Knight in Highland Armor

by Amy Jarecki

  The cottage empty, she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and headed to the growing crowd. The sun had set, and though the breeze blew in from the west, the clouds overhead were sparse. Huge logs crackled loudly in the fire pit, while men worked a fine-looking side of beef on a spit. The smoke-laced air smelled of char and roasted meat. Children laughed and chased each other around the fire.

  Colin stood beside Robert MacGregor, deep in conversation. Margaret’s heart fluttered. Her husband had shaved. His jaw was so smooth, it reflected the firelight. He’d removed his breastplate and wore a black doublet, fashionably short, with a mantle of fur draped over one shoulder. His hose hugged his powerful thighs. She fanned herself. He did have a physique to be admired—though she’d not admit it to a soul.

  “Margaret.” He pulled a folded plaid from under his arm. “We’ll sit beside Robert and Alana.”

  Gooseflesh tingled across her skin. Would he steal another kiss this night? Kissing seemed so much more natural, so much more enjoyable.

  The gathering hummed with laughter and talk. Colin spread the plaid over the mossy ground and offered Margaret his hand. “’Tis not a great hall, but these are our lands blessed by God.”

  She sat with her legs tucked to the side. “I do believe God’s cathedral is the grandest.”

  Colin sat and reclined on his elbow. “It pleases me you can find enjoyment through hardship.”

  Margaret smiled. “’Tis a lovely autumn night. Why spend it indoors?” Fortunately, clouds hadn’t rolled in as Alana had predicted. Moonbeams reflected white on the glassy loch.

  Serving maids came around with flagons of ale. Margaret watched the others drink straight from them. “I suppose ’tis too much bother to bring out stacks of tankards.”

  Colin held the flagon out to her. “Aye, it is.”

  She drank heartily and dabbed her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “’Tis good.”

  Gold flecks in Colin’s eyes sparkled with the firelight, and they crinkled a bit in the corners. He reached for the flagon and tipped it up, his gaze not leaving hers. “This batch is especially good.” He turned to Robert. “Hats off to the brew master.”

  “Aye, there’s none better than a MacGregor ale.”

  Trenchers filled with meat and breads arrived. Colin and Margaret helped themselves and passed the food along. Tonight no one needed to hoard—there would be plenty for all.

  She swallowed a bite of succulently marbled beef. “’Tis nice to be in a circle where there’s no high table or low.”

  Colin chuckled. “Or no table at all.”

  Robert’s belly shook with laughter. “You’re right there, m’lord. Nothing like breaking bread with the clan, drinking good ale and a roaring fire to warm you.”

  Alana looped her arm through her husband’s and leaned forward. “How is Duncan, m’lord?”

  “Well. Robust as a boy should be. The nursemaid tells me he’s already eating gruel.”

  “Well done. We’re all anxious to see him,” Alana said. “Lady Margaret, are you looking forward to a bairn of your own?”

  “Ah.” Good Lord, Margaret’s cheeks burned. “Duncan is my son now—should God grace us with more children, it will be a blessing.”

  Colin’s eyes met hers with an unspoken question. She shook her head once, letting him know her courses had come. She swallowed hard. Gooseflesh spread across her skin. Did he want to see her with child? Her gaze dipped to his crotch and snapped back up.

  He chuckled.

  Oh queen’s knees, he’d seen her look. She turned her face away. She mustn’t ever allow herself to look at him there.

  Across the fire, pipers filled their bladders with air. Margaret clapped. Among the musicians were a wooden flute, a lute and a drum. There most certainly would be dancing this night, and no one would keep her from it.

  As soon as the instruments were tuned, the players launched into a country reel. Margaret tapped her foot while couples sashayed across the grass. “Who needs a dance floor this eve? The lea is fine.” She grasped Colin’s hand. “Dance with me for the next tune.”

  He pulled his hand away and rubbed it. “I’m not fond of dancing, lass.”

  Margaret pressed her fist to her lips. Just when I thought the grouch was softening, he jerks away. “But you dance so well.”

  His face went dark, as if the thought of dancing brought on a painful memory. Most likely it did.

  Tormond, the blacksmith, stopped by their plaid. “Would ye care to dance, m’lady?”

