by Amy Jarecki
All too soon, he moved to his knees and tugged down his hose. Margaret tensed. Never in her life had she considered a man could be so enormous when mating. He planned to put that thing—that cock—inside her? She tried to shift her hips away, but he covered her with his weight again—this time not as gently.
His cock jutted between her legs, rubbed against her, flesh to flesh. The heat in her loins spiked. Slipping his hand between them, he grasped himself and pressed into the place that had become slick with her own moisture.
His eyes turned dark. “This might hurt a bit, but I’ll try to be gentle.”
With a rumbling groan, he pushed—entered her. Her insides stretched, then with one more shove, she tore. Lord help her, it stung. Margaret clenched her teeth, digging her fingernails into his back. He pulled it out and slid back in. Her eyes flashed open. Again? She shuddered with the torturous rip of her flesh.
“Forgive me,” he grunted. “’Twill be over soon, lass.”
Colin fisted the bedclothes and pushed harder. A cry caught in Margaret’s throat. A shot of pain burned as he slid deeper inside, stretching her beyond her limits. Colin’s mouth was next to her ear. His breathing sped. He slid out and in, over and over. The pain grated as if his manhood was shredding her insides.
Margaret struggled to move out from under him, but the more she stirred, the faster he thrust. A grunt caught in his throat. His entire body went rigid, then he roared and held himself deep within her. His manhood pulsated inside.
He’d planted his seed.
Gradually, Colin relaxed atop her and his breathing returned to normal. Margaret inadvertently moved her hips. His cock rubbed across her exposed flesh. Something inside demanded more. She rocked her hips just as he had done. Ah, yes, that did feel good, now he wasn’t filling her so tightly. A picture of his exposed manhood appeared in her mind. Alas, she understood.
But Colin withdrew from her and sat on his haunches. Before she could say a word, he pulled up his braies and covered himself. Margaret sat against the headboard and curled her legs under her shift. She tried to look him in the eye, but his gaze trailed to the bloody streak on the linens. Her virtue. Gone.
“We’ll be leaving on the morrow.”
Was that it? No kissing? No spending time in each other’s arms? Colin slipped into his shoes and walked to the door. Margaret was tongue-tied. He pushed into the hallway without so much as a goodnight.
Her blood rushed beneath her skin. Her husband had performed his duty and left. An empty chasm filled her chest. Overwhelmed with an urge to cleanse herself, Margaret threw her feet over the side of the bed and stood. She gaped at linens—her ugly virtue staining blood red for all to admire on the morrow.
As she walked to the basin, her womanhood ached—sore from being invaded by him. Heaven help her, how many times would she have to endure his stringent coupling?
She stripped off her shift and dipped a linen cloth into the water. She started with her face, smoothed it under her arms, across her breasts—everywhere his hands had been. Finally, with a shaking hand, she wiped the cloth between her legs. It stung. She wrung the linen in the basin, leaching her blood and his seed.
Black Colin was everything his name suggested—just like a spider. He tantalized his prey with an enticing display, but when they fell into his web, he showed no mercy. Chilled, Margaret ran a drying cloth over her moist skin and tugged her shift back over her head.
When she pulled the bedclothes to her chin, she closed her eyes to a positive thought. He’d be headed back to Rome soon.
7
Stirling Palace, 9th October, 1455
Margaret’s eyes snapped open after someone pulled the furs away from the window and blinded her with a ray of light. She wasn’t one to sleep past dawn, but trepidation over last night’s activities kept her awake into the wee hours.
Chambermaids filled the room.
A young lass placed a tray on the small table beside the hearth. “’Tis time to break your fast, m’lady.”
Margaret stretched. “I’d prefer to sleep a bit longer.”
An older woman shook out Margaret’s traveling gown. “You are to eat and attend him in the courtyard. Lord Glenorchy’s orders.”
Already ordering me about, is he? The heartless cur.
No sooner did Margaret rise than the linens were stripped from her bed and whisked out the door—for examination, no doubt. At least the queen will be pleased.
