by Amy Jarecki
“Honestly?” Margaret mulled over her mother’s words. “I wonder if a man like Black Colin has a sensitive side.” She seriously doubted that.
Mother pursed her lips. “You must stop referring to him so. His reputation comes from the battlefield, where one must be ruthless or face certain death. You’re well aware he’s one of the king’s most loyal subjects.”
Margaret sighed. This conversation had taken on many faces over the past sennight, but always ended by putting her betrothed on a pedestal. No one seemed to care about the trepidation dampening her skin like a clammy cloth.
Mother stepped closer, as if she had a secret the walls mustn’t hear. “Before I leave, there is one more thing we must discuss.”
Margaret met her mother’s gaze. The woman’s eyes softened, almost appeared compassionate.
“Are you aware of what will be required of you this night?”
Heat flared up Margaret’s cheeks. “He’ll come to my bedchamber?” She could but whisper.
“Aye, and as his wife, you must submit.”
This, too, had Margaret’s insides twisted in a knot. Worse, discussing it with her mother seemed so…unnatural. “Will he hurt me?” She wasn’t sure if she’d actually spoken the words aloud.
But mother offered a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Most likely he will try to be gentle—however, the first time always hurts a little.”
Margaret groaned and buried her face in her palms. She’d been to weddings before—come the morrow, her virtue would be on the bed linens for all to examine. Nausea churned her stomach. “This all seems nightmarish. If only I could have been matched with Lord Forbes.”
Mother’s pat turned into a firm grasp. “Colin Campbell is ten times the man, and his holdings of land and cattle are far greater. The king’s appointment is an honor, young lady, and when you walk out the door, you will hold your head high and rise to it.”
The ice returned to Mother’s steely stare. Margaret nodded and cast her gaze to the floor. Yes, she would go through with this marriage, because if she refused, she’d be acting against the wishes of the king, her parents and at least half the powerful nobility in Scotland. She would meet the infamous Colin Campbell, but she would have her wishes met as well. After all, she was the daughter of a powerful baron. She brought with her a dowry that rivaled any other woman in the land—including the heavy charmstone necklace chilling her skin. Yes, she would perform her duty as a wife, but in return, her expectations of respect and freedom to manage a keep had best be met. Is that too much to ask? Most certainly not.
Mother stepped back and smiled. “You look as beautiful as a picture. I’ll let the priest know you’re ready, and send in your father.”
Once alone, Margaret turned full circle. She’d been wrapped up like a package, scarcely able to take a deep breath. Normally she had an appreciation for new gowns and fine things, but today she most certainly resembled a stuffed pheasant, dressed to adorn the king’s table.
Margaret wrung her hands and stared at the door. So many unanswered questions filed through her head. Would baby Duncan be at the wedding? Would he instantly be thrust into her arms? Though equipped to run a keep, as the youngest, she had no experience with bairns. Surely Colin had a nursemaid for the lad, else he would not have survived.
She studied her reflection in the mirror. “Lady Campbell.” Her new title didn’t sound all that bad. “Lady Margaret of Glenorchy.” She liked that even better. How Colin received a barony, as the third son of the Lord of Lochaw, had her muddled. The Campbell family must be very powerful indeed, as was their reputation.
A rap rattled the door. Her heart raced with her jolt. It creaked open. Her father’s smiling face peeked inside. “Are you ready, sweetheart?”
Margaret spread her hands to her sides. “If there’s no other way.”
“I’m sure the circumstances are preventing a bride’s normal excitement—though many women are thus wed.” He smoothed his fingers across her cheek. “Everything will be fine.”
“Will it?” If only her wits would stop jumping across her skin.
He smiled with a knowing confidence. “Aye, and if you have reason for concern, send me a missive and I shall meet with Lord Campbell myself.”
She inhaled as deeply as her bodice would allow. “Thank you. I cannot say how much your words give my mind peace.”
He offered his elbow. “I may be giving you away in marriage, but you will always be my daughter.”
Upon her father’s arm, she crossed the courtyard while a chambermaid carried her heavy velvet train.