  Margaret gave Colin a hopeful look. He waved her away. “Go on, then.”

  Thank heavens. She would have died if she’d been forced to sit on the plaid all night without dancing.

  ***

  Colin lifted the flagon to his lips and watched Margaret throw her head back and laugh while Tormond Campbell locked elbows and spun her around. Colin had been a sought-out dance partner at court, but the last time he enjoyed swinging a partner in his arms, it was Jonet’s face smiling up at him. He no longer yenned for such frivolity. If only Margaret could fathom the pain that still spread like a chasm in his chest. True, he’d had moments when it didn’t hurt so badly—mostly when he lost himself in Margaret’s unholy, seductive gaze, but as soon as he departed her company, the remorse and the guilt returned with the vengeance of the grim reaper wielding a scythe.

  Margaret smiled at him from across the flames. Her face lit up, aglow with exertion and happiness. She seemed happier here in Glen Orchy, as he was. Of course, there was nothing wrong with Dunstaffnage, where they would winter—hopefully for the last time. Winter. Could he justify holding off his return to Rome until spring? He must make a decision soon—both about the annulment and the date of his departure.

  Tormond placed his hand on Margaret’s waist and led her around the circle. The blacksmith was getting a fair bit too familiar. Colin sat forward. She smiled at her partner and spun away, then back. Blast it all, those bloody smithy hands were on her waist again.

  “Is everything to your liking, Colin? From the scowl on your face I’d wager something didn’t sit well with you,” Robert said.

  Och, something didn’t sit well with him. That fat-kidneyed codpiece spinning Margaret on the floor like he’s a strutting pheasant. “Nay. I just need another tot of ale, is all.” Colin tipped back his flagon and guzzled it.

  Robert pointed to a group of young bucks huddled at the sidelines. “I’ll say everyone wants a turn with that pretty wife of yours. She’s got all the laddies drooling in their cups.”

  Alana smoothed a hand over her skirts. “She’s a beauty, that’s for certain. ’Tis a wonder she’s nay on your arm.”

  The music ended. Margaret laughed and clapped her hands, heading back to the plaid. A pimple-faced laddie had the gall to tap her on the shoulder. She looked so bloody innocent, clapping her chest in surprise, mouthing “me?” Colin wanted to stomp over there and admonish her… You are a flirtatious tart, dancing and laughing like you’re at court. He rocked back on his haunches. Now he’d have to watch her take another turn with a slavering pup.

  Colin stood and sauntered around the fire. No one would partner with his wife for the next dance. In the shadows, he patiently waited for the pipers to end their reel, then walked straight toward her. A gawky lad grasped her hand, but he reached for the other. “Lady Margaret promised this dance to me.”

  “M’lord?” Margaret gaped. “I thought you hated dancing.”

  He placed his fingers in the curve of her waist and pulled her closer to him. “Mayhap I’ve a feel for the music this night.”

  The bagpipes started in low. Colin led Margaret into the circle as the drum rolled a snare. He’d done this dance so many times, the steps came without thought.

  Margaret moved with him, a step, a hop, a skip. Gracefully, she molded into him as if she were an extension of his very own body. He faced her and offered his hands. Aglow in the firelight, her cheeks shone like beacons calling to his heart. She placed her small palms
in his and he wrapped his fingers around them.

  Time slowed.

  Watching her smile, his every heartbeat pounded against his chest. She was so much smaller than Jon...He blinked—Margaret was so small, his desire to protect her filled the hollow cavity in his chest. He led her into a spin. Her laughter uplifted him. Her gaze alive, tempting him to give in to her joy.

  He focused on her lips. His breath caught. Rosy, bow shaped, petite, he wanted to kiss them again, wanted to taste her as he’d done in the chamber. He’d possessed her, naked by the fire, innocent. He’d wanted her then—just as he wanted her now.

  Margaret’s skirts brushed his calves, ever so lightly. His manhood stirred to life. Mayhap he could win her heart. But did he want to try? What about the papers?

  The music ended and Margaret applauded. “They’re wonderful.”

  “Aye.” He kept his eyes focused on her. “Magnificent.”

  “MacCorkodale,” someone yelled.