Margaret spooned stewed dates over her porridge and ate while the chambermaids bustled about. “I’m surprised Lord Glenorchy wants to depart so soon. He was up quite late.”
The lasses chuckled, as if they knew what he’d been up to. Of course they knew. Margaret’s cheeks burned. Her deflowering obviously provided a great deal of amusement for the queen’s chambermaids. Had she been at Dunalasdair Castle, she would have quashed their giggles with a sharp rebuttal. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the energy this morning. Refusing to allow her shoulders to slump, Margaret finished her porridge and took her time dressing.
Mother entered, smiling broadly. “And how is my wedded daughter this morn?”
Margaret held her bodice against her ribs while a maid tied the laces. “Good morning, Mother.” She chose to avoid the question.
With a furrowed brow, Mother studied her. “I take it all did not go smoothly last eve?”
“Not at all.” Margaret groaned. She did not want to have this conversation with anyone, let alone her mother.
Lady Struan grasped her hand. “Things will improve, I can attest to that.”
“He’s an ogre.”
Mother bit her bottom lip. “Give him a chance. He’ll come good. The first year’s always the most difficult.”
“Now you choose to tell me?”
A guard appeared at the door. “Is Lady Glenorchy ready? The lord awaits.”
The maid secured Margaret’s hair beneath a French hood. With her cloak over her shoulders, Margaret kissed her mother. “Pray for me.”
Eyes moist, Mother caressed her cheek. “Go with God. Everything will be fine. You shall see.”
The guard accompanied her to the courtyard, where Colin waited at the head of a well-armed contingent, two score of men, wearing red tunics with a white cross over their hauberks. In the center of the procession, men were securing a wagon laden with her trunks.
Lord Colin, clad in a coat of blackened armor with the visor raised over his helm, watched her descend the steps. He could have smiled, though he squinted against the sun and frowned, as if her tardiness had caused him undue inconvenience. Margaret watched him through downcast eyelids. Perched atop an impressive black warhorse, he certainly played the part of a black knight. In her mind there was absolutely no question as to who he was or what he stood for. Heartlessness.
The guard led her to a mare near the rear of the procession and helped her mount. Margaret thanked him and hooked her knee over the lower pommel of the sidesaddle. She smoothed her skirts and gathered her reins, cuing her horse to follow the procession at a trot. After last night’s ramming, the hard leather saddle was none too comfortable.
Margaret clenched her teeth against the pain and glanced behind her. Six guards took up the rear. They looked more like they were riding into battle than across the countryside. Yes, outlaws were everywhere, but who in their right mind would take on half Lord Glenorchy’s numbers—or could afford to? His entourage was a blatant display of wealth, for certain.
She grumbled under her breath. Flaunting one’s wealth could bring more danger than if they traveled with a dozen well-trained soldiers, as her father did.
When the sun moved higher in the sky, indicating late morning, a knight clad much the same as Colin circled back and rode in beside her. “How are you faring, m’lady?”
“Did Lord Glenorchy send you back here to inquire as to my health—sir…?”
The man smiled. Though dark hair peeked from beneath his helm, there was a resemblance between he and her scoundrel of a
husband. “Forgive me. I am Lord Colin Campbell of Argyll.”
Margaret gaped. “You mean there are two of you?”
He rolled his hand and bowed his head. “My uncle calls me Argyll to keep it simple.”
“Colin is your uncle? You look as if you could be brothers.”
He smiled easily—Colin’s smile, but friendlier. “That we do. He’s only five years my senior.”
This man was the same age as she. “I see.”
“Lord Glenorchy might seem a bit gruff at first…”
“I’ll say.”
Argyll chuckled. “But there’s no one better—no other man on this earth to whom I would trust my life. I was his squire until I reached my majority.”
“How unfortunate for you.” Margaret bit her lip. Had she just let her pent-up anger slip past her lips? She’d best hold her tongue, especially when speaking to a relative of her—that man.
