by Amy Jarecki
“Your husband? And who might that be?” Round Face asked.
All five women stopped and looked at her.
Margaret glanced over her shoulder and then gave them her most devious grin, waggling her eyebrows. “King James matched me with Black Colin.” She hiked up her skirts and waded into the ice-cold rushing water, made louder by absolutely silent voices.
Then they all spoke at once.
“How dreadful.”
“Ye ken he just lost his wife…”
“…and he has a wee bairn.”
“And he intends to return to Rome for another crusade.”
Margaret grabbed a plaid from a basket perched upon the rocks and doused it in the water. “Aye, and yet my parents insisted it was a good match.” She sighed loudly. “After all, who can go against the king’s orders? It was my duty to marry him.”
The women exchanged oohs and ahs.
“You must be very brave indeed.”
“Indeed.”
“Indeed.”
Margaret stomped the plaid, making a show of her washing skills—she’d learned them from her nursemaid. Washing clothes with her skirts wrapped up around her knees had been great sport for a child of nine. “Aye, he’s a fearsome lord.”
“Is he?” They all gaped at her with interested, wide eyes.
Margaret nodded, knitting her brows with affected concern. “He’s worried about building the keep. Said there have been reports of vandals.”
“Aye.” The round-faced woman put a fist on her hip. Stout, she looked like she could flatten a Highland wrestler with a solid punch. “And Master Elliot is blaming it on our men.”
“Oh?” Margaret stopped stomping. “’Tis a disgrace. Why do you think he’s doing that?”
One lassie turned her back. “He’s a lazy bastard,” she mumbled so quietly, Margaret had no doubt the words weren’t meant for her ears.
She tried not to gape at the young woman’s vulgar tongue. “Have you any idea who’s causing the damage?”
“Nay,” another said. “Lord Colin increased the guard.”
She squished the plaid between her freezing toes. “Have there been problems since?”
Round Face shook her head. “Not with vandals.”
Five heads again shook in unison.
“But we dunna want our men blamed…”
“There never is enough sand…”
“Or stone…”
“I’m worried about food for winter…”
Margaret clasped her hands to her cheeks. “My, it does seem the whole venture is befuddled.”
“We’d like to see the keep finished. It would bring us all peace of mind.”
Margaret wrung out the plaid and tossed it into the “clean” basket. “Are you all MacGregor women?”
“Aye, and Campbells,” they chorused.
She fisted her hips. “Your men pay fealty to Lord Glenorchy?”
“Aye. We’re guardians of this land and proud of it.” Round Face clearly was the leader of the group.
Margaret met her gaze. “But why are you afraid there’ll not be enough food come winter?”
“Black Colin, er, Lord Glenorchy’s factor—”
“Wheesht,” the young one silenced.
Margaret stood straight. Her next words must be spoken with utmost care, else she’d lose their trust—and a chance to uncover the pillager. “I assure you, your reply will be held in confidence. If you suspect anything, anything at all, I must be made aware.” She placed a hand over her heart. “I vow not a one of you will suffer consequences for speaking out. All suspicions will be discreetly explored.”
Lips pursed, they all gave stern nods to the leader. “The man is a cheat. If ye ask me, he’s behind the vandalism. He’s responsible for the lack of supplies, for certain.”
Hmm. Now she was getting somewhere. “And who is Lord Glenorchy’s factor?”
“Walter MacCorkodale.” The woman pointed to the hills. “His clan owns a wee parcel of land west of here.”
Margaret followed the gesture then glanced toward the unfinished castle. Colin was riding toward them rapidly.
“Thank you.” She stepped out of the river and picked up her shoes as Colin rode within earshot. “’Tis been ever so enlightening chatting with you ladies. I do hope we can spend some time together again. I’m sure there shall be many feasts once the keep has been completed.”
Each one smiled warmly.
Frowning, Colin appeared as if he could skewer her with his mammoth sword when he cantered up, leading her mare. “I asked you to stay with the guard.”
