by Amy Jarecki
“No coat of arms?” She bit her lip. Would he punish her for such a remark?
His brows drew together. “There’s little chance of attack here. I frequent this inn often on trips to court.” Thankfully treating her jibe as an innocent question, he watched her out of the corner of his eye while he took a seat on the opposite side of the hearth and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles.
She stared at him for a moment—a man reclining in her chamber—a complete stranger, in all honesty. Black Colin, enforcer of the laws of Christendom. Her husband. Margaret lowered her eyes and whipped a few stitches, willing her hands to steady.
Very aware of the bed sitting across the room, she tried to think of anything she could say to prevent him from coaxing her there. “Why must you return to Rome?”
He didn’t answer straight away, creating an uncomfortable pause that made Margaret’s brow perspire. “The grand master sent me a dire request. I received it on the eve of Jon…er…Duncan’s birth.” His gaze darted to the fire, pained like he’d been stabbed in the arm with a dagger.
The same night his wife passed. Margaret contemplated his profile—bold, angular, deadly, yet sad. He must have loved her very much. “Have you any idea when you shall take your leave?”
He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I must first ensure the building of my keep is set to rights and see you settled at Dunstaffnage with Duncan.”
“Dunstaffnage—the king’s lands? Why not Glenorchy lands?”
“The tower house is not yet finished. My family has governed Dunstaffnage since the time of Bruce.”
“But building the castle needs supervision, does it not? I am quite able—”
“A building site is no place for a lady and a bairn. I spent a great deal of time at Dunstaffnage as a lad. It is well fortified and far away from clan feuds and the threat of outlaws. You will be safe there.”
“Kilchurn is unsafe?” Circumstances grow worse by the moment.
He adjusted in his seat. “’Tis not yet fortified as Dunstaffnage is…and there is some unrest with the crofters which I need to address. But mark me, it will be every bit as impenetrable as Dunstaffnage by the time it’s ready for you and Duncan to reside there.”
So he did intend to put her in a tower and forget about her while he sailed for Rome. Margaret heeded her mother’s words and chose to tread lightly. “You are aware I managed a great many affairs for my father.”
“I’m sure you did quite well at it, too.” He leaned forward. “From the safe confines of your father’s keep.”
“But—”
“I’ll not discuss it. Your duty is the care of our son, and I’ll see to it you both are protected within well-fortified walls.”
Margaret pursed her lips. Aye, she’d lived in a castle, but she’d worked hard to earn the respect of her father’s men, as well as the crofters who paid rent to till his lands. She could be a help to Colin if he was to leave the country for an undetermined period of time. She surveyed his presumptuous stature from head to toe. The Lord of Glenorchy didn’t appear a man who’d bend to a lady’s word. She must prove herself. She prayed an opportunity would present itself soon.
He stood and stretched. The heady scent of pure male washed over her. His arms alone bulged with muscles she’d never dreamed existed in a man. Margaret’s heart hammered in her chest. She glanced back at the bed. Her palms perspired so, the needle dropped to the floor.
His gaze met hers for an instant—the deadly one that turned her blood to ice. Margaret could scarcely breathe. If he tried to lay a hand on her, she’d tell him how much the saddle had hurt all day because of the previous night’s boorishness. He stepped toward her. Reflexively she clutched her fists under her chin.
He frowned, his brown eyes turning black. “You should sleep,” he said gruffly. “We leave at first light.”
Margaret watched him walk toward the door—broad shoulders, tapering to firm hips, supported by legs as solid as oak. At the fete I wondered how I would look upon such a magnificent masculine form with disinterested eyes. Now I know.
Once he left, she hurried across the floor and turned the lock. Thank heavens he hadn’t mounted another attack.
8
The Highlands, 10th October, 1455
The next day, the retinue continued on, slogging through miserable wind and spitting rain. Before dark, Colin led the procession into a clearing surrounded by tall birch and evergreens. Fortunately, the rain had stopped, though the ground was soggy. Colin dismounted and strode toward Margaret’s place behind the wagon, his black cloak slung across his armored shoulder. “Build a fire, men—if you can find anything dry enough to burn.”