When they arrived at the chapel door, Margaret remembered nothing about passing through the inner bailey. She wouldn’t have been able to tell someone what time of day it was, if the wind was blowing, if it was cloudy or raining—or if she’d stepped in a pile of horse manure, for that matter.
Wiggling her toes in her slippers; her feet were dry. Stealing a glance behind her, she exhaled. The cobblestones had recently been cleaned of debris.
She gripped her father’s arm tighter when two pages opened the heavy double doors. Much warmer than the outside air, the Chapel of Michael the Archangel was packed shoulder to shoulder with people, all watching her cross the threshold. Rays of light streamed in from the stained-glass windows that lined the far wall.
With the change in light, Margaret couldn’t focus. Blindly, she leaned on Father’s arm while he escorted her through the throng. Too crowded—the sickly odors of humanity mixed with heady perfumed oils turned her stomach. Clammy heat prickled her skin. She looked back. People swallowed the path to the door. Margaret had nowhere to run.
Her heels clicked the floorboards, loud as a blaring trumpet. Courtiers parted, her train skimmed the wood as she walked. That’s right, the maid was instructed to drop it once I stepped across the threshold.
Finery surrounded her. Every guest clad in rich velvets and silks, adorned with sparkling rubies and garish jewelry. She scanned the faces ahead and gasped. Father was leading her straight up to the king and queen’s thrones, set high upon a dais at the rear of the chapel.
Margaret glanced toward the altar, straining for a peek at Lord Glenorchy, but the crowd blocked her view. Upon the platform, they stopped before the royal thrones. She curtseyed deeply, and Father bowed.
The royal couple were dressed in rich gold velvet, adorned with red silk and ermine collars. The queen wore a gold embroidered hennin, more garish than the one atop Margaret’s head. The regal woman smiled with brightly rouged lips.
With giant rings on his fingers, the king raised his hands and gave her an approving nod. What else would he do? Take one look at her and decide his earlier judgment had been ill conceived? Margaret almost wished he had.
“Let the wedding begin,” King James boomed in a deep, authoritative voice.
When she turned, Margaret saw him. She couldn’t make out his face beneath his helm, but a tall, broad-shouldered warrior stood beside the priest. Lord Colin Campbell waited at the far end of the chapel. An enormous, looming presence, he wore a coat of blackened ceremonial armor with a red cloak attached at his shoulders. If she weren’t terrified, and if this man weren’t about to marry her sight unseen, she might admire the craftsmanship.
’Tis said armor maketh the warrior.
Father tugged Margaret’s arm, and they continued down the center of the parting crowd under the scrutiny of all eyes. As they neared, Margaret stared at Lord Glenorchy’s breastplate. It was emblazoned with a square cross—the same one she’d seen on the knight’s tunic at the fete yesterday.
She risked a glance at his face.
Gasp.
He was staring at her with a stunned expression. Her stomach turned inside out. It was the same dun-haired, brown-eyed knight from the market. Oh, praises, he’s not a toothless, grey-haired miser. Goodness, at the fete he’d been so agreeable, so pleasant. How could the man standing beside the priest be Black Colin of Rome?
They strolled past her beaming mo
ther, and Father stopped. Margaret craned her neck and regarded the man who in the coming minutes would become her husband. His shocked expression had been replaced with a cool gaze, his lips thinning. Did she displease him?
If she could dive behind her mother’s skirts, she would. Holy Mary, Mother of God, help me.
Father took her right hand and placed it in the knight’s palm. Fingers covered with cold iron gauntlets closed around hers. He gave her a clipped nod, and they turned to face the priest. Margaret tried to watch Colin out the corner of her eye, but her vision was blocked by her veil. There was certainly no emotion flowing from his icy finger armor.
The priest, clad in long black robes, chanted the ceremony in Latin. Trembling, Margaret closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the foreign words. Over and over her mind replayed their brief encounter. She’d admired him. Was it a sign? Would he be kind? Would he accept her with all her flaws, including her opinionated comments that constantly irritated her mother?
