what happens when both your parents die when you’re very young. Your elder siblings argue about what is to become of the ‘misshapen black sheep.’”
Duncan raised her hand to his lips and kissed. Catching a whiff of a meadow in spring, his heart stuttered. Why did everything about Meg tug on his sensibilities? “I think you’re entirely too hard on yourself.” He shivered. Lordy, his bones ached with fatigue—he could scarcely keep his eyes open.
“What would you do if you were in my place?”
He leaned into her, wishing he could rest his head on her shoulder. “Me?”
“Aye?”
First of all, as a man and heir to a considerable dynasty, Duncan would never be in her situation. He gazed at her red lips, pursed in challenge, and his daft head spun like juggler’s clubs. “I’d not allow a one of them to make me feel any less a person.”
“I’m certain ’tis easy for you to say. You are a brawny knight, after all.”
“Aye, but I’ve four sis . . . ters.” His words slurred. “I wouldn’t want a one of them to feel less . . . less of a woman because of something she cannot change.”
Meg studied his face again with those irresistible eyes. “You are an odd sort, Sir Duncan. Perhaps that’s why I like you so much.”
He held her hand to his cheek and closed his heavy eyelids. “I like you as . . . well, Lady Meg.”
“Passing the Mull of Kintyre,” the navigator yelled and pointed.
The galley had entered the Irish Sea. Depending on the wind, there were several hours remaining in this journey. Duncan leaned his head against the hull and closed his eyes. Perhaps a few moments of sleep would do him good. Undoubtedly, he’d need his strength when the ship moored.
Chapter Twelve
Duncan slept holding Meg’s hand until her fingers fell asleep. In all honesty, she reveled in his touch, wanted his palm to warm her hand into eternity, but soon her entire arm would be asleep, too. Gradually, Meg slipped her fingers away and rubbed them awake.
Once the boat entered open seas, the sail billowed with the wind and sped their pace. Meg’s head swooned a bit while the swells rocked the galley as it climbed and fell in time with the white-capped waves.
Duncan’s shoulder leaned into her.
She’d meant it when she told the knight she liked him. No man had ever paid much attention to her—not that she’d had much experience with men who were peers. At the age of five and ten she’d thought she fancied the farrier’s son, but quickly discovered a highborn Douglas daughter could fancy no one of her own choosing. Arthur had fired the farrier as soon as she’d mentioned her attraction to her sister Elizabeth.
Meg took a moment to study the hard lines of Duncan’s face. His beard had grown even longer now. Starting to curl, it almost hid his square jaw. He had called her beautiful more than once. Mo leannan—he’d uttered the Gaelic endearment for “sweetheart,” but he’d also repeated that he must return her to Tantallon where she belonged . . . that her brother had paid him to rescue her. As a man of honor, Duncan must fulfill his contract. Soon she would return to her life as if nothing had ever happened, and it would be highly unlikely their paths would ever cross again.
Meg sighed at the emptiness stretching throughout her chest. Perhaps one day she’d spy Sir Duncan across the nave at Dunfirmline Abbey during a king’s coronation or at the baptism of a royal bairn. Would he be married by then? Would she be draped in the robes of a nun?
She again watched his face; curiously angelic in slumber. Her insides fluttered. How could she take up the veil now she’d lain beside a man and enjoyed it so? Would she ever be forgiven for such a sin? So many things confused her, but on one thing she was absolutely certain—there was no other man in the world like Duncan Campbell. He accepted her, flaws and all, and considered her beautiful. Even if she never again kissed another man in her lifetime, she would lock away the tenderness they’d shared in her heart.
“Entering the Firth of Lorn,” hollered the navigator.
With calmer seas, the boat eased into a steady sway. Meg sprang to her feet and scanned the shoreline. In the distance a massive grey castle presided over the loch, its bailey walls rising from a craggy outcrop. She’d heard tales of Dunstaffnage, captured from the MacDougals during the time of Robert the Bruce. “Campbell lands,” she whispered under her breath.
Forested and wild, she could only imagine what lay beyond the shore. “Duncan.” She shook his shoulder. “We’re nearly there. You must wake.”
Duncan didn’t move. Meg held her hand to his forehead. As she feared, he was afire. Glancing over her shoulder, the sailors looked at her like salivating dogs. Who knew what they would do if she couldn’t rouse Duncan? She grasped both of his shoulders and gave him a firm shake. “Sir Duncan!”
“Sir?” the captain asked from across the deck.
Meg ignored him and slapped Duncan’s cheeks. “’Tis nearly time to disembark.”
<
br /> Duncan stirred.
Thank you, Lord Jesus.
