Knight in Highland Armor

by Amy Jarecki

  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. Margaret 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 mounta
ins 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.

  Ahead, 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.”

  “Your husband? And who might that be?” Round Face asked.

  All five women stopped and looked at her.

  Margaret glanced over her shoulder and then gave them her most devious grin, waggling her eyebrows. “King James matched me with Black Colin.” She hiked up her skirts and waded into the ice-cold rushing water, made louder by absolutely silent voices.

  Then they all spoke at once.

  “How dreadful.”

  “Ye ken he just lost his wife…”

  “…and he has a wee bairn.”

  “And he intends to return to Rome for another crusade.”

  Margaret grabbed a plaid from a basket perched upon the rocks and doused it in the water. “Aye, and yet my parents insisted it was a good match.” She sighed loudly. “After all, who can go against the king’s orders? It was my duty to marry him.”

  The women exchanged oohs and ahs.

  “You must be very brave indeed.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Indeed.”

  Margaret stomped the plaid, making a show of her washing skills—she’d learned them from her nursemaid. Washing clothes with her skirts wrapped up around her knees had been great sport for a child of nine. “Aye, he’s a fearsome lord.”

  “Is he?” They all gaped at her with interested, wide eyes.

  Margaret nodded, knitting her brows with affected concern. “He’s worried about building the keep. Said there have been reports of vandals.”

  “Aye.” The round-faced woman put a fist on her hip. Stout, she looked like she could flatten a Highland wrestler with a solid punch. “And Master Elliot is blaming it on our men.”

  “Oh?” Margaret stopped stomping. “’Tis a disgrace. Why do you think he’s doing that?”

  One lassie turned her back. “He’s a lazy bastard,” she mumbled so quietly, Margaret had no doubt the words weren’t meant for her ears.

  She tried not to gape at the young woman’s vulgar tongue. “Have you any idea who’s causing the damage?”

  “Nay,” another said. “Lord Colin increased the guard.”

  She squished the plaid between her freezing toes. “Have there been problems since?”

  Round Face shook her head. “Not with vandals.”

  Five heads again shook in unison.

  “But we dunna want our men blamed…”

  “There never is enough sand…”

  “Or stone…”

  “I’m worried about food for winter…”

  Margaret clasped her hands to her cheeks. “My, it does seem the whole venture is befuddled.”

  “We’d like to see the keep finished. It would bring us all peace of mind.”

  Margaret wrung out the plaid and tossed it into the “clean” basket. “Are you all MacGregor women?”

  “Aye, and Campbells,” they chorused.

  She fisted her hips. “Your men pay fealty to Lord Glenorchy?”

  “Aye. We’re guardians of this land and proud of it.” Round Face clearly was the leader of the group.

  Margaret met her gaze. “But why are you afraid there’ll not be enough food come winter?”

  “Black Colin, er, Lord Glenorchy’s factor—”

  “Wheesht,” the young one silenced.

  Margaret stood straight. Her next words must be spoken with utmost care, else she’d lose their trust—and a chance to uncover the pillager. “I assure you, your reply will be held in confidence. If you suspect anything, anything at all, I must be made aware.” She placed a hand over her heart. “I vow not a one of you will suffer consequences for speaking out. All suspicions will be discreetly explored.”

  Lips pursed, they all gave stern nods to the leader. “The man is a cheat. If ye ask me, he’s behind the vandalism. He’s responsible for the lack of supplies, for certain.”

  Hmm. Now she was getting somewhere. “And who is Lord Glenorchy’s factor?”

  “Walter MacCorkodale.” The woman pointed to the hills. “His clan owns a wee parcel of land west of here.”

  Margaret followed the gesture then glanced toward the unfinished castle. Colin was riding toward them rapidly.

  “Thank you.” She stepped out of the river and picked up her shoes as Colin rode within earshot. “’Tis been ever so enlightening chatting with you ladies. I do hope we can spend some time together again. I’m sure there shall be many feasts once the keep has been completed.”

  Each one smiled warmly.

  Frowning, Colin appeared as if he could skewer her with his mammoth sword when he cantered up, leading her mare. “I asked you to stay with the guard.”

  “Apologies, my lord.” She winked over her shoulder. “I thought it would be pleasant to meet the women who support your men.”

  Grumbling under his breath, he hopped down and helped her mount. She felt rather empowered by her slight disregard of his orders. Evidently, she was growing impervious to his blackguard glares. Besides, they would be staying at the cottage for the night. He had absolutely no reason to hurry her.

  ***

  Colin’s jaw twitched. He opened the door to the cottage and stood aside to allow Margaret to pass. She waltzed inside, completely oblivious to his dark mood. He removed his cloak and draped it on a peg. “I use this cottage for hunting. It isn’t much, but
better than sleeping in the stable.”

  She turned full circle, unpinning her cloak and handing it to him. “’Tis quaint.”

  Stark was a better choice of words. A hearth with cooking utensils, a wooden table with four mismatched chairs, a worn settee and an eight-point stag’s head on the wall. The only other room was the bedchamber. Her heels clicked the floorboards while she walked across and opened the door. The chamber wasn’t much fancier—a hearth, a large bed, a round table and two chairs.

  Colin allowed her to explore whilst he set to building the fire. Margaret was certainly the jauntiest, most outspoken wife he’d ever had. His gut twisted. He didn’t care if it were a trifle—she’d disobeyed him. He wouldn’t tolerate disobedience in his men, and he wouldn’t stand for it with her either. Ever since they left Stirling, she’d jabbed at him with little twists of phrase, and then she rode out of formation and joined him at the front of the retinue. He never should have allowed it.

  The thing that had his insides twisted the most was her blatant disregard for a direct order. He told her to remain in her saddle. How difficult was it to follow one simple instruction? If there had been a threat nearby, he never would have been able to protect her.

  Margaret’s footsteps lightly tapped around him. “Only one bedchamber, m’lord?” Her voice, not so self-assured, had a tremor.

  “Aye.” Honestly, he hadn’t thought about the sleeping arrangements, and right now he didn’t want to.

  He struck the flint against the char. A flame leapt to life and he stacked twigs around it. Once the fire could be left alone, he faced her with his hands on his hips. “The next time I ask you to do something, I’ll expect you to be mindful of my request.”

  She mirrored his pose, her small fists on feisty, disrespectful hips. “Why shouldn’t I speak to the local women? They’re our kin, no?”

  “No…I mean, aye.” Leave it to her to steer him away from the subject at hand. “Dammit, woman. Your safety is my concern. How can I protect you if you’re off hiking up your skirts, washing with the commoners?”

  Margaret’s eyebrows pinched together. “I was in danger?”