The priest stopped and nodded to Lord Glenorchy—Colin. His right hand had no gauntlets, only a black leather glove. A man standing next to him handed him the ring. Colin turned to her, his face incredibly handsome, yet unreadable. He slid the band over her finger. Margaret only had enough time to glance at the stone—a sapphire set in silver—then he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
5
Stirling Palace 8th October, 1455
Colin couldn’t bring himself to look at Margaret through the entire ceremony. Yesterday, if he’d known the king had chosen the lass with the penetrating green eyes, he would have called off the wedding at once. Colin thought he’d been clear, requested a matronly woman who could tend Duncan’s needs. A widow would have suited well. But this woman was fresh as a raspberry on the vine, ready to be plucked—right up to her expertly rouged lips.
Her gown was exquisite. Of course, he’d expect no less from Lord Struan’s daughter. Any woman would present a vision wrapped in red velvet—lips drawn into the shape of Cupid’s bow. But did she have to look at him like that? Her jade-green eyes were so intense, he swore she could expose his darkest secrets. Oh no, he mustn’t encourage her to look upon him at all.
He’d meant it when he vowed not to allow himself heartfelt yearnings for any woman. He would not give his heart again, no matter if she did have eyebrows arched over almond-shaped eyes the color of moss. He could not allow her to tempt him. He would resist silken skin and hair the color of polished autumn chestnuts. Colin would have none of it. He’d perform his duty as a husband and involve his heart no more.
Demonstrating his resolve right there in front of God and the high priest, he kissed her forehead. No lovesick mouth-kissing for him.
The crowd mumbled their approval. At once, he swiftly escorted her out the door and into the great hall. The tables were arranged around the perimeter of the room, the center later to be filled with dancers. Colin walked at a steady pace, expecting her to keep up regardless of her folds upon folds of heavy velvet skirts. He led her to the dais and pulled out a chair, gesturing for her to be seated. “My lady.”
Margaret’s gaze met his for an instant. His gut clenched—merely an attack of jitters, similar to the queasiness a man feels before going into battle. She glanced to the green upholstered seat and bit her lip, as if she needed to contemplate what to do. “Are we not to remain standing until the king and queen make their entrance?”
Colin didn’t care to be second-guessed by anyone—though she was probably right. He peered through the tapestry-lined hall—guests were pouring in, though no one had yet taken a seat. Before he could reply, trumpets on the balcony blared the announcement of the royal couple’s advance.
He offered Margaret a thin-lipped nod, and they stood until the king and queen made their way to the dais, with Lord and Lady Struan following closely behind. Margaret grasped the edges of her skirts and curtseyed while Colin bowed, hovering over her silken white shoulder. Damn her succulent smell. Colin licked his lips. By God, with what fragrance did the woman use to bathe? He’d have to make a point of insisting on something more practical and less feminine. He absolutely could not tolerate her distracting him every time she came within an arm’s length of his person.
Of course, he wouldn’t have to worry about that once he returned to Rome.
The royal party sat in their respective thrones, and Colin again gestured to the chair. Margaret smiled. “Thank you, m’lord.”
King James caught his eye. “I must say, the queen offered up quite a suitable solution to satisfy your need for a wife.”
Queen Mary raised her goblet. “I spied Lady Margaret at court, and her father was all too eager to tell me of her skills with the factor’s books and her ability to run a keep.”
“True, my dear,” the king said. “She has the utmost qualifications to manage whilst Lord Glenorchy is in Rome.”
Margaret gaped at him. “You’re off to Rome?”
Colin reached for the ewer of wine and filled her goblet. “We have a great many things to discuss.” He poured for himself. “You have talent with figures?”
Her gaze slid from the top of his head to the seat of his chair. “Among other things.”
Colin shifted uncomfortably. “What about children?”
She bit her bottom lip—blast her coyness. “Absolutely no experience whatsoever.”
