by Amy Jarecki
Jumping down, he offered his hand. Her slender fingers met his rough pads. Her hands were fine-boned and soft—even smaller than…
Damnation.
Once on the ground, Margaret raised her chin and headed back to the campfire, leaving him standing there, cursing under his breath like a tinker. He shook his head. Bloody hell, he had enough to worry about.
Before he resumed his seat beside Argyll, Margaret strummed a chord. The conversation stopped. She looked up and surveyed the expectant faces with a polite smile. Then her fingers struck the strings. A rich, airy tune danced upon the breeze, as if a butterfly were flitting round the circle.
Every eye focused upon her, every mouth open. Sitting, Colin watched her, transfixed. He’d never even heard a minstrel play with such precision or clarity. His heart leapt with every strum, and then her eyes met his across the flame. Her face appeared enchanted, as if he were dreaming. His feet itched with the urge to stand, walk around the fire and claim her.
For an instant, she lowered her lids. Colin gasped. Then her voice sailed to him with the breeze. Clear as a crystal bell, her tune caressed his skin and made gooseflesh stand proud. He never wanted the song to end. She raised her lids and met his eyes again. Endless emotion filled those eyes, and he wondered what life experiences a sheltered lord’s daughter could have endured to make them so expressive. She glanced aside, and suddenly he knew.
He’d violated her.
Bile burned the back of Colin’s throat. He had performed his duty as a husband. But the excuse didn’t matter. What he’d done was wrong. Colin stared at the ground before him. He couldn’t look at her now, not when she thought so little of him.
But why should I care what Margaret thinks? God help me, I need this journey to be over.
With a final strum, the music hung in the air for a moment, until silence spread across the clearing like a black-robed villain. Argyll led the applause. All the men chimed in, laughing, clapping—a couple even wiped their eyes.
With lead in his gut, Colin forced himself to glance up. Margaret had turned her attention to Maxwell, who showered her with unabashed praise.
God help him. Colin had not married a stepmother for Duncan. He’d married a woman—a stranger, layered with a great many talents he’d yet to uncover. Part of him would rather leave them hidden—yet his gut squeezed with an unwelcome yearning to discover them all.
He should not have wed so soon after Jonet’s death.
“The venison’s ready,” called the man by the spit.
Thank the good Lord for food. Colin had probably lost his wits due to hunger.
9
The Highlands, 10th October, 1455
After Lady Margaret excused herself for the night, Argyll leaned toward Colin’s ear. “You’re not going to allow your wife to sleep alone?”
Colin shrugged. “She’ll be fine in the wagon.”
“Will she?” Argyll elbowed him. “Have you noticed the way the men have been looking at her?”
Of course he’d noticed—could have planted his fist in every single face. Nonetheless, he trusted his men. “Mind your tongue.”
“You’re a fool when it comes to women.”
“Wheesht. Put a stopper in your gob.” Colin stood. He’d best set the wagon to rights and ensure Margaret had the privacy she needed to—well, to take care of her female needs.
She emerged from behind a bush, smoothing out her skirts. “M’lord?”
Colin hopped back into the wagon. “I’ll rearrange these things again.” He spied her instrument resting on the floorboards. “Shall I place your lute back in your trunk?”
“Please.”
He shoved things into order, doubled his plaid over and laid it down. He then affixed the oiled deerskin over the top like he’d done before. “It’s nay a four-poster bed, but should be comfortable enough for the night.”
“I’m sure it shall be fine.” She removed his cloak from her shoulders. “Thank you for lending this to me. I’m dry now.”
He hopped down and grasped it. Margaret rubbed her outer arms.
Away from the fire, it was bloody cold—even felt like they might see an unseasonal snow. “Have you anything warmer?”
She pulled her woolen mantle around her body. “This one serves me well.”
Colin growled and looked toward the heavens. Thick clouds loomed overhead. He’d lost his mind, going against his better judgment. “Come, climb into the wagon. I’ll keep you warm.”
“’Tis very kind, but I assure you it is unnecessary.”