The captain sauntered up behind her. “Odd you call your husband sir.”
“Oh?” Meg faced him. “Why? He is a knight of the Order of St. John.”
“And a nephew to the Earl of Argyll?”
Meg shot Duncan a sideways look, hoping he’d be alert enough to answer. His eyes rolled back. She opted for the middle ground. “Sir Duncan Campbell is his name.”
The captain narrowed his eyes. “And why is a knight dressed in a ragged cloak?”
Pulling on her inner strength, she muttered an apology and walloped Duncan across the face. “That, captain, is none of your concern.” Please wake. This man is up to no good. I can feel it in my bones.
Stretching his jaw to the side and rubbing it, Duncan cleared his throat and wobbled to a stand. His cloak parted and he brushed his fingers over the hilt of his sword. “Is all well, my . . . la . . . Meg?” He sounded as if he’d been in his cups.
“Yes, dearest.” Meg feigned an adoring smile. “The captain was questioning your knighthood and family name.”
Duncan glared at the man, who was a good two hands shorter. “Is that so?”
The captain planted his fists on his hips. “Why would a knight and his missus be dressed in rags?”
“Why would a galley captain give a rat’s arse how we’re dressed?”
The man folded his arms.
Duncan swayed and pulled Meg under his arm, she thought more as a crutch than to protect her. “If you must know, I was down on my luck. Lost at cards.”
Surely Duncan will be forgiven for a necessary fib.
“Heading home to da, are you?” the captain asked.
“Aye.”
He flicked a dismissive wrist. “Spoilt nobility.”
The captain turned his attention to the mooring, and Meg pulled Duncan aside. “Will you be able to make it off the boat?”
“Bloody oath I will.” He turned a shade of yellow and clamped his hand on to the rail. “What did you tell them?”
“Only that you are a knight and your family name is Campbell.”
He swiped a hand across his mouth. “’Tis enough. When they return to Glasgow, Percy’s man will be asking questions, that is a certainty.”
Once the ship had been tied off, Meg helped Duncan down the gangway and onto the pier.
He pulled away from her. “I do not need your help.”
She grasped his arm and tugged it over her shoulder. “Nay? You’re swaying as if you were still at sea. Just let me steady you until we can find a pair of horses.”
Peering over her shoulder, she noted the captain watching them from the deck while the galley cast off. At least they were out from under his scrutiny.
Duncan stumbled. Meg tried to steady him, but he crashed to the ground.
“Sir Duncan!” She dropped to her knees and gave him a good shake.
His body remained flaccid.
She crouched beside him. The world spun in a panic. Alone in a foreign place, where could she find help? Ahead, she scanned the pathway that led up to the stronghold. Three guards marched in formation, paying her no mind. She pulled on Duncan’s arm, but he didn’t respond. Making a decision, Meg sprinted for the soldiers. “Help! Please, stop.” If there were a time to be an assertive noblewoman, it was nigh.
The lead man gave her a deprecating once-over. “And who might you be?”
Clenching her fists, she raised her chin. “I am Lady Douglas, daughter of the fourth Earl of Angus.” She turned and pointed. “And that injured soul is Sir Duncan Campbell, heir to the Lordship of Glenorchy.”
The man apprised Meg incredulously. “But—”
“What?” She stepped toward him and fisted her hips. “Have you not seen nobles dressed in rags to conceal their identity?” She again pointed at Duncan. “Do you not recognize the Lord of Glenorchy’s son?”
The man looked to Duncan and paled.
“Looks like Sir Duncan to me,” one said. “There’s nary a black-haired man in all of Argyllshire as large as he.”
“M-m’lady. Why did you not say something sooner?” The leader motioned to his men. “Quickly, take him into the keep.”
“No.” Meg stood her ground. Finally being able to reveal her identity emboldened her. “Sir Duncan wishes to be taken to Kilchurn with haste.”
One of the soldiers stepped forward and shook his head. “He’s in no state to travel.”
“I beg your pardon, but he’s just traveled here from Northumberland.” She pointed at the man’s sternum and looked him in the eye. “I command you. Fetch a team and cart, and bring it forthwith.”
Lips thinning, the sentry offered a clipped bow. “Yes, m’lady.”
If Meg weren’t so worried for Duncan’s well-being, her chest would have swelled with pride, but this was no time for self-accolades. She dashed back to Duncan’s side and knelt. “The guard is bringing a cart with a team of horses.” She smoothed a hand over his head. “Can you hear me? As you desired, we shall be at Kilchurn this eve.”
