by Amy Jarecki
No other couples joined them. Fye.
One of the musicians called for a volta. Colin assumed his position, roiling on his insides. Must they choose the most provocative dance known to modern man? Could they not have settled for a circle dance where he’d merely have to swing this woman by her elbow and look pleasant?
Margaret stood opposite him and curtseyed. A sultry drum started a sensuous rhythm. Her intelligent gaze didn’t leave his face. She studied him as if memorizing a map. The flute began. Margaret sprang to life, her chin held high, expertly executing the steps. Together they danced. Her skirts brushed the back of Colin’s legs, the part not protected by armor—it almost tickled.
She ran toward him for the lift, not once blinking her deep pools of green. Colin had no recourse but to grasp her waist and raise her up, twirling her across the floor. In the recesses of his mind, the crowd’s applause registered.
Slowly, he lowered her toward the floor as the dance demanded. Her sweet fragrance, more sultry than a field of wildflowers in summer’s heat, wafted over him. Colin sucked in a ragged breath, tried to step away, but she matched his pace. Hand in hand they danced until the music ended with Margaret in a deep curtsey.
Again the crowd applauded—louder this time.
Smiling, she placed her palm in the crook of his elbow. “I say, you dance quite well for a man who was expecting to spend the evening draining the ewer of wine.”
Ruing her sharp tongue, Colin clenched his jaw and led her back to the dais without a word. Perhaps he’d been heavy-handed with the ewer, but that was none of her concern.
Resuming their seats, he wanted nothing more than to take a stroll along the palace battlements to clear his head.
Fortunately, half the gentlemen in the hall sought to dance with his new bride. Colin switched to ale, rather than whisky. Becoming dead drunk would not help him later when he needed his wits to perform his duty, though inebriation would be a welcomed state. He reclined in his chair and kept to himself. The room aflutter with jovial laughing and clapping, he chose to refrain from joining in. He would not easily forget Jonet, the quiet woman who’d been his partner for the past six years. A complete stranger could not step in and replace his lost love, nor did he care for an outspoken, comely lass to try.
It was far easier on his heavy heart to have Margaret off dancing, enjoying herself where he could not touch her, or smell her, or talk to her. He did, however, watch the lady from behind his goblet, akin to watching quarry when hunting.
She moved with uncanny grace and laughed like she had not a care. Colin recalled the days when he laughed with such abandon. But war and death had robbed him of his ability to chuckle from his gut like an inexperienced lad. Margaret was made for the dance floor. She executed every step with grace, and Colin imagined she practiced in her father’s keep for hours to become so adept.
Her gaze shot to his and connected before he lowered his lashes and stared into his ale. He couldn’t allow his young wife to cause irrational stirrings. Her eyes had affected him at the fete. Yes, the color was unusual, but more so, her expression had grasped his attention. Intelligence lurked behind those pools of green. Have mercy, her small nose suited her face and her lightly moistened, plump lips had practically begged him to kiss them. He must guard himself. It was a warrior’s duty to understand his weakness and devise ways to protect and strengthen against it.
“And what say you, Glenorchy?” The king’s voice cut through his thoughts. “She is a lovely bride.”
Colin straightened in his chair. “Aye. I hope she will be a suitable stepmother for my heir.”
“You are aware she can read and write. She will be an excellent tutor for Duncan’s early years,” the queen added.
Colin dipped his chin respectfully. “Then I agree. Lady Margaret is the perfect choice. I could not have found a more suitable replacement for Jonet if I had searched for years myself.” Except she could be five year’ older, a stone heavier and great deal less comely.
The queen offered a pleased smile and then turned her attention toward the other side of the table. Colin took a healthy swig of ale, content to once again be left alone with his grief.
