by Amy Jarecki
He groaned. His thoughts served only to delay his obligation.
His squire had long since left. Wearing a linen shirt and woolen hose, he paced. Though he’d never admit it to a soul, the roiling in his gut was nerves. The one thing he must lawfully do was consummate this marriage. Until he performed his duty, Margaret would have every right to attest their vows had not been satisfactorily carried out. No doubt the queen’s women would examine the linens in the morning. If he did not perform his duty this night, he would bring scrutiny upon his house, and in no way would he allow such a social misstep.
It must be done.
Jonet, forgive me. You must know I’m doing this for our son. One day we shall meet again and I’ll rest beside you through eternity.
Colin had only fathered two sons in eight total years of marriage. One had survived. Yes, Duncan was a healthy bairn showing promise for a long life, but it was Colin’s duty to ensure there was issue upon his death. If, God forbid, Duncan did not survive him, there must be another child ready to step into the barony. The survival of the Glenorchy line depended on it.
He pushed out his chamber. He would perform the necessary deed and return to his rooms. Easy enough. Wedded twice before, he was more experienced than most men on their wedding night. She’d be nervous—he’d put her at ease and then carry out his duty quickly.
Somehow he arrived at Margaret’s door much faster than he’d anticipated. He clenched his stomach muscles and knocked.
“Lord Colin?” Her voice resounded through the door. The soft Highland lilt caressed his skin, sending a wave of gooseflesh up his arms. Colin frowned. Bed her and take your leave.
He creaked open the door. Margaret lay on the bed, a single candle illuminating waves of brunette locks, her face glowing, pure. A cannonball sank to the pit of Colin’s stomach. Six years ago Jonet awaited him, nervous as a finch, eyes round. Except Jonet had greeted him with a smile rather than lips pursed into a bow. But circumstances had been different then.
Margaret pulled the bedclothes tighter under her chin. “M…my lord. I thought you mightn’t come.”
He stepped inside and closed the door. Her chamber unfamiliar, a peat fire glowed in the hearth. He grasped the latch and squeezed. No. Colin was a warrior, damnation. A warrior never turned his back on his responsibilities.
He clenched his fists and strode toward the bed. “We’ve a task to perform.” His voice was gruffer than he’d intended.
“A task?” Her knuckles turned white. “I-is that what you call it?”
Determined, he grasped the hem of his shirt.
She held the bedclothes firm. “M’lord,” she squeaked, skittish as a willow warbler’s call. “Would it be too much to ask if we could chat for a bit? Mayhap it will calm these…my awful jitters.”
Colin released his hands and looked at her face. Her eyes pleaded. He’d seen that look many times on the battlefield—the complete, unadulterated terror of a young novice. He sat on the edge of her bed and combed his fingers through his hair. I am not a beast. “Very well.”
Her fingers relaxed their grip, and she sat up. “The king mentioned you’re returning to Rome?”
Colin kept his head turned away, though he could see her out the corner of his eye. “I didn’t want to burden you, but aye. I have been summoned by the Grand Master of the Order of St. John.”
“I see.” She smoothed a hand across the comforter. “And when will you set sail?”
“Soon. There are things which need my attention first.”
“Such as?”
“You ask a great many questions.”
“Apologies—’tis just there’s so much I do not know about you.”
Her gaze bored into his back with the force of a stonemason’s chisel, yet he could not turn and face her. Too fresh, Jonet’s death still blackened his heart—this first night all too familiar. If only he could have waited…
“When will I meet Duncan?”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “He’s with his nursemaid—the same woman who nursed me as a bairn.”
Margaret audibly sighed. “’Tis good he is well cared for.”
“Aye. He’s a strong lad with powerful lungs.”
“I’m sure he’s the image of his father.”
He was the image of Jonet—at least in coloring. Colin again clenched his fists. He needed to his chore over with.
Clearing his throat, he faced her. God, he could lose himself in those green eyes. He might indulge her allure during sex—it did make it easier for him to perform his duty without using his hand to coax an erection. He leaned forward and placed his lips on her forehead. Sugared lavender. Her scent alone made his cock lengthen. Thank God. He would have been mortified if his manhood hadn’t come to perform.
If only Margaret weren’t a virgin, what he was about to do might be pleasant for her…the king should have found him a widow, blast it all.
He lowered his lips to her ear. “The queen’s ladies will be here in the morning to attest consummation of our marriage.”
She slipped lower beneath the bedclothes. “A-aye, my mother said as much.”
So she knew something about what was to come. Good. He could do this quickly and be gone.
***
Margaret relaxed a little, lulled by the deep tenor of his voice more than his words. Still, her heart pounded in her chest. If it wouldn’t have been incredibly improper, she would have pulled the bedclothes over her head and asked him to leave. The mere thought of allowing a near stranger to touch her intimately chilled her to the core. Thank heavens he’d agreed to chat for a bit.