Meg slid Duncan’s head into her lap. It was the least she could do until the guards returned. Gently, she swirled her fingers around his temples. “Hold on, my love. I shall have you to your home in no time. You’ll see. Everything will be fine once we reach your family.” I should have paid more attention to Hubert and his herbs at Tantallon. If only there was more I could do to help you, Duncan. Please, please, please do not succumb to your wound.
When the men returned, they made quick work of hoisting Duncan into the cart.
Meg faced them. “I’ll need you to accompany us to Kilchurn.”
The man-at-arms frowned. “I do not understand why we cannot spirit him up to one of the chambers here at Dunstaffnage.”
“’Tis Sir Duncan’s wish.” Meg wanted to tell them all that had happened, but with no idea who she could trust, she held her tongue. She climbed into the back of the wagon with Duncan. “How long will it take to reach the castle?”
“If we travel at a steady trot, we should make it by nightfall.”
She pulled the moth-eaten cloak taut around Duncan’s body and looked to the sky. His teeth chattered. It was even colder here than it had been in Glasgow. “Fetch some blankets before we set out. Sir Duncan is fevered. I’ll not have him catch his death on this journey.”
“Very well, m’lady,” the man-at-arms said, motioning for a soldier to ride back to the castle. He turned to the cart driver. “Lead on. The guard will catch up in no time.”
The sentry had been right. The guard caught up with the plaids before they’d traversed a mile. Gratefully, Meg took them and spread the woolens over Duncan, tucking the edges in at his sides.
“One of those plaids is for you, m’lady,” the guard said. “Your cloak would hardly withstand a summer’s breeze, let alone a February gale.”
“I thank you, but I daresay Sir Duncan needs them more than I.” Once content she’d made him as comfortable as possible, she again moved to his head and cradled it in her lap. The jerking motion of the cart was nearly enough to rattle Meg’s brain. She hated to think what it was doing to Duncan, and she held his head as if he were a wee bairn.
True to his word, the man-at-arms led the procession at a trot, with four horses hitched to the cart. The only bad thing was, with no hay lining its bed, the old cart was nothing but a flatbed of planks. Duncan couldn’t be comfortable. Meg most certainly was not.
The sky had taken on a violet hue by the time the guard hollered, “Kilchurn straight ahead.”
A long sigh slipped past Meg’s lips. She cast her gaze eastward. The sun reflected brilliantly against the battlement walls, further illuminating the great stone keep rising above. A deep blue loch surrounded three sides. Indeed, everything about Kilchurn was as Duncan described. With verdant mountains surrounding the castle, Meg imagined no force would ever be powerful enough to breach its walls.
“Open the gate!” bellowed the guard.
&n
bsp; The driver slowed the horses while the portcullis chains groaned.
At a walk, they passed through the guardhouse and into the busy outer bailey. Not unlike Tantallon, the smithy’s shack rang with the sound of pounding iron, accompanied by the hammer of a farrier shoeing a horse and chickens squawking.
The men stopped the procession just outside the inner bailey gate—more like an enormous door with square blackened nails in vertical lines.
The door creaked open. “What the devil?” Duncan’s voice boomed from the blackness.
Still cradling his head in her lap, Meg snapped her head around. A much older, grey-haired form of Duncan glared at her, eyebrows knitted.
“Lord Campbell?” she asked.
The man scowled. “Aye.” He wore a dark green doublet, leather breeks on his legs and a feathered bonnet. “And what have you done to my son?”
The power of his menacing stare could have made Meg shrivel into a prune, but she squeezed her bottom’s cheeks and sat tall. “Sir Duncan was injured coming to my rescue. He managed to spirit me to Dunstaffnage, but as soon as we arrived, he succumbed to fever.”
Lord Campbell appraised her quickly, stepping in as if his eyesight were failing. “You’re Lady Douglas?”
Meg followed his much-too-close gaze to her moth-eaten cloak. “Aye.”
Lord Glenorchy motioned to his sentries. “We must take him inside at once.”
“Sooner, if possible.” Meg steadied Duncan’s head while four men each grasped an arm or leg.
“Where is he wounded?” Lord Glenorchy asked.
Meg bit her lip. “’Tis best I tell you behind closed doors.”
By his frown, he didn’t care for her response, but he gestured toward the keep. “Send the healer up to my son’s chamber at once.”
As Meg neared the entrance, the mouth-watering smell of baking bread made her knees weak. The miserly captain had given her a piece of bully beef on the ship. That and a bit of bread was all she’d had to eat since last evening’s meal. They walked past the kitchens, with a typical flurry of activity outside the door. But Meg kept her gaze ahead and stayed close behind the entourage. In no way would she be separated from Duncan.