“Apologies, my lord.” She winked over her shoulder. “I thought it would be pleasant to meet the women who support your men.”
Grumbling under his breath, he hopped down and helped her mount. She felt rather empowered by her slight disregard of his orders. Evidently, she was growing impervious to his blackguard glares. Besides, they would be staying at the cottage for the night. He had absolutely no reason to hurry her.
Colin’s jaw twitched. He opened the door to the cottage and stood aside to allow Margaret to pass. She waltzed inside, completely oblivious to his dark mood. He removed his cloak and draped it on a peg. “I use this cottage for hunting. It isn’t much, but better than sleeping in the stable.”
She turned full circle, unpinning her cloak and handing it to him. “’Tis quaint.”
Stark was a better choice of words. A hearth with cooking utensils, a wooden table with four mismatched chairs, a worn settee and an eight-point stag’s head on the wall. The only other room was the bedchamber. Her heels clicked the floorboards while she walked across and opened the door. The chamber wasn’t much fancier—a hearth, a large bed, a round table and two chairs.
Colin allowed her to explore whilst he set to building the fire. Margaret was certainly the jauntiest, most outspoken wife he’d ever had. His gut twisted. He didn’t care if it were a trifle—she’d disobeyed him. He wouldn’t tolerate disobedience in his men, and he wouldn’t stand for it with her either. Ever since they left Stirling, she’d jabbed at him with little twists of phrase, and then she rode out of formation and joined him at the front of the retinue. He never should have allowed it.
The thing that had his insides twisted the most was her blatant disregard for a direct order. He told her to remain in her saddle. How difficult was it to follow one simple instruction? If there had been a threat nearby, he never would have been able to protect her.
Margaret’s footsteps lightly tapped around him. “Only one bedchamber, m’lord?” Her voice, not so self-assured, had a tremor.
“Aye.” Honestly, he hadn’t thought about the sleeping arrangements, and right now he didn’t want to.
He struck the flint against the char. A flame leapt to life and he stacked twigs around it. Once the fire could be left alone, he faced her with his hands on his hips. “The next time I ask you to do something, I’ll expect you to be mindful of my request.”
She mirrored his pose, her small fists on feisty, disrespectful hips. “Why shouldn’t I speak to the local women? They’re our kin, no?”
“No…I mean, aye.” Leave it to her to steer him away from the subject at hand. “Dammit, woman. Your safety is my concern. How can I protect you if you’re off hiking up your skirts, washing with the commoners?”
Margaret’s eyebrows pinched together. “I was in danger?”
Blast her inquisition. “Nay, but you could have been. When I give an order, I expect it to be followed.”
“So you desire me to obey your every word without question?” She curtseyed. “Oh gallant knight.”
“Bloody hell.” He pushed past her and stared up at the stag’s head. “You make it sound as if I am some sort of tyrant.”
“Are you not?”
“Of course I am not.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I’ve a great many things to oversee, and—”
The door opened, and a servant walked in with a tray. “Your supper, m’lord.”<
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Colin pointed to the table. “Leave it.” His blood coursed hot beneath his skin until the servant took his leave. Colin grabbed his cloak from the peg. “Eat. I shall bed down in the stable tonight, since my presence is so maddening for you.”
He flung open the door. “I trust your person can manage to remain within the cottage for the night?” He didn’t wait for her response and slammed the door.
Colin marched across the yard to the stables. Marrying Margaret Robinson was the worst idea he’d ever had. He never should have gone through with the ceremony. The absolute last thing he needed was a headstrong wife. Blast her. If things didn’t improve when they reached Dunstaffnage, he’d have no recourse but to consider an annulment on the grounds of personal incompatibility.
He pushed inside the stable and tossed his gear beside Maxwell.
The lad sat up. “Is everything all right, m’lord?”
“Aye, everything is bloody wonderful.” He kicked the straw into a pile.
“Where is Lady Margaret?”
“In the cottage, where else?”
“So…er…why are you here?” At eighteen, the young squire also could use a lesson in curbing his tongue.