Margaret stood in the center of her chamber while two maids removed the heavy gown. Colin had walked her to the door and excused himself, saying he must attend to a few things. Her new husband had been nothing but polite. Though he lacked the glint of humor she’d noticed at the fete. His dark brown eyes also held a sadness she hadn’t noticed the day prior. Was he dissatisfied with her? Did he not find her attractive? The tension in her shoulders might actually ease a wee bit if she’d sensed he approved of his new bride.
She thought she’d danced well, but he hadn’t even smiled at her from across the room—just leered behind his tankard of ale.
That he’d left her outside her chamber was a relief. Perhaps he wouldn’t return and give her a chance to come to know him before…before.
She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She couldn’t even think about it.
Surely they both were nervous. Yes, Colin had been married formerly, but she doubted he’d not met his previous brides prior to the ceremony. Had he? She might ask him if the opportunity presented itself—if she would ever in her lifetime feel comfortable around him. Heaven’s stars, from the stern way he glared at her, Margaret feared she’d apprised poorly on all accounts.
The maid lifted the hennin from her head. Margaret smoothed her hands over her braids.
“Sit on the stool so I can brush out yer tresses, m’lady.”
Divested of the heavy gown, Margaret sat wearing only her linen shift. Once again she felt like herself—no wooden slats binding her ribs, no ridiculous wired hennin pinching her head. The soft brush running through her hair soothed her concerns away. Margaret closed her eyes and let the maid work until her tresses had been brushed to a luminous sheen.
“Shall I turn down the bed, m’lady?”
Her tension raced back tenfold and Margaret’s shoulders stiffened. “That will be fine.” She tried to keep her voice even.
All too soon, the chambermaids took their leave. Margaret still perched on the stool. Alone. Would Colin come to her? Having feigned sleep the night before, her eyelids were heavy. Perhaps he would consummate the marriage some other time? But what about the old hens on the morrow? Her virtue must show on the linens. Shuddering, Margaret rose and blew out all the candles except the one on the bedside table.
After she splashed her face in the basin, rubbed her teeth with mint leaves and rinsed, she climbed between the crisp linens and stared at the velvet canopy above her bed. She was married. Lady Margaret of Glenorchy.
Her fingers clenched the bedclothes and tugged them under her chin.
6
Stirling Palace, 8th October, 1455
As if in a stupor, Colin stared at his ceremonial armor resting on the settee. He wore it only on special occasions. The suit had cost him more than his battle armor, yet it wouldn’t provide much protection in a fight. He’d now worn the suit in three weddings and to his father’s funeral. He hated the blasted thing and hoped never to wear it again.
He groaned. His thoughts served only to delay his obligation.
His squire had long since left. Wearing a linen shirt and woolen hose, he paced. Though he’d never admit it to a soul, the roiling in his gut was nerves. The one thing he must lawfully do was consummate this marriage. Until he performed his duty, Margaret would have every right to attest their vows had not been satisfactorily carried out. No doubt the queen’s women would examine the linens in the morning. If he did not perform his duty this night, he would bring scrutiny upon his house, and in no way would he allow such a social misstep.
It must be done.
Jonet, forgive me. You must know I’m doing this for our son. One day we shall meet again and I’ll rest beside you through eternity.
Colin had only fathered two sons in eight total years of marriage. One had survived. Yes, Duncan wa
s a healthy bairn showing promise for a long life, but it was Colin’s duty to ensure there was issue upon his death. If, God forbid, Duncan did not survive him, there must be another child ready to step into the barony. The survival of the Glenorchy line depended on it.
He pushed out his chamber. He would perform the necessary deed and return to his rooms. Easy enough. Wedded twice before, he was more experienced than most men on their wedding night. She’d be nervous—he’d put her at ease and then carry out his duty quickly.
Somehow he arrived at Margaret’s door much faster than he’d anticipated. He clenched his stomach muscles and knocked.
“Lord Colin?” Her voice resounded through the door. The soft Highland lilt caressed his skin, sending a wave of gooseflesh up his arms. Colin frowned. Bed her and take your leave.
