by Amy Jarecki
What have I done to earn his disdain? This whole charade would be much easier to bear if we could be on friendlier terms. My mother and father always spoke to each other candidly. That is all I ask.
Everything turned to blackness when they rode beneath the inner gate’s dank portcullis. Margaret tensed. Would this be her prison? She wasn’t met with the welcomed feeling of open air and majestic mountains like she’d been in Glen Orchy. True, Dunstaffnage was surrounded by trees and water. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but this castle sent chills to her bones. No wonder Colin was driven to build upon his lands. Whether he liked it or not, she would do everything in her power to see to the completion of the tower house. Kilchurn would be her home too, God willing.
Relieved to have arrived at Dunstaffnage, Colin could now deposit Margaret in her rooms and move on with his affairs. The dusting of snow they’d had on the trail was a stern reminder winter wasn’t far off. If he didn’t set sail for Rome soon, he’d be forced to delay his journey until spring. He doubted Jacques de Milly would want to wait. War didn’t stop in the Holy Land like it did during winter in the north.
After dismounting in the courtyard, he ushered Margaret into the keep. “We’ll stop at the nursery first. I’m sure you’re anxious to see Duncan.”
“Indeed.”
Fortunately, she didn’t argue with him on that point. If the trip was any indication, Lady Margaret was a strong-willed woman—perhaps too much so.
Leading her up the winding tower stairs, his back tingled, sensing her eyes assessing him. Did she appreciate what she saw? Not that he should care. Did she like him at all? He shouldn’t care about that either.
Finally, they crested the steps and he led her through the upper passageway and opened the door. The nursery resounded with a healthy wail. Effie’s gaze snapped up. She held Duncan in her arms, but Colin’s son would not be consoled. The bairn’s wee voice struck a chord deep in the black recesses of his heart. Frozen in place for an instant, he wanted to turn tail and run.
The nursemaid stood. “M’lord.”
Blinking, he forced himself to cross the room and kiss her cheek. “Effie, please allow me to introduce Lady Margaret.”
“’Tis my pleasure.” Margaret beamed. Her eyes dropped to Duncan, still holding forth with wee gasps between breaths. “My, he has healthy lungs.”
Effie held the babe out to Colin. He had no choice but to cradle him. His black heart swelled with the return of too many raw memories. The bairn cried louder. Must be my cold armor.
“I cannot believe I’ve only been gone a fortnight and he’s already changed.” Colin pressed his lips against Duncan’s forehead. He smelled of sweetness only babies possessed. Closing his eyes, Colin offered a desperate and silent prayer that this child would live well into adulthood.
He held crying bairn out to Margaret. “Meet your stepson.”
She cradled him in her arms with a nervous chuckle. The babe immediately quieted. Colin’s mouth went dry. To see his bairn take an instant liking to Margaret was bittersweet. He berated himself. Yes, he wanted, needed her to form a bond, but seeing her holding Duncan with Jonet’s grave still warm made sanity flee. The room spun.
Margaret seemed not to notice the sweat beading Colin’s brow. “Such a warm little bundle. Is he eating well?”
“Aye, the wet nurse is never far away.” Effie nodded approvingly. “He likes ye.”
Margaret’s cheeks took on a glow. “How fortunate he has a breast from which to suckle.”
Colin needed air. He pinched the bridge of his nose. If only Jonet could have been the one to feed the bairn.
Margaret stepped toward him while gently rocking Duncan. “Are you well, m’lord?”
“Perfectly fine.” He tried to smile. “Thrilled to be here at last.”
Margaret eyed him as if she weren’t convinced—strong-willed and too perceptive for her own good.
Effie reached for Duncan. “You must be exhausted from your journey.”
Rubbing her hip, Margaret nodded. “Happy to be out of the saddle.”
“I’ll put Duncan down then will show you to your chamber.”
Colin bowed. “Thank you, matron. I’ve things to attend.” He turned to Margaret. “Try to rest m’lady. We’ll have a small meal in the great hall this eve.”
Margaret curtseyed and Colin took his leave. He couldn’t remove himself from the nursery fast enough.