He sent out a hunting party and had the campsite bustling with activity before he reached Margaret’s mare. “Apologies for the weather, m’lady.” He grasped her waist, lowering her to the ground like she weighed nothing.
She tried to laugh, but it came out like a snort. “As if you could do anything about the rain.” She was still angry with him.
He inclined his head toward the wagon. “I shall make you a dry bed for the night. I’ll not see you lying in the muck with the men.”
Shivering, Margaret studied the muddy ground, strewn with thick patches of moss. She wished they all could sleep in the wagon. The ground would be comfortable for no man. “Thank you.”
In his heavy armor, Colin easily leapt into the back of the wagon and started moving things to the sides and stacking her trunks in the nose, creating a gap in the center. “I’ll lay down a plaid for you after supper.” He held up his finger, his eyes popping wide as if he’d had an idea. “I’ve just the thing to ensure you stay dry.”
Margaret wrung her hands. “There’s no need to go to any trouble.”
“For a woman?” He marched to his horse and untied his saddlebag. “There’s nothing but trouble.”
Her hands dropped. Things between them might be a wee bit easier if he liked her. But no, he considered her a burden—one more yoke to add to his list of responsibilities.
Colin turned and flashed a sheepish smile. “I see I’ve failed at my attempt at making a joke.”
She crossed her arms. “I must admit, I’ve some difficulty understanding your humor.”
He unfolded an oblong piece of oiled leather. “I purchased this doeskin at the Stirling fete for a pair of shoes. I’ll secure it over the wagon so you’ll stay dry if the rain should start up again.”
“How kind.”
Colin used his dagger to make holes in the corners of the hide. “I’m not a complete ogre.”
“Oh no?”
Margaret thought he’d be angry at her terse remark, but he glanced up with hurt in his eyes—a look that tied her stomach in knots. She busied herself looking for dry kindling. Why on earth would he not want her to think him an ogre? He’d behaved as one. Was he trying to make it up to her by fashioning a bed in the back of a rickety old wagon? He’d need to come up with something a fair bit more chivalrous than that.
Margaret kneeled, reached under a thick conifer and found dry twigs. She deposited them in the center of the site and took on the task of stacking stones in a circle for the fire. Chilled to the bone, she imagined they all needed warmth.
Men stopped by, carrying armfuls of wood and dropped them into a growing pile before setting out for more. Each one grinned in his own way, showing their appreciation of her willingness to help.
Colin hailed his squire. “Maxwell, come help me remove my armor.”
Margaret pretended not to notice when he slid his cloak from his sturdy form. But her insides shivered in concert with her skin. Why couldn’t he be reed thin or chubby, or anything but a rock-solid warrior? The man was so utterly distracting. But he doesn’t like me.
She shook her head. Earlier, she’d spotted a satchel of char cloth and flax tow in the back of the wagon. She collected it with a flint and striking iron.
Maxwell already had Colin’s leg irons removed. The redheaded lad had
been trained well. Margaret gaped. God’s teeth, Lord Glenorchy needs to keep his body covered more than a woman ought. His form is scandalous.
Colin turned his head, and Margaret continued to the fire pit before he could catch her staring. On her knees, she placed the swatch of char cloth in the center of the pit and struck the flint to the iron. A spark immediately took flame, and she quickly piled it with quick-burning flax tow. She picked up a handful of twigs while blowing on the tiny flame. The flax ignited and she carefully added a twig, and then more, stacking them to allow air to the flame so not to snuff it.
“Margaret.”
The back of her neck prickled. Colin stood directly behind her. She chose not to turn, picked up a thicker branch and placed it on the growing flame. “Aye?”
“No wife of mine will dirty her hands when there’s a host of men about who can start a fire.” Before she had a chance to respond, he beckoned a pair of soldiers. “William, Fionn. Stoke the fire and fashion a spit whilst you’re at it.” Colin stepped beside her and offered his hand. “Are you chilled?”
She looked at his callused palm—as callused as his heart. “Not only cold, but damp as well.” Margaret stood without his assistance.