He creaked open the door. Margaret lay on the bed, a single candle illuminating waves of brunette locks, her face glowing, pure. A cannonball sank to the pit of Colin’s stomach. Six years ago Jonet awaited him, nervous as a finch, eyes round. Except Jonet had greeted him with a smile rather than lips pursed into a bow. But circumstances had been different then.
Margaret pulled the bedclothes tighter under her chin. “M…my lord. I thought you mightn’t come.”
He stepped inside and closed the door. Her chamber unfamiliar, a peat fire glowed in the hearth. He grasped the latch and squeezed. No. Colin was a warrior, damnation. A warrior never turned his back on his responsibilities.
He clenched his fists and strode toward the bed. “We’ve a task to perform.” His voice was gruffer than he’d intended.
“A task?” Her knuckles turned white. “I-is that what you call it?”
Determined, he grasped the hem of his shirt.
She held the bedclothes firm. “M’lord,” she squeaked, skittish as a willow warbler’s call. “Would it be too much to ask if we could chat for a bit? Mayhap it will calm these…my awful jitters.”
Colin released his hands and looked at her face. Her eyes pleaded. He’d seen that look many times on the battlefield—the complete, unadulterated terror of a young novice. He sat on the edge of her bed and combed his fingers through his hair. I am not a beast. “Very well.”
Her fingers relaxed their grip, and she sat up. “The king mentioned you’re returning to Rome?”
Colin kept his head turned away, though he could see her out the corner of his eye. “I didn’t want to burden you, but aye. I have been summoned by the Grand Master of the Order of St. John.”
“I see.” She smoothed a hand across the comforter. “And when will you set sail?”
“Soon. There are things which need my attention first.”
“Such as?”
“You ask a great many questions.”
“Apologies—’tis just there’s so much I do not know about you.”
Her gaze bored into his back with the force of a stonemason’s chisel, yet he could not turn and face her. Too fresh, Jonet’s death still blackened his heart—this first night all too familiar. If only he could have waited…
“When will I meet Duncan?”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “He’s with his nursemaid—the same woman who nursed me as a bairn.”
Margaret audibly sighed. “’Tis good he is well cared for.”
“Aye. He’s a strong lad with powerful lungs.”
“I’m sure he’s the image of his father.”
He was the image of Jonet—at least in coloring. Colin again clenched his fists. He needed to his chore over with.
Clearing his throat, he faced her. God, he could lose himself in those green eyes. He might indulge her allure during sex—it did make it easier for him to perform his duty without using his hand to coax an erection. He leaned forward and placed his lips on her forehead. Sugared lavender. Her scent alone made his cock lengthen. Thank God. He would have been mortified if his manhood hadn’t come to perform.
If only Margaret weren’t a virgin, what he was about to do might be pleasant for her…the king should have found him a widow, blast it all.
He lowered his lips to her ear. “The queen’s ladies will be here in the morning to attest consummation of our marriage.”
She slipped lower beneath the bedclothes. “A-aye, my mother said as much.”
So she knew something about what was to come. Good. He could do this quickly and be gone.
Margaret relaxed a little, lulled by the deep tenor of his voice more than his words. Still, her heart pounded in her chest. If it wouldn’t have been incredibly improper, she would have pulled the bedclothes over her head and asked him to leave. The mere thought of allowing a near stranger to touch her intimately chilled her to the core. Thank heavens he’d agreed to chat for a bit.
While they spoke, Colin kept his face averted. What did he have to be nervous about? He’d been married before. And when he turned to face her, she’d caught a glimpse of that same spark from the fair—the one that had spun her insides upside down. Then he covered it with a guarded frown, similar to the one he’d worn during the feast, as if he wanted to keep distance between them.
Next, he touched his lips to her forehead. Margaret grew more confused than ever. The gesture didn’t seem impassioned. A wee groan escaped his throat and sent her insides aflutter, but he hadn’t kissed her like a husband kisses a wife.
He reached for the bedclothes and dragged them from her grasp. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
She swallowed. Her heart pummeled her chest.
