by Amy Jarecki
Before dropping down to the path, Colin stopped. “We’ll wait here.”
Fionn pulled his bow from his shoulder. “I’ll take care of them from the bluff.”
“I want MacCorkodale alive—if he’s with them.” Colin held up his palm. “But aye, Fionn, set up here and cover our backs. William and I shall go down and meet them head-on.”
William grinned. “They won’t know what hit them.”
“We’ll tie our horses here and lie in wait upon the outcropping below.”
***
Colin had begun to think the slippery bastards had turned back. When faced with driving rain and the promise of heavy snow higher up, he certainly would have. At least the men he left on the trail would intercept them if they did.
Lying on their bellies on a slab of rock, wearing armor was none too comfortable. But they did have an advantageous position above the path.
When hoof beats sloshed the muddy turf, the hair on his nape stood on end. At last he would have vengeance. Colin nodded to William, who slowly drew his sword. The first man came into view, hunched over, clutching his cloak closed at his chest—the dog had no idea he was about to lose his life.
A few more paces. Colin reached for his dirk and raised his chin. “Now.”
Bellowing his war cry, he launched himself off the rock and hurled his body down the twenty-foot drop—right onto the back of the leader’s horse.
The man jolted and flailed for his weapon. The horse sprung into a gallop. Holding the man’s torso against his body, Colin pressed his knife to the blackguard’s neck. “Pull up or the next log your horse jumps will be your last.”
When the steed slowed to a trot, Colin yanked the bastard from his horse. Together, they crashed to the ground. Colin jumped to his feet. Chuckling, he sheathed his weapon. “Come at me, thief.” He held up his fists. “There’s nothing I’d like more this day than thrashing a beater of women.”
The man’s eyes darted side to side. He rose to his knees, then barreled straight for Colin, striking him just below the breastplate.
Balling both fists, Colin threw an undercut into the man’s unprotected gut. Two punches to the face. The varlet bled from the nose, and backed away. Colin took two steps and slung his fist back for another blow. The man tried to block with his hands, but Colin’s fist slammed into his face. Bone crunched beneath his gauntleted knuckles. The blow lifted the coward off his feet, sending him crashing to his back. He rolled to his side and wheezed.
Colin drew his dirk and dropped to his knees beside the pathetic cur. “I will have answers.”
“Go to hell.”
“Not before I send you there.” Colin pressed his dirk harder. Blood oozed down the man’s stubbled throat. “Who sent you after Lady Margaret?”
“No one. W-we wanted to rob her, ’tis all.”
Colin pushed the blade harder. Blood streamed. “You expect me to believe you?”
“Believe what you like. I’m a dead man one way or the other.” His teeth chattered. “You weren’t supposed to follow us up the mountain.”
Colin could no longer feel the rain or the cold. “I’ll ask you one more time. Who’s behind this?”
He pursed his lips.
Fionn led the horses beside them. “All dead, m’lord.”
“Good. Build a fire. We’re going to have to burn the truth out of this one.”
The man’s eyes popped.
Colin chuckled. “What did you think? I’d kill you without causing a wee bit of pain?” He tied the outlaw’s hands behind his back.
No fire would start in the open, and the men resorted to lighting a small flame under a rock shelf where they’d found a few dry twigs. It was enough. Colin heated the tip of his dagger in the blue part of the flame. When the iron glowed red, he held it to the bastard’s face. “If you tell me now, we can end this swiftly.”
Shaking, the cur turned away. Colin grasped the man’s bloodied chin and forced him to look him in the eye. “I’m not an uncompassionate man, but I give no quarter to those who cross me.” Grinding his teeth, he held the scorching blade to the man’s face and drew a slow line down to his chin.
The bastard howled like a castrated calf, his arms and legs shaking spastically. “Frigging bloody hell.”
Colin handed the dagger to William. “Heat this up and make sure it glows red.”
“Wait,” the man pleaded.
Colin eyed him. “Who?”
“MacCorkodale wanted her dead.”