“That’s none of your concern.”
Maxwell reclined against the wall. “She’s pretty.”
Colin gave him a stern glare—a warning to keep his mouth shut.
The lad spread his palms apologetically. “I mean, your wife, it’s not bad to notice…um…you’re a lucky man…er…lord.”
Colin plopped down on his mound of hay. “Wheesht, would you shut your gob?”
Maxwell hung his head. “Sorry.”
Colin grumbled under his breath. He pulled his cloak across his shoulders and reclined. Just over three sennights and the Kilchurn walls would be mudded up. He needed to remain behind work with the master mason, but doing so was out of the question. Margaret already thought him a rogue. Sending her ahead to Dunstaffnage, though tempting, would be heartless. Besides, he could not allow her to arrive at the castle alone and have Effie thrust Duncan into her arms. The least chivalric of all knights would accompany his wife to ensure his family was settled and comfortable.
He groaned. Traveling there and back would only keep him away for two more days. It was the right thing to do.
Colin closed his eyes on a sigh. Things with Margaret would settle soon and he could tend to his affairs. He rolled to his side. Last night he’d rested in the same position and nuzzled into Margaret’s silken hair. Warmth spread throughout his chest. He could bury his nose in that woman’s tresses for an eternity.
His eyes flashed open. No, I could not and must not. He slapped his hand to his head. This morning he’d awaken with the most painful erection he’d ever had in his life. That bloody woman was the cause. If she hadn’t been sleeping beside him, he would have had frozen cods like the rest of his men, and his embarrassing, unholy cock wouldn’t have taken so long to ease.
He shifted uncomfortably. It was best for him to sleep in the stable, away from her and that bonny smell. Mercifully, she’d have her own chamber at the castle and could leave him to his miserable mourning. He’d cool down his heated Campbell urges and set his mind on rejoining the crusade.
10
The Highlands, 11th October, 1455
As expected, Margaret rode behind the wagon on this last leg of their journey to Dunstaffnage. Colin had been such an insufferable tyrant last eve, he’d given her no time to discuss her findings. However, in all honesty, she needed to decide how to broach the subject before she told him the women thought his factor corrupt. The idea of conversing with him on such a delicate matter filled her with trepidation. Colin was nowhere near as approachable as her father had been. Would the Black Knight explode in a rage? Last night he’d shown her a sampling of his temper. She had little doubt he could fire off a roar like a line of battlement cannons.
She cringed. At least Mother would be pleased at her restraint. She’d been tempted to follow him outside and tell him exactly what she thought of his overbearing concern for safety and top it off by slamming him with the fact his factor was considered a cheat.
But then, Colin had most likely employed Walter MacCorkodale for a very long time. Her word against a trusted servant would be grave, and at this stage, Lord Glenorchy would probably side with the swindler. Factors were learned and respected men, but could become corrupt if not held accountable—she’d learned that through her father’s experience. With Colin’s frequent absences and trips abroad, she imagined Walter MacCorkodale had been given too much freedom with his quill, among other things. Margaret would like to meet the man and assess his character for herself. Perhaps she’d gain an opportunity soon.
She chuckled at her antics from the prior day. The Campbell and MacGregor women were of strong Highland stock. Though initially they were guarded, they’d opened up as soon as Margaret started working beside them. The years she’d spent employed by her father had helped her develop a keen respect for crofters. Every soul in the clan was important and deserved both charity and respect. This core value provided the foundation of Margaret’s principles. One with which she would never part.
She had no reason to doubt the validity of washerwomen’s concerns—especially the fact the MacGregor men were innocent and worked well beside the Campbell clan, and everyone wanted to see the castle completed quickly.
Perhaps Colin had spent the evening speaking to the men, since he’d stayed the night someplace other than the cottage bedchamber. Thank all holiness for that small boon. She’d be content if he stayed away from her bedchamber for the rest of their days.