  Colin’s mind snapped to the present. He peered through the dark shadows in the direction of approaching hoof beats. Blast. He’d left his sword on his plaid. He ran his fingers over the hilt of his dirk and glanced at his men. They’d already armed themselves. Thank God the guard still had their heads.

  Ewen MacCorkodale, chieftain of the neighboring clan, rode into the fray, mail-clad and outfitted for battle. His small army of mounted men encircled the gathering.

  Colin pulled Margaret behind him, praying for a peaceful parley, though the death of Ewen’s cousin had most likely sparked the chieftain’s ire. Colin should have expected retaliation. He quickly surveyed the scene. All of the MacGregor men drew their arms—dirks, swords, poleaxes. No one had come to the gathering without a weapon. Aside from his sword, Colin had his dirk in his belt, an eating knife in his sleeve and a dagger bound to each ankle. Behind him, Fionn aimed his crossbow at Ewen’s heart.

  The errant chieftain was far outnumbered. Colin girded his loins and marched forward without drawing a weapon. He’d rather end this peacefully, for once in his life.

  Ewen’s beady eyes peered from under his helm. The man chose not to dismount—a sign of disrespect, though he kept his hands on his reins and away from his weapons. “Are you the man who killed my cousin?”

  “Aye.” Colin moved his fists to his hips, fingers brushing his dirk’s hilt. “Walter promised fealty, yet he ordered his men to attack Lady Glenorchy after she uncovered his plot of thievery.”

  “You lie. My cousin was an honest man.”

  Colin smoothed his palm over his dirk’s pommel. He’d killed men for less. One more accusation and this would become bloody. “How quickly you jump to Walter’s defense. I’ve witnesses.”

  “And written proof,” Margaret said behind him.

  Ewen leaned around Colin and made a show of studying Margaret from head to toe. A lecherous smile spread across his lips. “You’ve a woman speaking for you now?”

  Colin stepped in and latched his fingers around the big horse’s bridle. “No one speaks in my stead, but if ’tis proof of treachery you seek, I’ve plenty—else you best prepare to join your cousin this night.”

  MacCorkodale glanced down to Colin’s hand and then slid his gaze back to Margaret. He shifted in his saddle. “Word has it you’re off to Rome soon.”

  “In time, perhaps.” Distrust clamped Colin’s gut. “I’ve a great many accountabilities to see to here first—especially tending the mess left by your cousin.”

  “Unfortunate,” Ewen said, absently rubbing his chin. “’Tis not wise to leave such a fine woman alone.”

  Colin itched to pull the bastard from his horse and lay him flat. “Lady Margaret to you, sir. And if I sail for the Crusades, she will be well guarded. On that you have my word.”

  “I would expect no less.” Ewen tipped his head to Margaret. “Apologies, m’lady. I meant no disrespect.”

  With a kick of his heels, Ewen spun his horse from Colin’s grasp. “Come, men. I am satisfied with Lord Glenorchy’s account…for now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Cottage at Glen Orchy, 30th October, 1455

  Colin grasped Margaret’s elbow far too firmly. “Come.”

  She wrenched her arm against steely fingers. “I’ll follow, but I will not be muscled into the cottage by an angry knight.” She detested the way Colin could change from charming to overbearing within the blink of an eye.

  He glared and moved his hand to the small of her back. That wasn’t much better, but at least it didn’t hurt. Queen’s knees, the man didn’t know his own strength. After ushering her into the cottage, he slammed the door. “When a threatening chieftain rides into camp hellbent on revenge, I bid you hold your tongue.”

  “Me?” He was mad at her—not at the blackguard who’d spoilt the gathering? “But I spoke the truth.”

  “It matters not. He could have drawn his sword and commanded his men to fight with women and children underfoot. ’Tis my duty to protect you and the others in my care.”

  “You believe I put the entire clan in peril?”

  “Aye, lady, you did.” Colin paced and smacked his fist against the wall. “Did you see the way he looked at you? The bastard clearly undressed you from head to toe.”

  So now he was jealous? Margaret started her own pacing. “Oh please…”

  Colin grasped her shoulders. “Do you have any idea how appealing you are? Must I keep you tethered?”

  For heaven’s sakes, he’s completely nonsensical. “You, sir, are overreacting. He took his leave. What more do you want?”