He grasped her waist and plunked her arse onto the wagon. “I’ll not hear another word about it.” He flicked his wrist. “Climb under the tarpaulin and lie on your side.”
She stared. “But—”
“Do it, I say. I’ll not touch you—you have my word.”
Her lips formed a line and she gave him a single nod before she crawled under his makeshift shelter. In her wake, she left behind a fragrance that made his head swim. Colin reached inside the leather purse at his hip and pulled out a flask. Mayhap he needed one more tot of whisky before he climbed beside the lady and kept himself celibate for the night—especially when she smelled so bloody intoxicating.
He pulled the stopper off with his teeth and tossed back a healthy swig. The liquid warmed him as it slid down his gullet. He coughed. “Are you set, Lady Margaret?”
“Aye.” There was a tremor in her voice.
The whisky did nothing to allay the guilt clamping his gut. He climbed into the wagon. Damn it, he owed an apology to no one. Everything would be back to normal as soon as they reached Dunstaffnage. He could manage anything for a couple of days, especially a woman.
He pulled himself alongside her, trying not to touch his body to hers. He preferred to lie on his back, but his shoulders were too wide. He rolled to his side, mirroring her. There was nowhere for his arm to rest—he tried to slip it between them, but shoved Margaret in the back. “Sorry.”
“’Tis all right.”
Och, must she sound so bonny?
He huffed and peered over her shoulder. “I’ll have to drape my arm across you.”
“Must you?”
“’Tis just an arm, lass.”
Gingerly, he slid it over her waist and let out a breath. She did too.
Colin tried to keep his nose away from her hair, but gave up, resigning himself to an eve surrounded by her scent. He’d likely be awake all night thinking of brutal battles—anything to keep his cock from jutting into her buttocks. He closed his eyes and pictured Jonet—lovely raven hair, pale blue eyes—nothing like Margaret, with her green eyes and voice that could lull a man into bonded servitude.
Margaret’s breathing took on the slow cadence of sleep. She seemed so tiny, frail beneath his arm.
Something in his chest tightened, made his mind go completely blank. He tried to remember his lost love, but when he closed his lids, green eyes stared back.
Margaret opened her eyes and resisted the urge to bolt upright. Colin’s heavy arm tugged her tighter to his body. His deep bass voice moaned, sending a rumble through her chest. He shifted his hips against her.
Heaven’s stars—rigid as the hilt of a sword, his maleness ground between her buttocks. A spike of heat shot amid her hips. Her unwanted reaction galled her to no end. Margaret clamped her thighs together to stanch it. My traitorous urges must cease.
Holding still as a statue, she lifted her head high enough to peer out the bottom of the wagon. Predawn, a violet hue shrouded the forest. Was that snow beyond her feet? Beneath the tarpaulin and Colin’s fur-lined cloak, she was warm, especially her backside. Colin’s body emitted more heat than a hearth. At least the Black Knight is good for something.
A bird called. Not long and the camp would stir to life. Margaret inhaled a shallow breath and dared not move, lest he wake and try that again. God forbid, how could anyone do something so indecent with the men nearby? Even though Colin vowed he would not, she didn’t trust him. M
argaret would slip out of the wagon this minute, if it weren’t for his arm clutching her flush against his incredibly warm body. Her every muscle rigid, she prayed he would wake and release his torturous grasp.
Violet turned to cobalt. More birds. Footsteps broke twigs alongside the wagon. Water splashed the ground with a hiss. Someone grunted. More footsteps. “Good morrow, Maxwell—turning the snow yellow, I see.”
“Bloody oath, nearly froze me cods off. This weather is preposterous.” The young man didn’t sound quite as polite as he had last eve.
Colin sputtered. He sat up so quickly, he tore the tarpaulin from its ties. Margaret gagged on a mouthful of snow. Coughing, she brushed the icy fluff away. In an instant, she’d gone from toasty warm to completely freezing, snow biting into her cheeks.