It was afternoon when she gathered her wits and cued her mare for a canter. Her palms instantly started to perspire when she joined Lord Glenorchy and Lord Argyll at the front of the procession.
Colin arched his brow under his helm. “Lady Margaret.” He said nothing to urge her back to the rear.
“M’lord.” She smoothed a hand over her skirts. “Were you able to speak to the MacGregors about the vandalism?”
“Heaven’s stars, woman.” He gave her a stern frown. “You’d best leave these things to me.”
“Aye, Colin?” By his wide-eyed response, she’d caught him off guard, using his familiar name with a hint of sarcasm. Though her insides quaked, his reaction served to encourage her to press him. “And to whom shall I leave things after you set sail with no possible way of contacting you for months?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’ve said I will not head for Rome before I’ve got things set to rights.”
Och aye, whilst I’m locked away with a wee bairn in some archaic castle? “I see, and affairs will stay in a perfect state of ‘right’ throughout the duration of your crusade?”
Argyll leaned forward in his saddle. “She has a point.”
Colin ran his fingers under his helm. “I assure you, m’lady, all will be in place before I take my leave. The only thing you will need to concern yourself with is Duncan’s education and birthing a bairn yourself.”
Margaret pulled on her reins. Rolling heat crept up her face. Argyll let out a boisterous laugh.
And she’d thought him a more agreeable character than Colin? Wonderful. She’d spent the entire morning gathering her wits, only to be met with a snarl and laughter. Turning her mare, she headed back to the solitude of her “place” behind the wagon. Who needed to ride beside a bombastic, pigheaded husband and his nephew?
Birthing the Black Knight’s bairn? So he does intend to continue marital relations. Heaven help me.
She’d almost made it to the wagon when Colin’s gauntleted hand reached for her reins. “We’re nearly there, Lady Margaret. Come, you’ll enjoy the view far more from the lead.”
She sat fully erect with a challenging glare. “Are you not afraid outlaws will charge out of the wood and spring upon us?”
“Not this close to Dunstaffnage, lest the fools are out to have their throats cut.” He chuckled. “The Campbells have b
een keepers of this land since Robert the Bruce united Scotland.” He inhaled deeply. “Nary a soul in these parts would ride against me and my men.”
She turned her mare back around. “Would you would prefer to call this home?”
“Nay. Though we govern, this is the king’s land. Innis Chonnell has always been the Campbell keep, now owned by my nephew.” A faraway glint shimmered in Colin’s eye. “Kilchurn will soon be finished. It will exceed the grandeur of Dunstaffnage, and when it is complete, I shall build a castle even more imposing on Argyll’s new holdings in Inverary. The Campbell name shall be feared throughout Scotland.”
“I daresay it already is,” Margaret mumbled under her breath, steering her mare beside Argyll.
He nodded agreeably. “You do dream on a lofty scale, uncle.”
“And why should I not? We are lords of this land.” Colin shook his gauntleted finger. “Never forget that.”
They rode past a lovely chapel nestled in the wood. Through the trees, a well-worn path led to an outer gatehouse, fortified by stone bailey walls, not unlike her family’s keep on Loch Rannoch. Smoke billowing from chimneys, the castle walls loomed atop a solid-rock outcrop. The natural stone, tall as the surrounding trees, projected from the grassy landscape.
They entered a narrow-walled pathway leading to the inner gate. The dark grey curtain stretched high to the heavens. Much taller than Dunalasdair. As they rounded the corner, the donjon tower emerged above the walls, with defensive arrow slits strategically placed all the way up to the crenelated top.
“I can see why Robert the Bruce desired a stronghold fortified such as this.” Margaret shifted her gaze to the west. “Is the cove an outlet to the sea?”
Colin pointed. “Aye, the castle sits on the point where Loch Etive meets the Firth of Lorn.”
“I should like to walk atop the wall and see it.”
“Perhaps after you meet our son.”
Margaret would have been content if Colin had smiled when he spoke it. But his voice held a monotonous tone, as if he couldn’t care less what occupied her time outside of her duties as stepmother.