Persisting, he placed his hand in the small of her back. “I’ll fetch you a saddle blanket to sit upon whilst the fire warms you.”
She nodded, wishing he’d leave her alone. His sudden interest in her welfare was disconcerting. The blackguard made it difficult for her to maintain a deep level of hostility when he tried to be nice. And now that his armor had been removed, every muscle bulged under his tight-fitting woolens. Must he walk around the clearing in nothing but chausses and a short arming doublet? Yes, Margaret would have appreciated watching a man of his physical stature attend her, but not Black Colin. She would not succumb to his physical allure—he’d made it clear he had no amorous feelings for her. She turned away, willing him to wrap himself in his cloak to keep her eyes from straying over every inch of his muscular physique. No man should be thus endowed.
Colin placed a saddle blanket on the ground and retrieved his cloak from the wagon. “Allow me, m’lady.”
She gasped when he gently wrapped it around her shoulders. Tugging the fur-lined garment across her body, she stepped away. “You need your cloak. There’s a chill this eve.”
He slapped a hand through the air. “Bah. I’m toasty dry. I’ve been swathed in iron all day. I need a cool breeze to enliven my limbs.”
Margaret sat. Colin had no intention of covering up. The scent of spice and rugged warrior washed over her. She brushed her nose across the cloak’s soft fur and closed her eyes, inhaling. Curses. Why couldn’t he smell like a swine’s bog?
The blaze had grown into a bonfire by the time Argyll and his hunting crew crashed through the wood with a red deer suspended from a pole.
Slapping the men on their shoulders, Colin grinned. “Well done. We shall fill our bellies this night and sleep soundly.”
Argyll smiled at Margaret. “Hugh felled the beast with a single arrow.”
She looked at the archer admiringly. “Then Hugh shall have the first cut.”
Comfortable under Colin’s cloak, Margaret watched the men interact with each other, joking, taking turns spinning the carcass on the spit. They all stole glances her way, observing her with curiosity. She didn’t mind. She was assessing them as well—who had the sharpest wit, who was tallest, who carried pikes or swords or bows. Colin had amassed an impressive army. She suspected these were the men who followed him to Rome and back, and from their bantering, they’d been together for a long time.
As darkness crept over them, the air grew heady with the smell of roasting meat. Her stomach rumbled—she could taste the juicy venison already.
Colin opted to recline on his saddle across the fire. Margaret swallowed against the thickening in her throat. Why would he do that? Did he not ask the king to find him a wife? And now he had married her, he acted in the most peculiar ways, first catering to her comfort and then staying as far away from her as he could without removing himself from his company of men. A chill cut through the cloak.
Lord Argyll took a seat beside his uncle and flashed a lopsided grin at her. His twisted face formed an unspoken apology, followed by a quirk, as if he also didn’t understand why Colin had chosen that particular spot.
“Have you dried from the rain, m’lady?” Maxwell, the young squire, asked. At least he’d been bold enough to sit alongside her.
“Aye. All except my toes.”
“Where do you hail from?” another asked.
“My father is Lord Struan. His lands include Loch Rannoch, west of Pitlochry.”
“Is it nice there?” All eyes stared at her.
“’Tis a lovely Highland loch. Probably not much different to Loch Awe.”
A big fellow laughed. “Except Dunalasdair is a fine keep, unlike Kilchurn, which will never be complete if the grand master keeps hailing Lord Colin to Rome.”
Colin shot him a stern glare. “She’ll be done within the year.”
The men laughed, and Colin spread his palms toward Argyll. The younger man shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I questioned the same only a fortnight ago.”
“Do you miss your family?” Maxwell asked.
Margaret looked directly at Colin to ensure he was listening. “Yes. Very much. They were most kind and loving.”
“Do you have any siblings?” The boy was full of questions.
She narrowed her gaze. “Two elder brothers who would protect me with their lives.”
Colin shifted as if a rock prodded his backside.
Maxwell picked up a stick and poked the fire. “What sorts of things do you enjoy?”