“Why? She’s an innocent woman.”
The man spat blood. “Said she overheard something not meant for her ears.”
William passed the red-hot knife to Colin.
The outlaw shook, his eyes wide with terror. “That’s all I know. I swear.” His legs squirmed. “God’s oath.”
Colin wanted to torture him more—make him pay for touching Margaret. He eyed the sweltering metal and swallowed down his ire. Always true to his word whether he liked it or not, he doused his dagger in a puddle and sheathed it in his boot. “Very well. You shall suffer no more.”
Standing, he pulled William aside. “Finish him.”
Chapter Fourteen
Kilchurn Building Site, 23rd October, 1455
During her time at Kilchurn, Margaret spent her mornings reading to Mevan. The guard was sitting up and getting antsy to return to his duties. She urged him to rest, however, until Alana pronounced him fit enough to return home to his wife and wee bairns.
After leaving the surgery, Margaret found Tom Elliot. With All Hallows only ten days away, she wanted to discuss plans to prepare Kilchurn for winter. “Once you’ve mudded the walls, is there anything else to do until spring?”
Though lacking organizational skills, the stonemason proved to be quite knowledgeable about building a lasting structure. “We’ll need to secure thatch over the foundation to prevent water from seeping in.”
She started calculating a timeline in her head. “How long will that take?”
“Only a couple of days. Mudding takes the longest.”
She eyed the workmen, absorbing Tom’s every word. “When will we be able to start again in spring?”
He removed his bonnet and scratched his head. “Supplies should start delivering in March. We can clear off the mud then, too.”
“How about building?”
“When the pre-work is over, we can commence as soon as weather permits.”
Margaret cast her gaze to the clouds above. “March seems so far away.”
“Aye, but it’ll come quick enough.” Tom pointed to the trough the men had built, now delivering water directly to the site. “Your idea has paid dividends already. Things will go much faster, especially if Lord Glenorchy stops the vandals.”
Clutching her hands against her chest, she’d thought Colin would have returned with news by now. She’d also sent a missive to Dunstaffnage advising of her decision to stay on at Kilchurn. Surely he’d come soon. Not that she wanted to see him. She rather worried about his men. She and Mevan prayed every morning for their safe return.
The sentry upon the wall-walk blew his ram’s horn and waved his arms. Margaret looked to the path through the void that would become Kilchurn’s gate. Highlanders approached, leading a wagon.
Tom chuckled. “That would be Robert MacGregor and our sand.”
“We are blessed indeed.” Margaret craned her neck, searching for Colin or his men. The entire escort was MacGregors, with red plaids draped over their heads and shoulders to keep out the drizzle. Margaret stood on her future threshold and watched the procession gradually approach. A team of oxen lumbered, heads swinging from side to side, pulling the heavy load.
Laird Robert trotted ahead. “I’m happy to report we secured the sand, m’lady.”
She clasped her gloved hands. “Did you come upon any outlaws on your journey?”
“Not with the MacGregor arms at the ready. No one in these parts would dare challenge me and my men.”
She patted his
steed’s sturdy neck. “Mayhap we’ll need such an impressive contingent of men to accompany all future deliveries.”
“Could be a good idea.” He glanced to Tom. “Though most of my guardsmen also work with the mason.”
She considered Robert’s words then held up a finger. “Surely we can recruit laborers more easily than soldiers.”
“True.”
Margaret again looked down the path. “Do you have news of Lord Glenorchy?”
“Forgive me. I should have mentioned it directly.” Robert bowed his head. “The lord set out after the men who attacked your ladyship and Mevan—sent me and my men to escort the shipment.”
Her tongue went dry, her chest tight. “Have you not seen them since?”
“No, m’lady. They rode north, up into the mountains.”
Margaret covered her mouth with a gloved hand. The mountains could be treacherous in this foul weather.
“Have no fear. If anyone can track the bast…er…outlaws down, ’tis Colin Campbell and his band of fighting men. There’s a reason he’s returned home from two crusades—and a reason he’s known as Black Colin. He puts fear in the hearts of all who face him.”