Marching to his chamber, a maelstrom of twisted emotions coursed through him. Though he was thrilled to see Duncan, the sight of his bairn brought back his misery full force. Jonet had decorated the nursery. Everywhere he looked there was something that reminded him of her. She’d embroidered the bedclothes, even the gown Duncan wore had been embroidered by the woman he’d once adored.
Maxwell met Colin in his rooms and began the process of removing his armor. Colin’s gaze shot to his immense four-poster bed. Duncan had been conceived in that very spot. It had been the eve of the Yuletide Feast, he was sure of it.
Jonet had high color in her cheeks that eve—and it wasn’t only caused by the mulled wine. Colin guessed she was fertile when they’d supped and she’d lulled him with half-cast eyes.
“Will there be anything else, m’lord?”
Colin blinked. “Pardon?”
“Can I be of further service?” Maxwell asked.
He smoothed his hands over his arms. His mind had been so full of memories, he’d no idea the squire had already removed his entire coat of armor. “No, lad. You’re free to go.”
Colin sat in his overstuffed chair and rubbed his face. In the past month, his entire life had been sifted through a thresher. Though surrounded by people, he’d never felt so lonely. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Margaret’s face flooded his thoughts. First at the fete, when they hadn’t yet been introduced, she was as happy and lively as a kitten. He could have gathered her in his arms and danced a jig.
He lowered his hands and chuckled. I could be a miserably hopeless romantic if I let down my guard.
She’d looked as lovely as a painting when she gazed at him and studied his face during the wedding. He inhaled, remembering how much her scent had affected him that first night—and after.
His gut clenched. He cast a sorrowful gaze toward the bed. He should not be thinking of Margaret. Colin crossed the room and grasped one of the pillows Jonet had embroidered. He held it to his face, but only dust filled his nose. He smashed the damnable thing between his palms.
Why did this have to happen to him? Why was he standing in his chamber feeling wretched, hating himself? Men often lost wives to childbirth and were forced to wed another. He’d done nothing but his duty as a father and as Lord of Glenorchy. Christ, he’d even vowed not to allow Margaret into his heart.
He threw the pillow across the room and stormed out the door. Elliot had three short sennights to work on Kilchurn. Blast. Colin needed to supervise the work himself—ensure every effort was put forth before they started mudding.
Without his armor weighing him down, he dashed up the tower stairs like he was flying. Stepping out into the crisp autumn breeze, he inhaled deeply. Moored in the protective waters of Loch Etive, his fleet of sea galleys rocked with the waves. The largest had a tall mast and eighteen oars. Fast and seaworthy, he’d had her fitted with the latest Portuguese cannon when he was in Rome. No other galley in the Highlands could best her.
The warship beckoned. Once he set sail, he’d leave his affairs behind, fill his nostrils with salty air and enjoy the cruise to the Holy Land. Though when he arrived, it would be a different matter. He didn’t care for killing, but he’d become exceptionally good at it.
He strolled around the wall walk, greeting sentries along the way. With the wind in his face, his heavy heart lightened somewhat. Arriving at the donjon, he turned and retraced his steps, all the way around and through the west tower.
The Campbells had been caretakers of this castle for over two hundred years. Though Duns
taffnage had been through many sieges, his family always prevailed. The Campbells had faithfully been powerful supporters of the king and Scotland. And now, as a third son, he’d first become a knight and then earned his own title as Lord of Glenorchy—so much more than a third son could wish for. He wanted his castle at Kilchurn completed so badly he could taste it.
Jonet’s death had dealt him a calamitous blow. He could not allow his grief to claim his wits. Colin would rise above his melancholy and build a feared dynasty that would remain strong throughout the centuries. Duncan would live. He knew it in the depths of his bowels, and the lad’s healthy cries only stood to cement Colin’s conviction.
Once he’d made it back around to the donjon, Colin rested his elbows on the wall and stared out over the Firth of Lorn. He didn’t want to go inside. This was the first time he’d truly relaxed since—well, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d been at ease.