He slipped off his pointed leather shoes and crawled into the bed beside her. Without a word, he nuzzled into her neck and placed a heavy hand on her abdomen. Never in her life had a man touched her so. Margaret’s breathing stuttered.
Slowly, he slid his palm up and covered her breast. His hand, weighty yet gentle, kneaded her tingling flesh. Margaret closed her eyes and tried to imagine dancing—anything but his fingers plying her flesh. She stiffened and gritted her teeth.
“Ye smell good enough to eat.” His voice turned buttery along with his Highland lilt.
She glanced at his face. Colin’s eyes were closed, his lips parted. A hard column of flesh jutted into her hip. He slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her close as he rubbed himself against her. A deep moan rumbled in his chest. Margaret watched him as if she were outside her body.
He’d yet to kiss her on the lips. In all of her imaginings, the first step to lovemaking was a mouth-to-mouth kiss. She’d seen couples—even her parents—share a tender kiss, but Colin seemed to be growing impassioned without the need for her to do anything at all.
He skimmed his hand down the length of her body and stopped just below her belly button. Margaret couldn’t breathe. Colin grasped her shift and began to tug it up.
Ice shot through her veins. She bolted upright. “Wha…what are you doing?”
Colin’s eyes opened. He rose up on his elbow. “Are you afraid, lass?”
“No…yes. Aren’t you supposed to kiss me first?”
He moved his hand to her stomach. “Aye, but I did kiss you.”
“On the lips?”
A muscle in Colin’s jaw twitched with his deep inhale. “Very well.” He lowered his gaze to her lips and inched toward her.
Margaret planted her hands on the mattress and shoved her back against the headboard, turning her chin aside. Kiss me now? This is more like being examined by a rheumy-eyed physician.
Colin stopped, his gaze dark. “Changed your mind, did you?” He grabbed her shift and yanked it up. Before she could twist away, he pushed his knees between her legs. “Since neither one of us is feeling amorous this night, I’ll make this fast.”
Margaret squirmed, but he pinned her with his body. He ran kisses along her neck. “I’m kissing you Margaret. Is this what you want?”
She whimpered against her tingling flesh. His thick column pressed between her legs, sending her world into a maelstrom of fire as he rocked himself. “Feel my cock against your womanhood. A man gets hard when he
’s ready to breed with a woman.”
Cock? She’d never heard that word before, but there was no question what it was. It sounded exciting, yet terrifying at the same time. A tight heat spread deep inside. Margaret clutched his shoulders and closed her eyes. His arms were huge—his muscles bulged as he held himself above her, pinning her in place, but not crushing her.
“’Tis my duty to sew my seed in your womb.”
Her breath stuttered. She couldn’t talk. He was so much more powerful than she. A fluttering heat spread through her sacred place. She wanted him, but didn’t. She wanted something more—more kisses, more caresses, something to make her feel comforted or cherished.
His hips insistently rocked, rubbing the thick column against her mons. She closed her eyes and tried to match his shockingly wanton motion.
“There, lass, give in to it.” His voice softened, ever so intimate.
He slid his hand between her legs. Rough fingers brushed across her, bringing a spasm of tight heat she never knew she could experience without being burned. A rough pad touched an incredibly sensitive spot, turning her insides molten. Margaret gasped.
“Aye, lass.” He slid his finger down further and slipped inside.
Margaret couldn’t move. She stared at his face in awe. In one moment, he made her feel more passion than she’d ever dreamed possible. Oh yes, the swirling of his finger inside her sent shivers coursing through her entire body. In and out, he stroked her slowly.
“Ye are tight, lass, but wet.” His smooth voice cooed as if plucking the bass strings of a harp.
Her lips parted with her stuttered inhale.
Slick with her moisture, Colin’s finger again moved to the sensitive spot he’d first touched. Lord, yes. She tilted her hips, craving more, her body aching for him to rub faster.