“Music, but most of all, I love to dance.” Margaret glared at Colin across the flame. “I could dance for hours every night.”
Lord Glenorchy frowned. “Is that blasted meat cooked?”
The man at the spit leaned over the fire for a closer look. “Not yet, m’lord.”
“Can you make it?” Maxwell asked.
Margaret knitted her brows. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Make music? Do you play an instrument or sing?”
She chuckled. “Aye. I play the lute and sing a little. I daresay I wouldn’t be a Highland lassie if I didn’t.”
“Can you play for us?” the big man asked.
Margaret cast her gaze to the wagon. “I’m afraid my lute is in my trunks.”
Argyll jabbed Colin in the ribs. “Go fetch it for her, uncle. It will be a pleasant diversion to staring at all these ugly faces across the fire.” He bowed his head toward Margaret. “Excepting you, m’lady.”
“Och, come, m’lord,” the soldiers chorused.
“Wheesht, you’re all carrying on like a flock of hens.” Colin stood and eyed Margaret with his fists on his hips. “You’ll need to point out where it is. I’m not digging through all those trunks for naught.”
Colin let out a deep breath and trudged toward the wagon. He chose to sit across the fire from Margaret, thinking it a good idea to put distance between them. He’d not considered what the firelight would do to illuminate her porcelain skin, or how charming she’d look when interacting with the men. He wanted to bark at them, tell the lot to keep their mouths shut and ignore the lass. Aye, that would put him in good favor with his men. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple.
He was behaving like an arse.
The lady came up behind him, making the hair at his nape stand on end. Those hypnotic green eyes bored into his back. Colin swiped his hand across his neck to quash his damnable tingling, and climbed into the wagon. He examined her assortment of trunks. “Which one is it?” he barked.
“The big one on the bottom.”
Of course it couldn’t be in one of the light little trunks that was easy to access. He had to untie his makeshift tent and move just about every piece of luggage aside to reach it, mussing his earlier work to make her a suitable place to sleep.
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He’d run around like a lovesick newlywed seeing to her needs. He was such a complete and utter muttonhead. His gut was wound tight. He shoved a mid-sized trunk aside. After Colin finally cleared the path to Margaret’s mammoth trunk, he yanked open the hasp and threw back the lid a bit more vigorously than he ought.
The lute wasn’t on top. “I don’t see it here.” He slid his hand down the sides. Nothing.
The wagon jostled and Colin turned around. Margaret had deftly climbed up unassisted, standing inches from his nose. Sugared lavender. His damned knees practically wobbled.
She cleared her throat. “If I might pass, I’ll retrieve it.”
Colin glanced behind her. There was no place to move. “Uh.” He shuffled sideways. “Perhaps if we turn together we can switch places.”
She nodded, and stepped toward him, looking up with those huge almond-shaped eyes. In the dim light all he could see was the whites of her eyes and the outline of her oval face, but her fragrance gripped him like a vise. He scooted his feet as she moved. Something jabbed him in the back. His body squashed against hers. Soft, pliable breasts rubbed his chest. Colin tried to arch his hips back, but his manhood crushed against her. Her warm breath caressed his skin. Colin’s groin turned to fire.
She tipped up her chin. He could see the green of her eyes now. Rimmed by gold flecks, they glowed, reflecting the firelight. Colin’s tongue tapped his upper teeth and he sucked in a sharp breath. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he drew her even closer, overwhelmed by an urge to kiss her. He crooked his neck, his heart pounding.
With a gasp, Margaret averted her head. Colin’s lips nearly collided with her cheek, but she shoved her way past him and faced her trunk.
A cold breeze quashed his inner flame to embers. Christ, what in God’s name was that about? She’s a vixen sent to torment me.
Margaret slid her hand deep into the trunk. “I packed it in the middle of my gowns to keep it from breaking.”
Colin clenched his fists. He should have stepped aside as soon as he got the trunk free. What had come over him? He was no adolescent lad sneaking from the campfire to steal a kiss. He’d better shove a stopper in his flask, for obviously the whisky had made his unmentionables turn to lusty fire.
