by Amy Jarecki
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 drifted 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.
“No coat of arms?” She bit her lip. Would he punish her for such a remark?
His brows drew together. “There’s little chance of attack here. I frequent this inn often on trips to court.” Thankfully treating her jibe as an innocent question, he watched her out of the corner of his eye while he took a seat on the opposite side of the hearth and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles.
She stared at him for a moment—a man reclining in her chamber—a complete stranger, in all honesty. Black Colin, enforcer of the laws of Christendom. Her husband. Margaret lowered her eyes and whipped a few stitches, willing her hands to steady.
Very aware of the bed sitting across the room, she tried to think of anything she could say to prevent him from coaxing her there. “Why must you return to Rome?”
He didn’t answer straight away, creating an uncomfortable pause that made Margaret’s brow perspire. “The grand master sent me a dire request. I received it on the eve of Jon…er…Duncan’s birth.” His gaze darted to the fire, pained like he’d been stabbed in the arm with a dagger.
The same night his wife passed. Margaret contemplated his profile—bold, angular, deadly, yet sad. He must have loved her very much. “Have you any idea when you shall take your leave?”
He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I must first ensure the building of my keep is set to rights and see you settled at Dunstaffnage with Duncan.”
“Dunstaffnage—the king’s lands? Why not Glenorchy lands?”
“The tower house is not yet finished. My family has governed Dunstaffnage since the time of Bruce.”
“But building the castle needs supervision, does it not? I am quite able—”
“A building site is no place for a lady and a bairn. I spent a great deal of time at Dunstaffnage as a lad. It is well fortified and far away from clan feuds and the threat of outlaws. You will be safe there.”
“Kilchurn is unsafe?” Circumstances grow worse by the moment.
He adjusted in his seat. “’Tis not yet fortified as Dunstaffnage is…and there is some unrest with the crofters which I need to address. But mark me, it will be every bit as impenetrable as Dunstaffnage by the time it’s ready for you and Duncan to reside there.”
So he did intend to put her in a tower and forget about her while he sailed for Rome. Margaret heeded her mother’s words and chose to tread lightly. “You are aware I managed a great many affairs for my father.”
“I’m sure you did quite well at it, too.” He leaned forward. “From the safe confines of your father’s keep.”
“But—”
“I’ll not discuss it. Your duty is the care of our son, and I’ll see to it you both are protected within well-fortified walls.”
Margaret pursed her lips. Aye, she’d lived in a castle, but she’d worked hard to earn the respect of her father’s men, as well as the crofters who paid rent to till his lands. She could be a help to Colin if he was to leave the country for an undetermined period of time. She surveyed his presumptuous stature from head to toe. The Lord of Glenorchy didn’t appear a man who’d bend to a lady’s word. She must prove herself. She prayed an opportunity would present itself soon.
He stood and stretched. The heady scent of pure male washed over her. His arms alone bulged with muscles she’d never dreamed existed in a man. Margaret’s heart hammered in her chest. She glanced back at the bed. Her palms perspired so, the needle dropped to the floor.
His gaze met hers for an instant—the deadly one that turned her blood to ice. Margaret could scarcely breathe. If he tried to lay a hand on her, she’d tell him how much the saddle had hurt all day because of the previous night’s boorishness. He stepped toward her. Reflexively she clutched her fists under her chin.
He frowned, his brown eyes turning black. “You should sleep,” he said gruffly. “We leave at first light.”
Margaret watched him walk toward the door—broad shoulders, tapering to firm hips, supported by legs as solid as oak. At the fete I wondered how I would look upon such a magnificent masculine form with disinterested eyes. Now I know.
Once he left, she hurried across the floor and turned the lock. Thank heavens he hadn’t mounted another attack.
Chapter Eight
The Highlands, 10th October, 1455
The next day, the retinue continued on, slogging through miserable wind and spitting rain. Before dark, Colin led the procession into a clearing surrounded by tall birch and evergreens. Fortunately, the rain had stopped, though the ground was soggy. Colin dismounted and strode toward Margaret’s place behind the wagon, his black cloak slung across his armored shoulder. “Build a fire, men—if you can find anything dry enough to burn.”
He sent out a hunting party and had the campsite bustling with activity before he reached Margaret’s mare. “Apologies for the weather, m’lady.” He grasped her waist, lowering her to the ground like she weighed nothing.
She tried to laugh, but it came out like a snort. “As if you could do anything about the rain.” She was still angry with him.
He inclined his head toward the wagon. “I shall mak
e you a dry bed for the night. I’ll not see you lying in the muck with the men.”
Shivering, Margaret studied the muddy ground, strewn with thick patches of moss. She wished they all could sleep in the wagon. The ground would be comfortable for no man. “Thank you.”
In his heavy armor, Colin easily leapt into the back of the wagon and started moving things to the sides and stacking her trunks in the nose, creating a gap in the center. “I’ll lay down a plaid for you after supper.” He held up his finger, his eyes popping wide as if he’d had an idea. “I’ve just the thing to ensure you stay dry.”
Margaret wrung her hands. “There’s no need to go to any trouble.”
“For a woman?” He marched to his horse and untied his saddlebag. “There’s nothing but trouble.”
Her hands dropped. Things between them might be a wee bit easier if he liked her. But no, he considered her a burden—one more yoke to add to his list of responsibilities.
Colin turned and flashed a sheepish smile. “I see I’ve failed at my attempt at making a joke.”
She crossed her arms. “I must admit, I’ve some difficulty understanding your humor.”
He unfolded an oblong piece of oiled leather. “I purchased this doeskin at the Stirling fete for a pair of shoes. I’ll secure it over the wagon so you’ll stay dry if the rain should start up again.”
“How kind.”
Colin used his dagger to make holes in the corners of the hide. “I’m not a complete ogre.”
“Oh no?”
Margaret thought he’d be angry at her terse remark, but he glanced up with hurt in his eyes—a look that tied her stomach in knots. She busied herself looking for dry kindling. Why on earth would he not want her to think him an ogre? He’d behaved as one. Was he trying to make it up to her by fashioning a bed in the back of a rickety old wagon? He’d need to come up with something a fair bit more chivalrous than that.
Margaret kneeled, reached under a thick conifer and found dry twigs. She deposited them in the center of the site and took on the task of stacking stones in a circle for the fire. Chilled to the bone, she imagined they all needed warmth.