Up there on the wall-walk, tension melted from his shoulders. It had been the same when he was a lad—a quiet walk with the wind in his face, gazing out over the idyllic Highland scenery.
The sunset filled the western sky with brilliant orange. He could watch the changing sky for hours, but his duties awaited and soon supper would be served.
Heaving a heavy sigh, he whipped around and collided with Lady Margaret.
His breath caught in his throat. Every muscle in Colin’s body seized to stop his forward progress. So small, the lady tottered and nearly fell through a crenel notch. Colin gripped her hands and steadied her. “Bloody oath, what were you doing sneaking up on me like that?”
Margaret jerked her arms away and rubbed her wrists. “I wasn’t sneaking. I stepped outside and you practically barged over the top of me.” She wore a cloak fastened around her shoulders, her chestnut locks uncovered. A breeze swept them up in a shimmering flutter of silk.
He glared at her, not about to allow himself to admire her blasted uncovered hair. God’s teeth, his heart had practically leapt out of his chest when she’d nearly fallen to her death. “I just lost one wife. I’m not certain I’m ready to lose another quite yet.”
“That’s good to know.” She sidled past him, looking at the view. “Forcing me to ride behind the wagon, I’d begun to wonder.”
Must she continually challenge him? “You were safer at the rear.”
She turned, a flash of anger narrowing her green eyes. But her face stopped him dead. He leaned closer. The sun made her eyes look iridescent, like the green water in the shallows. It was unholy to have eyes so vibrant.
She opened her mouth as if she were going to speak, but released a breath and turned, sweeping her gaze across the Firth of Lorn. The waves glimmered with a kaleidoscope of sunlit colors. “Your son is a beautiful bairn.”
He bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“Effie reported he’s sleeping well.”
Against his better judgment, he leaned against the wall. Oh how he craved idle conversation. “’Tis good to hear.”
“Aye.” Margaret slipped her bottom into a crenel notch and folded her hands. Obviously, the thought of a lethal fall to the stony outcropping below hadn’t crossed her mind. “She said about all he’ll do for the next several months is eat and sleep, and…you know.”
Colin chuckled. “Of course.”
She sat silent for a moment, staring out over the water. The sun had nearly lost its light. “This is a beautiful view. I’ve never been to the west before.”
“I’m glad you like it. Jon…er…I like it up here as well.”
Margaret frowned. She’d already proved her intelligence, and his reference to Jonet hadn’t gone unnoticed. Fortunately, Margaret didn’t utter a word. She set out along the walk, running her fingers atop the stone wall.
Colin followed. His hand itched to take hers, but he clenched his fists against his ridiculous notion. A breeze stirred and picked up her hair, making it sail. A lock brushed his nose. Filled with her scent, Colin reached up and watched while the silken tresses tickled his fingers. Mindlessly, he toyed with her hair as they strolled in comfortable silence.
Margaret stopped.
Colin nearly walked over the top of her. God, he was touched in the head, losing his mind over her bloody hair.
The sky turned cobalt, highlighting a strip of white clouds above. “I don’t believe I’ll ever tire of watching the sun set.” Her soft voice chimed on the breeze.
Together they stood and watched the western sky succumb to the last hint of orange sunlight and fade into deep shade of violet. Margaret’s profile looked flawless in the dim light. Porcelain skin, shaded with dark blue. She was too lovely for him—too beautiful for any man with a stone heart.
When blackness fell, the sentries lit the battlement torches. Margaret faced him. “I’d best prepare for supper, m’lord.”
Colin’s gaze dipped to her eyes, then to her moist lips. He inclined his head. Her breath caught and she raised her chin ever so slightly. Her warmth drew him nearer. His need for comfort twisted around his heart. Ever so gently, he brushed his lips over hers. He smoothed his hand to her silken nape and tasted the skin from her dainty jaw line all the way down her slender neck.
When his lips met wool, she stepped away from his grasp, her eyes dazed. “A-are you w-well, my lord?”
Blinking, he jerked up his head. “God’s teeth, forgive me.”