Colin scrubbed his hands over his face then glared at her as if she’d tried to accost him.
“Good morrow?” Margaret leaned away.
He slapped his chest and coughed. “Good morrow. You should have awakened me sooner.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, drew her feet beneath her and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend my needs.”
“Wait a moment.” Colin shook like a dog. “I shall stand guard.”
She balled her fists, trying to conjure a suitable retort. Was it necessary for him to hover?
He cast his gaze to the sky. “Not to worry. I’ll turn my back.”
Margaret glanced around at the men bustling about, coming from the forest, adjusting…themselves. Having Colin stand guard was her best option.
True to his word, he kept his back turned to her. She made quick work of her business and slipped passed him. “Thank you.”
Colin grunted and stepped behind a clump of broom himself. “Maxwell, load the wagon,” he bellowed from the trees. After, he proceeded to traipse around the around the campsite like an ogre. “Quickly, men, gulp down your oatcakes. We’ll be in Glen Orchy before nightfall…fresh straw and a warm stable will be better than this miserable, wet white stuff.”
Margaret had to agree with him there. Most of the men only had a single woolen plaid draped over their shoulders for the night. They all must have been as miserable as wet puppies.
Colin gave her a leg up, and she inched her bum into the saddle. Her soreness had eased. “May I ride beside you and Argyll, m’lord?”
He gave her a slap on the knee. “Nay. You’re safer behind the wagon. We’ve got to pass through the trail at Loch na Bi. ’Tis the most notorious place for outlaws.”
She took up her reins. “Then I suggest you ride where you’ll not place yourself in harm’s way.”
He chuckled and leaned toward her. “Now what kind of knight would I be if I cowered behind my men?” His dark eyes teased her, and Margaret’s miserable heart fluttered against her chest. He could irritate her with his arrogance, truly.
The crossing through the forest at Loch na Bi was uneventful, aside from the narrow, muddy trail bogging the wagon. The men had to help push and drive the oxen, using long branches to hoist up the wheels. Perhaps Colin had conjured his story about the area being fraught with outlaws just to keep her away from him. Likely. This entire trip had done nothing to allay her trepidation about the Black Knight. Though he may have shown her a thread of courtesy now and again, ignoring and keeping her behind the wagon demonstrated a complete lack of regard.
Once back in formation, she’d had enough. If she didn’t assert her position as Lady Glenorchy now, Colin would most likely lock her in a wing of Dunstaffnage with his miserable son and forget she ever existed.
She picked up her reins and leaned forward. With a tap of her heel and riding crop, she gave her mare the cue to canter. At least her horse had some spirit—snorting through huge nostrils, easily overtaking the procession. Margaret slowed beside Argyll’s right. Colin, thank heavens, was on his nephew’s left.
He craned his armored neck toward her. “Margaret, ’tis not safe for you to ride at the front of the march.”
“Nor is it for you, m’lord, but you do it regardless.” She could have stuck her tongue out and made an ugly face, though she didn’t dare.
He returned his gaze to the path ahead. “Argyll, take Lady Glenorchy back to the rear.”
Margaret sidestepped her mare outside Argyll’s reach. “I will not ride alone, and I will not be tucked away behind a rickety old wagon that blocks the scenery.”
“Honestly, uncle,” Argyll said. “We’re nearly there.”
Margaret flashed the younger man a “thank you” smile.
Choosing to see Colin’s lack of response as acceptance, she lowered her reins and relaxed her seat. The rush of water filled her ears. “What river is this?”
Argyll looked to Colin, but when her husband didn’t respond, he shrugged. “The River Orchy—I’ve caught many a fish in her rapids.”
“Sounds like fun sport.” Margaret stole an anxious glance at the Black Knight. “I’m looking forward to seeing the progress on Kilchurn.”
Colin pulled his steed ahead. “Aye, and it had better be substantial,” he groused. His stallion broke into a full-out gallop.
Defeated yet again, Margaret arched a brow toward Argyll. “He appears decidedly grouchy this day.”