Groaning, Colin raised his goblet and guzzled. What in God’s name? He may have not mentioned a “matron” in his missive, but he’d made it clear he needed a mother for Duncan. His infant son was the only reason he’d gone through with this madness—of course, it didn’t seem like madness when he penned the missive, but presently, he feared he’d lost his mind. “You are aware the king arranged this marriage because I need a mother for my son?”
Margaret lifted her goblet and sipped daintily. “Aye. ’Tis about the only thing in this whole affair that has been made clear.” She leaned in, blasting him with her damnable perfume. “But no one made mention that I’d be performing the task without his father.”
Colin needed another drink—but something stronger than wine. Evidently the woman was skilled with her tongue as well as her quill.
Trenchers laden with food arrived. Colin removed the gauntlets from his left hand and pulled off his gloves. Lord and Lady Struan smiled approvingly, out of earshot at the far end of the table.
Margaret’s gaze roved over him again, making him bloody uncomfortable. “Your armor is magnificent. Why did you wear your gauntlets only on one hand?”
He tugged at his collar plate. “I needed dexterity to handle your ring.”
Margaret held her hand up to the candlelight. Colin had brought the sapphire back from the Holy Land, planning to give it to Jonet one day. But now another woman examined it in a silver setting.
“’Tis a magnificent wedding gift. Thank you.”
He sighed when he caught sincere appreciation in her eyes. “You’re welcome.”
With no whisky in sight, Colin poured himself another goblet of wine then held up a trencher. Margaret selected a slice of lamb with her eating knife. She averted her eyes and focused on her food. He let out a deep breath and sipped his wine. He usually didn’t feel awkward around women. After all, this was his third marriage. He should be relieved the ceremony was over and on the morrow they could begin the journey back to Dunstaffnage.
Eating, Margaret watched him out of the corner of her eye. He should say something to her, but damned if he could think of a thing. If he complimented her, she might just like him, and he wasn’t sure he wanted that. He looked to the vaulted ceiling. Bloody hell. Of course he wanted her to like him. Their interactions might be more palatable if she didn’t hate him, at least. But he would tolerate no nagging.
Colin reached for the bread. Simultaneously, Margaret did as well. Their naked fingers brushed. Colin’s skin tingled and the hair at the back of his hand stood on end. With a gasp, she snatched her fingers away and nodded to the loaf. “You first, m’lord.”
He raised his brows. She was nervous. He broke the bread and offered her a piece. “Allow me.”
“Thank you.”
Again the silence created a void between them. Roaring in his ears, the crowd’s hum picked up, and the king’s laughter rolled from the center of the table. Colin hadn’t paid a lick of attention to the royal party. He rubbed his fingers against the hem of his velvet doublet to quash the damned tingling. Colin never tingled. He was a knight, for Christ’s sake.
He popped a piece of bread in his mouth and washed it down with wine. The festivities couldn’t end soon enough. He needed the solace of his chamber, where he could think. Margaret glanced at him and smiled. His lips turned up. Damnation. He shouldn’t have smiled in return.
Margaret rested her eating knife on the table. “I thought we might talk a bit before…” Her eyes trailed away.
Ah. The wedding night. She would be nervous about that. Colin didn’t even want to think about it. “Talking is not necessary.”
She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Oh? And how else do you suggest we come to know one another?”
“Time, m’lady.”
Margaret’s gaze drifted. Colin couldn’t read her—though he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to know what her pretty head was thinking, or her opinion of him. He wanted this night to be over.
The musicians on the balcony increased in volume.
Margaret clapped. “Do you dance, m’lord?”
Colin’s stomach muscles clenched. “Not really.” He prayed he could make it through the evening without dancing with the lass.
Margaret’s face fell, and she folded her hands in her lap.
King James rapped his fist on the table. “We shall see the wedding couple in the first dance.”
The entire hall erupted in polite applause. Blast the king. Pushing back his chair, Colin stood and bowed. “M’lady.”
Margaret grasped his hand, and he led her down the steps and to the center of hall. Her hands were soft and ever so much smaller than his. Her palms perspired—so did his, and Colin wished he’d thought to put his gloves back on. The doeskin would provide the slightest distance.