Self-loathing blasted wider the gaping hole in his heart. Colin absolutely did not just permit her to snare him with her allure. Ballocks, he still might choose to annul this marriage. Thank God she’d said something to snap him from his trance. And what the hell was he apologizing for? Was he not allowed a moment’s respite?
He gestured toward the donjon entrance. “Go on ahead. I shall attend you shortly,” he clipped.
Once the echo of her footsteps faded, Colin balled his fists. Why did she have to come up and destroy his peaceful solitude? Margaret’s presence twisted his gut in knots. He didn’t want to like her. Perhaps a good long turn in the Holy Land was what he needed to set his troubled mind to rights.
He descended the stairs. At the first turn he stopped. It would be best if Margaret was with child when he set sail. If he were to die in battle, he’d at least have one more son who bore his name.
Heaven help him, he couldn’t visit her in the lady’s bedchamber. The memories there were rawer than those in his own suite of rooms. No. He should stand beside his decision to stay away from Lady Margaret. Besides, with luck, she may already be with child.
Margaret paced in her chamber, tapping her fingers to her lips. For a fleeting moment, she’d sensed a connection with Colin, but of course she had to say something and destroy it. Her knees had wobbled when he’d touched his lips to hers. She’d wanted more, but confusion clouded her mind. Standing beside him and watching the sun set had been so peaceful, like they were beginning to form a bond. Yet further intimacy terrified her.
After, when he’d apologized, she’d become even more confused.
Oh heavens, what was she to do? She needed someone in whom she could confide. Was it normal for a new bride to fear her husband’s touch? Groaning, she glanced into the looking glass and straightened her veil before she headed to the great hall.
Late for the evening meal, Margaret pattered up to the dais. Lord Argyll stood and held the chair for her. “Thank you,” she said.
He bowed stiffly. “A pleasure, m’lady.”
Margaret batted the air with a hand. “You must call me Margaret. We are peers.”
He took the seat at the head of the table, and everyone else in the enormous hall followed suit. “Very well.”
Margaret took a moment to study the décor. Long wooden tables sat in the center of the floor, filled with Campbells who supported the community—mostly dressed in muted plaids. The walls were adorned with regal tapestries, and behind her, an enormous yellow flag embroidered with the red lion rampant signified the royal charter of this keep. Indeed, the Campbells lived up to their reputati
on of being King James’s right hand.
She lifted the ewer of ale and poured for him. “And what shall I call you?”
“I suppose Argyll will suit. I haven’t been called Colin by anyone in so long, I doubt I’d respond to the name.”
“That is funny.” She filled her own tankard.
A servant placed a trencher of food on the table. Argyll held it up for her. “And where is your husband this eve?”
Margaret scanned the great hall. It was filled with people, but she did not see Colin. “I’ve no idea.” Honestly, she was happy to converse with Argyll without Lord Glenorchy frowning over everything.
Argyll broke off a piece of bread. “Perhaps he’s dining in his solar. He’s got a great many matters to attend—and the trip to Stirling set him back a bit.”
“Did it now?” Margaret eyed him. “I’m sorry to have been such a bother.”
He rolled his eyes to the bold, arched ceiling rafters. “Of course, you could never be a bother to anyone.”
“Tell that to Lord Glenorchy,” she mumbled into her tankard before drowning her comment with a healthy swig. Things between them would be so much more palatable if he at least liked her. Kissing and then apologizing as if a man should never kiss his wife? What on earth was the Black Knight thinking?
“Ah, Margaret,” Argyll said. “As I said before, he’s a good man. He needs time, is all.”
A bit surprised Argyll had heard her comment, she sighed. Colin’s nephew may very well be the only soul to whom she could bemoan her woes. “He might need time, but he doesn’t seem to need me.”
“He does—more than you know.” The lord patted her shoulder. “He’s just too proud to admit it.”
“Well, he’ll certainly need someone to handle his affairs after he sails for Rome.”
“Very true.” Argyll shoved a knife of lamb into his mouth. “His father, rest his soul, handled things in his stead during Colin’s last crusade.”
“I’m quite capable, if he would only realize it.”
“I have no doubt.”