Margaret studied the admiration in the chieftain’s eyes. Truly, Robert MacGregor respected her husband. If only he would return, Colin might find it in his black heart to respect her.
***
Colin pushed inside the alehouse doors and beheld his backstabbing factor, collecting rents as if all was right with the world. Walter’s eyes popped wide only for a moment, then shifted.
Guilty.
The double-crosser reached for his quill and made a notation.
The alehouse buzzed with crofters who came to Glen Orchy to pay their rents on the first Tuesday of every month. Colin’s men filed in behind him. Walter pretended not to notice Colin, accepting payment from the next in the queue.
Colin’s hackles burned as he marched toward his conniving factor. Walter snapped his gaze up and met Colin’s stare. The stocky man floundered for his tankard. In his haste, the pewter vessel flew from the table, spewing ale across thresh-covered floorboards.
Walter watched while Colin’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of his claymore. “I think you ken why I’m here, MacCorkodale.”
The voices in the alehouse dwindled into utter silence.
“Whatever do you mean, m’lord?” The swindler’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“You’re a pathetic liar for a thief.”
Walter held up two trembling palms. “I…I think you must be mistaken.”
“There’s no mistaking anything. The Lady Glenorchy overheard you talking about intercepting a load of my sand.” Colin leaned down and placed his lips beside Walter’s ear. “Worse, you sent a mob of incompetent thugs to silence her. That you have the ballocks to sit here and handle my coin as if nothing had happened proves your arrogance surpasses your cleverness by a league.”
A bead of sweat trickled from Walter’s temple. He stank of fear. The man’s lips trembled, but he uttered not a word.
Colin tapped the tip of his sword against the floorboards. “I’ll give you two options. You can fight me and die like a man, or hang from the gallows come dawn.”
Walter shook in his pool of sweat and stared at his hands.
“I am not a patient man, MacCorkodale. What will it be?”
Sneering, the stocky man shoved his chair back and drew his sword.
Barmaids screamed and wooden benches scraped the floorboards.
Colin had his mammoth claymore raised before Water assumed his stance. He blocked the factor’s feeble attack with a downward thrust. The flabby bastard reeled backward and tangled with his chair. Colin waited until Walter regained his footing. He hated fighting a weak opponent. Walter could give him no sport. But quarter could not be given. This leech had cut him in every way. He was not fit to take another breath on this earth. Rage burned a fire in Colin’s breast. He wanted MacCorkodale to suffer. He lunged in with a cutting strike. Walter blocked.
Colin spun, eyed his target. In one swift downward hack, he sliced off the bastard’s fighting arm.
Shrieking like a woman, Walter fell to his knees. Blood spewed from the wound. Colin snatched his dirk with his left hand and slashed it across the factor’s exposed neck.
Eyes stunned, Walter dropped face first.
Colin watched the blackguard’s lifeblood pool on the floor then turned to the astonished faces. “Let this be a lesson to the lot of you. If anyone crosses me, they will pay in blood.” A hum of mumbles filled the room. Colin held up his hand. “All honest men will receive fair treatment by my hand. I wish this on no man.”
He turned to William and Fionn. “Take his body to his clan chieftain and tell him of Walter’s treachery. I’ll not start a feud with a neighboring clan over blatant thievery.”
***
Margaret clapped her hands, thrilled with the progress on the kitchen hearth. The bread oven was complete, and Tom Elliot had installed an entry shoot for water and an exit for slops. “Brilliant,” she said, smiling broadly. “This will be the finest tower house in the Highlands.”
The carpenters stopped hammering only for a moment to listen to her praise. After his arrival, Tormond had gladly set up a blacksmith station in the courtyard near the site where his shop would be built. It rang with the clang of a hammer on anvil as he pounded out iron nails.
Even Margaret could not believe their headway, and only in a sennight. Mevan had returned to the care of his wife. The Campbells and the MacGregors worked side by side and proved to be skilled laborers, with drive that matched her own.