While they spoke, Colin kept his face averted. What did he have to be nervous about? He’d been married before. And when he turned to face her, she’d caught a glimpse of that same spark from the fair—the one that had spun her insides upside down. Then he covered it with a guarded frown, similar to the one he’d worn during the feast, as if he wanted to keep distance between them.
Next, he touched his lips to her forehead. Margaret grew more confused than ever. The gesture didn’t seem impassioned. A wee groan escaped his throat and sent her insides aflutter, but he hadn’t kissed her like a husband kisses a wife.
He reached for the bedclothes and dragged them from her grasp. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
She swallowed. Her heart pummeled her chest.
He slipped off his pointed leather shoes and crawled into the bed beside her. Without a word, he nuzzled into her neck and placed a heavy hand on her abdomen. Never in her life had a man touched her so. Margaret’s breathing stuttered.
Slowly, he slid his palm up and covered her breast. His hand, weighty yet gentle, kneaded her tingling flesh. Margaret closed her eyes and tried to imagine dancing—anything but his fingers plying her flesh. She stiffened and gritted her teeth.
“Ye smell good enough to eat.” His voice turned buttery along with his Highland lilt.
She glanced at his face. Colin’s eyes were closed, his lips parted. A hard column of flesh jutted into her hip. He slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her close as he rubbed himself against her. A deep moan rumbled in his chest. Margaret watched him as if she were outside her body.
He’d yet to kiss her on the lips. In all of her imaginings, the first step to lovemaking was a mouth-to-mouth kiss. She’d seen couples—even her parents—share a tender kiss, but Colin seemed to be growing impassioned without the need for her to do anything at all.
He skimmed his hand down the length of her body and stopped just below her belly button. Margaret couldn’t breathe. Colin grasped her shift and began to tug it up.
Ice shot through her veins. She bolted upright. “Wha…what are you doing?”
Colin’s eyes opened. He rose up on his elbow. “Are you afraid, lass?”
“No…yes. Aren’t you supposed to kiss me first?”
He moved his hand to her stomach. “Aye, but I did kiss you.”
“On the lips?”
A muscle in Co
lin’s jaw twitched with his deep inhale. “Very well.” He lowered his gaze to her lips and inched toward her.
Margaret planted her hands on the mattress and shoved her back against the headboard, turning her chin aside. Kiss me now? This is more like being examined by a rheumy-eyed physician.
Colin stopped, his gaze dark. “Changed your mind, did you?” He grabbed her shift and yanked it up. Before she could twist away, he pushed his knees between her legs. “Since neither one of us is feeling amorous this night, I’ll make this fast.”
Margaret squirmed, but he pinned her with his body. He ran kisses along her neck. “I’m kissing you Margaret. Is this what you want?”
She whimpered against her tingling flesh. His thick column pressed between her legs, sending her world into a maelstrom of fire as he rocked himself. “Feel my cock against your womanhood. A man gets hard when he’s ready to breed with a woman.”
Cock? She’d never heard that word before, but there was no question what it was. It sounded exciting, yet terrifying at the same time. A tight heat spread deep inside. Margaret clutched his shoulders and closed her eyes. His arms were huge—his muscles bulged as he held himself above her, pinning her in place, but not crushing her.
“’Tis my duty to sew my seed in your womb.”
Her breath stuttered. She couldn’t talk. He was so much more powerful than she. A fluttering heat spread through her sacred place. She wanted him, but didn’t. She wanted something more—more kisses, more caresses, something to make her feel comforted or cherished.
His hips insistently rocked, rubbing the thick column against her mons. She closed her eyes and tried to match his shockingly wanton motion.
“There, lass, give in to it.” His voice softened, ever so intimate.
He slid his hand between her legs. Rough fingers brushed across her, bringing a spasm of tight heat she never knew she could experience without being burned. A rough pad touched an incredibly sensitive spot, turning her insides molten. Margaret gasped.
“Aye, lass.” He slid his finger down further and slipped inside.
Margaret couldn’t move. She stared at his face in awe. In one moment, he made her feel more passion than she’d ever dreamed possible. Oh yes, the swirling of his finger inside her sent shivers coursing through her entire body. In and out, he stroked her slowly.
“Ye are tight, lass, but wet.” His smooth voice cooed as if plucking the bass strings of a harp.
Her lips parted with her stuttered inhale.
Slick with her moisture, Colin’s finger again moved to the sensitive spot he’d first touched. Lord, yes. She tilted her hips, craving more, her body aching for him to rub faster.
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.
Chapter Seven
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 stu
died 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.