  His fingers clamped into her flesh. “Obedience. Respect.”

  Before Margaret could blink, he backed her against the wall and jammed his masculine frame against hers, pinning her there. She raised her chin to speak, but he crushed his mouth over hers. This was nothing like the kiss in the bath. His tooth scraped her lip. His tongue thrust with wicked force.

  Her mind raged, conflicted between the hot cravings pooling in her loins and the sparks of fear firing across her skin. Margaret forced her fists between their bodies. She pounded on his chest and pushed away. Shaking uncontrollably, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Blood.

  She inched toward the chamber door. “Y-you would do well to learn something of respect, especially if you care to receive it.” Her trembling hand grasped the latch. “You will not touch me like that again.”

  The last thing she saw was his horror-stricken face. She slipped inside, jammed her shoulder against the door and turned the lock as fast as she could.

  “Apologies.” Colin’s voice leached through the wood. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

  In no way would she allow him margin to make amends. “Go away.”

  Margaret crossed her arms and hugged herself. Black Colin was an overbearing tyrant.

  ***

  Colin could have taken his dagger and scored his palm for forcing his kiss upon her so brutally. He’d only intended to demonstrate his position as husband and Lord of Glenorchy. His actions had been far more brutish than he’d intended. He stared at the closed door. It was late and she was madder than a cook with no fire.

  Now he’d done it. He didn’t want a wife, and he’d forced himself upon her like a common scoundrel. Blast her to hell anyway. Ever since the day they were wed, his mind had been rife with conflict. Could she not leave him to his mourning? She wasn’t even supposed to be at Kilchurn. Her place was at Dunstaffnage with Duncan. Ballocks to her meddling.

  Margaret didn’t want him to touch her? Fine. That was exactly how he’d planned this whole wretched marriage in the first place. After the mudding, they’d return to Dunstaffnage. He’d sign the annulment papers and prepare his men to set sail forthwith.

  Effie could tend Duncan’s needs for a few years, and then Colin would appoint a tutor.

  He combed his hands through his hair and turned full circle. The lord of the manor would have to bed down in the fore chamber. With a table and four wooden chairs, he’d be mo
re comfortable in the stable with the guard.

  God would strike him dead before he showed his face to his men—it might have been acceptable when they were traveling from Stirling, but now they’d laugh him off his own lands.

  No matter. Colin had slept in more miserable places than this. A knight could spend months sleeping in the dirt or upon a stone floor. On the morrow, he’d make a pallet of straw. Events of this night only brought back to full force the need to end this misshapen marriage and return to Rome.

  He spread a plaid and stretched out before the hearth. Jonet, why did you leave me, lass? Closing his eyes, he willed himself to picture her raven hair, but in his dreams it turned chestnut, framing green eyes and a smile that could melt his icy heart.

  ***

  Ewen MacCorkodale sat in the solar and tossed back a tot of whisky. It was too early to drink, but he needed something to ebb the fire in his chest. The only problem was the spirit made it burn more fiercely.

  At least he’d faced his enemy—caught him dallying with the women. Ewen chuckled. Colin Campbell had bested him one too many times when they were lads. Though it had taught him a valuable lesson. Brute strength rarely ever solved anything, and a man could lose a great deal if he brazenly engaged in battle.

  Ewen’s henchman, Ragnar, pushed into the room. “Will you spar this morning?”

  “Nay.” Ewen gestured to the chair. “Sit. Drink with me.” He reached for another cup and poured one for himself and another for Ragnar. “I could have killed that bloody arrogant bastard last eve.”

  The big man lifted the cup to his lips. “Why didn’t we? I could’ve taken them.”

  Ewen sniggered at the henchman’s overzealous bravado. “Because Campbell’s man had a crossbow aimed at my heart. Besides, we were outnumbered.”

  Ragnar wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The milk-livered Black Knight of Rome. I’d like to meet him man to man, without his army behind him.”

  “He’s a snake, that one—and black suits the color of his heart.” Ewen batted the air. “Attacking him directly has never been an option. He’s got the king’s ear. That’s why it was so fortuitous to have Walter gain his trust—damn that miserable wench for overhearing him.”