“He’s had his share of strife. His first wife died of the sweat. She lost two bairns in childbirth. I suspect you know the rest.”
Margaret covered her mouth with her gloved hand. Colin’s lot had been difficult, to say the least, but that still did not assuage his boorishness toward her. She opted to change the subject. “How long will it take us to travel to Loch Awe?”
“Two nights and a bit. Uncle Colin plans to stop and check on the progress of his keep before we proceed on to Dunstaffnage.”
“Dunstaffnage? All the way to the coast? But I thought Lord Glenorchy’s major holdings were at Loch Awe.”
“They are, but baby Duncan resides at Dunstaffnage until the work on Kilchurn Castle is complete.” Argyll smoothed the reins through his fingers. “Has Colin not told you?”
Margaret shifted in her uncomfortable saddle. “I daresay he hasn’t mentioned much to me at all.” They were heading to Dunstaffnage? What could she expect at that archaic castle? Would she have a free rein to manage the keep’s affairs, or would Colin frown upon a woman with a mind for figures? He might very well opt to lock her in a tower with his colicky infant. The more she considered it, the more she convinced herself she’d be locked away. A man like her husband would not appreciate her unique talents.
The blackguard hadn’t come to collect her himself, hadn’t bothered to dismount and show her courtesy when she arrived in the courtyard, and now he rode at the front of his men as if she didn’t exist.
Colin’s arrogance surpassed all imagination. Riding at the head of the guard where he’d be the first attacked if they were ambushed? He’d be killed for certain—not that his death would affect her in any way.
Argyll rode in beside Colin as they approached the inn at Callander. Lord Glenorchy had made arrangements for his retinue ahead of time, but that did nothing to allay the churning in his gut.
Colin glared at his nephew. “Enjoy riding beside my wife all day, did you?”
“Och, are you jealous?” Argyll gathered his reins. “Someone needed to make the lady feel welcome.” He batted the air with his hand. “Bah. Leaving her alone at the rear of the guard like she’s your prisoner? Honestly, uncle, your new cloak of indifference does not become you.”
“I…”
Argyll clicked his spurs and galloped ahead.
Colin growled through his teeth. He probably should have said something to Margaret when they stopped for their nooning rather than practice sparring with his guard. But he always sparred to enliven his muscles during a long journey, and he vowed he would act no differently because the woman rode with them.
He didn’t care if Margaret held him in contempt. The hole in his heart still bled. How could any man recover from grief in a month? If only he could have borne Jonet’s pain and died in her place. Allowing his heart to harbor any feelings for Margaret was akin to betraying Jonet’s memory.
Colin slapped his reins against his steed’s shoulder and led the procession to the stables at the back of the inn.
He bit the inside of his cheek. He detested his behavior last eve. Though Margaret had lain on the bed and submitted to his advances, it still didn’t feel right. Taking a virgin wife like she was a village whore? He would kill any man for committing such an offense. His self-loathing escalated to new heights, first because of Jonet’s death, and now because he couldn’t find it in his heart to give Margaret due respect—tenderness, even.
Though he had a responsibility to procreate, he could not visit her bed again. He vowed he’d not again tread on her honor. She was a highborn lady and he would protect her as member of his house. She would raise his son, and for that Colin must be grateful.
After dismounting, he strode straight to Margaret’s mare. She’d already slipped her leg off the upper pommel of her sidesaddle and braced for a side dismount. Doubtless she had performed the maneuver on her own several times, but no wife of his would be left to dismount unassisted.
Colin reached up and clamped his hands on her waist. “Allow me.” Her midriff was pliable and warm to the touch. On their own volition, his fingers kneaded her flesh, a faint recollection sparked. Their coupling last eve hadn’t been entirely unpleasant.
White lines formed around her pursed lips. “I am quite capable.”
Ignoring her, he lifted. She was so light—far more petite than Jonet had been. He nearly lost her over his shoulder. With a grunt, he steadied himself and recovered, lightly placing Margaret on her feet.