“Vandals have been preventing the building from making headway. Colin increased the guard right before he left for Stirling.”
“Does he have any idea who the culprits are?” Vandals? ’Tis a wonder he’s afraid to have me supervise the building effort.
“The master mason thinks it’s the MacGregors.”
Margaret patted her mare’s sorrel neck. Could she help? “What do you think?”
“Colin needs to dig to the bottom of the problem before he starts storming around like a mad bull. The MacGregors of Glen Orchy pledged fealty to him.”
“Hmm. Not something any self-respecting Highlander would take lightly.”
Argyll eyed her. “Exactly.”
“Does Colin feel the same?”
“Colin keeps his feelings to himself, though he’s as familiar with the Highland code of honor as any man.” Argyll turned to her, his face stern. “His reputation was well earned. There’s no man more skilled on the battlefield than your husband. He took Jonet’s death rather hard. Her body hadn’t even been laid to rest when he received the missive from Rome requesting another term in the Crusades.”
Margaret watched Colin’s form grow smaller in the distance. Argyll could help answer some of her questions. Colin did indeed have grave issues that needed his attention before he set sail. “Do you think it wise for him to leave for the Holy Land straight away? Surely the grand master will understand he must put his house in order.”
“Aye, but Colin believes it’s his duty to save the world.”
Margaret flicked her reins. “What of saving his family?”
Argyll bowed his head. “That, m’lady, is something you must take up with him.”
When the River Orchy opened to an estuary, Margaret gasped. Ahead, the mist hovered over the loch, just as she’d often seen on Loch Rannoch, but the scene was even more magnificent than her home. To the west, majestic mountains loomed, shrouded in mist. Ahead, a verdant pasture with shaggy red cattle stretched along a tract of land that extended at least a mile, splitting the deep blue water.
Near the far end, men pushed barrows and chiseled stone. The immense curtain wall appeared so new, it could have been built yesterday. It bore not a trace of moss or ivy. Above it, Margaret imagined a great tower house with rounded turrets at each corner. From that vantage point, she’d be able to see the entire length of the loch and watch the mist rise. Kilchurn had the potential to be one of the greatest architectural works in Scotland. She could picture it.
Margaret might be wed to an archangel of war, but she could lose herself in this place. A castle of grandeur and great possibilities, she would preside as lady of the keep with pride, and Colin Campbell would not deny her—especially if he was in Rome.
Ahe
ad, Colin sat on his steed deep in thought. Argyll and Margaret rode in beside him. “I’ll never grow tired of beholding the view when the trees part,” Colin said, as if speaking to himself.
Margaret sighed. “’Tis magnificent. Every bit as stunning as Stirling Palace.”
Colin inclined his head to the west. “We’ll stay the night in the cottage. Wait here whilst I speak to the master mason.”
Margaret followed his gaze. A stone cottage with a large stable sat in the center of a fenced yard. Behind it, several more cottages speckled up the hillside. A wave of color caught her eye. A group of women held up their skirts, stomping on their washing along the river edge.
Margaret watched Colin ride away with Argyll. My heavens, how long am I expected to sit here? She dismounted and handed her reins to Maxwell. “I’ll be visiting with the ladies.”
He blinked twice, looking like a pompous toad. “The crofter’s wives?”
“And why ever not?”
Maxwell’s shoulder ticked up. “It just doesn’t seem proper, m’lady.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hogwash.”
Margaret strolled over to the five women and waved. “Hello.”
All but one ignored her—the others exchanging glances between themselves. The one had thick legs and a round face. She didn’t smile, rather gave Margaret a guarded once-over. “Ye come to help us?”
“Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard today.” She sat upon a boulder and removed her shoes and hose. “How is the water?”
“Bloody cold.” Round Face had a gruff voice.
Margaret smiled—at least someone responded to her query, the first step in making new friends. “We had a sprinkling of snow on the trail last night.”
Another looked up. “Where did ye come from?”
“My husband and I are traveling from Stirling, but I hail from Loch Rannoch.”