She picked up a shovel to help mix the mortar.
“M’lady, your hands will be full of calluses if you keep working like that,” Tom said.
“Rough hands are proof of a day well spent.”
She’d been working beside the men for days, mostly directing their efforts, but when all were set to task, she reached for the nearest tool and pitched in.
She’d ruined her apron and borrowed another from Alana, but she didn’t care. It was important to her to show the men she wasn’t afraid of hard labor. The water trough fed a continual stream. Mixing at a steady tempo for a good deal of time, Margaret’s arms began to burn. She pushed the shovel harder.
A man cleared his throat behind her. Margaret turned, but the bright sun kept her from seeing the face of the tall, broad figure.
“I told you to take an escort back to Dunstaffnage.”
Margaret’s heart jolted. She skirted aside to see his face. “Colin, you’re back! I cannot wait to show you all we’ve—”
His eyes were dark, like a man bent on murder. “You should not be here.”
Why on earth had she garnered hope he’d see her as useful? “I beg to differ, m’lord. Someone needed to see to Kilchurn.”
He fisted his hips. “That would not be you. Duncan…”
“Is being well cared for by Effie.” To hell with his arrogant, pigheaded balderdash. “Besides, the work will cease in a fortnight when we mud up for winter.”
“I gave you an order and—”
She mirrored his stance, and fisted her hips with infuriated gusto. “I will attend Duncan throughout the duration of the winter, my lord.”
“Ah, Lord Campbell.” Tom Elliot walked around the corner of the kitchen walls. “You’ve married yourself a fine woman, if I may be so bold to say.”
Colin glared at the master mason, who spread his arms and grinned. “You see, the kitchen would not have been started without Lady Margaret.” He beckoned them. “Come and allow me to show you what I mean.”
Thank the good Lord Master Elliot appeared when he did. Margaret could have again slapped Colin across the face, he maddened her so. God forbid she ever try that again. He’d lock her in the iron branks for certain. Elliot showed Colin the water trough and the blacksmith’s station, while Margaret followed at a safe distance and kept her mouth closed. The mason did a fine job of extolling her virtue
s—far better than if she’d attempted to convince Colin of her own worth.
Elliot held forth as if he were giving the tour to King James himself. “Your wife knows her way around a building site, for certain.”
Colin’s beard had grown in while he was away, and he ran his fingers down it and pulled. “God’s teeth. This is most unexpected.”
Margaret smiled and stepped beside him. “And from the bills of lading, I’ve figured out how Walter MacCorkodale was cheating you.”
“You have?”
“He was overpaying. That gave Walter the opportunity to skim a percentage before making payment. He’s a slithering snake, that one.”
“Was.”
Margaret pressed a hand to her lips. “Did you?”
Colin’s jaw twitched. “He’s in hell with the devil.”
“Oh my.” She grimaced. “You should also know Robert arrived unscathed with the sand shipment, and Mevan is back at Dunstaffnage in the care of his wife until he can become my personal guard.”
“Your guard?”
“I request him. He risked his life, nearly lost it so I might escape.”
“I suppose he did.” Colin’s lips twisted. He wasn’t half as overbearing as he’d appeared when he first arrived.
Margaret didn’t give him a chance to rebut. “I say this calls for a celebration. I shall speak to Alana about it straight away. We’ll kill a steer and tap a barrel of wine.” Margaret started away and stopped. “You will be dining with us this eve?”
“Och.” He pulled off his helm and shook his head. “Aye.” How his hair could look so ravishing after wearing a helmet throughout the day, she had no idea.
Margaret dashed away before Colin could say another word. She’d listened to the MacGregor’s music every night since Robert returned with his men. Oh, how she longed to take part in their country dances and sing.
Her insides fluttered. Best of all, somehow she’d managed to make Colin agree with her, as well as avoid his tirade. She’d have to remember to have Tom Elliot on hand should ever again Colin approach her looking like he could slam his fist into a stone wall without feeling pain.