“Thank you, my lord,” she clipped. The sarcasm in her voice did not go unnoticed. She despised him for certain.
“I apologize if I was a wee bit heavy-handed.” Colin didn’t release his grip right away, befuddled that encircling her tiny waist, his fingertips touched. Beneath the folds of her gown, and most likely due to his own pigheadedness, last eve he hadn’t realized how small Margaret actually was. He could have broken the lass, climbing on top of her and having his way. Colin’s gut roiled. He deserved her cool indifference.
Margaret cleared her throat and eyed him with not a glimmer of amusement. In fact, she looked rather angry. “I can manage from here.”
He snapped his hands away. What in God’s name was he doing standing there like a dim-witted pup? Mayhap it was best for her to be upset with him—at least for now. He cleared his throat. “I’ve arranged for you to have your own room this eve.”
“How fortunate. Please have my meal sent up. I should prefer to eat alone.” With that, she turned on her heel. Chin held high, she strode into the inn.
Colin watched her. That blasted scent of sugared lavender trailing in her wake nearly made his knees weaken—nearly, though he stood firm. This match was going to be far more difficult than he’d imagined, especially if she kept challenging him with those green eyes. Christ almighty, they pierced through him as if she could see through to his soul.
Margaret sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and worked on embroidering a skullcap for baby Duncan while the merriment below stairs rumbled up through the floorboards. Mother had suggested starting the ornate bonnet shortly after the king’s missive announcing her marriage had been received. Embroidery was a dreary way to pass the time, though Margaret enjoyed seeing the end results of her work.
This task, however, seemed more a chore of duty rather than a labor of love. She shifted in the chair, her bottom unholy sore from performing her wifely obligation and then riding all day. She prayed Colin would leave her alone and allow her some time to heal before he came to her again. Margaret shuddered as the voices rose with muffled laughter. She hoped he’d fall into his cups this night and never wake.
Tying off a stitch, she released a heavy sigh.
In all honesty, she would prefer to be down in the inn with the men listening to their merriment and music. Though she wouldn’t dance with Colin. Making a French knot, Margaret paused and gazed into the log fire. Her husband said he didn’t care to dance. Were her days of carefree dancing over? Her heart sank. Dancing was the exercise she enjoyed above everything else. Would he take that away from her?
Margaret’s mind dri
fted to the day’s events. She’d be a mite more comfortable with her lot if Colin had been open and discussed their destination before setting out. She hated being treated like chattel. He seemed not to care for her in the slightest, at least until they’d arrived at the inn.
Heaven’s stars, she’d nearly died when Colin marched up to her by the stables. She’d already braced herself for a dismount. Her husband had ignored her the entire day—why would she expect him to attend her once they arrived at the inn? She practically jumped out of her skin when he wrapped his big hands around her waist. He lifted her with such force that at first she thought the brute would throw her over his shoulder. But he placed her on her feet as if she were as fragile as a dove.
Then her heart had fluttered, as if she actually thought the man handsome. Well, of course she’d already determined he was pleasing to the eye before they’d been properly introduced. But nothing about Colin Campbell fit the list of attributes she desired in a husband…the first being love, followed by respect, a good sense of humor, and most especially, a fine appreciation for dancing.
Blast him and blast his brutish ways. She wrung her hands. In no way would she allow him to take away everything she in which she found delight.
Merciful madness, before she’d met Colin, she’d enjoyed watching men spar. But when they stopped for their nooning, he’d blatantly tried to impress her by fighting two at once—whilst stealing glances her way. His arrogance defies all reason.
A light tap resounded at the door. Margaret bristled and said nothing. The matron had already brought her tray, winking and carrying on as if Margaret was a happy bride.
The door cracked open. “Lady Margaret? Is everything all right?”
Must his voice be so deep? Colin’s sound rumbled within her and she clapped her hand to her chest to quell it. “Y-yes. All is fine.”
Without her invitation, Colin stepped inside and closed the door, wearing his arming doublet and thick woolen chausses.