by Amy Jarecki
What had become of Mevan? The brave warrior had been outnumbered.
She couldn’t turn back now. It would be madness. She must ride for help—swiftly send a party to Mevan’s aid. The problem? Darkness had spread its eerie blanket over her. Rain spewed from the rumbling clouds.
Ahead she made out a narrow path, but recognized nothing.
12
Kilchurn Building Site, 12th October, 1455
Colin sat in front of the hearth, sipping a tot of whisky. The muffled rain drove into the thatched roof, and the sloppy drips from the eaves slapped the ground outside the cottage window. It had been a long day, but the stone for the tower house foundation had been started at long last. They needed more supplies before they could continue. Finishing the foundation was all he could hope for until they’d be forced to mud up the freshly laid mortar for winter.
The whisky slid down his throat with a fiery bite and warmed his insides. It was nice to spend some time away from Margaret and focus his mind on things in need of his attention. She distracted him like no woman he’d ever met. Now he’d delivered her to Dunstaffnage, her time would be occupied with Duncan’s care. With them tucked away within the fortress walls, Colin would have no need to worry about their safety.
Rapid footsteps clapped the soggy ground. The door flew open and Maxwell burst inside. “M’lord, come quickly. ’Tis Lady Margaret.”
Colin sprang from his seat. “What the…” His words were spoken in vain as Maxwell dashed away.
The whisky in Colin’s belly roiled. What the bloody hell is Margaret doing here? Colin hurried through the cottage and out into the pelting rain.
Guards followed her from the stables. She strode toward him with purpose. “I must speak to Lord Glenorchy at once.”
Colin dashed up to his errant wife and grasped her elbow. “Why the blazes are you here, woman?” He waved a dismissive hand at his men and led her into the cottage, slamming the door behind.
Margaret stood in the center of the room, pools of water forming around the bottom of her cloak, shivering like a maple leaf in the wind. “My lord…”
He paced in a circle around her. “If you were a child, I’d bend you over my knee. What are you doing out alone? In the dark. In. The. Rain?”
“I…”
He stopped at her side and glared at her profile. He couldn’t shout at her when looking in her eyes. “Why are you not with my son?”
She faced him. “He…”
Colin fisted his hips. “Do you realize you could have been killed?”
Margaret stamped her foot. “If you would allow me to speak…”
Narrowing his eyes against her gaze, he leaned forward. “You should not be here…”
She actually snarled. A flash of rage emblazoned her face. Before he could think, she landed a jarring slap across his jaw.
Dazed, Colin stumbled backward. “What the devil?” Never before had he wanted to strike a woman, but she’d pushed him to the ragged edge.
She marched into him, red rims around her eyes. “You may hate me, but I am your wife and I will have your respect.” She jammed her finger into his sternum. “I should stand aside and watch you fall into ruin. But I will not.” Her teeth chattered, but she jutted her face up to his, her full lips red from the chill. “Because I care.”
If his chest weren’t burning with the need to hit something, he’d crush her into his embrace and stifle her pouty mouth with a heated kiss. Colin forced his lips to curl into a sneer. He drew in a deep breath, willing his anger to simmer below the surface. “This had best be good.”
She gestured to the hearth. “If you would sit, I’d prefer to stand by the fire.”
With a nod, Colin humored her, at least for the moment.
She removed her cloak, draped it over the table and stood with her back to the fire. God save him, her gown clung to her like skin. Even her nipples stood proud beneath the wet wool. “I overheard a man named Walter explain how he’s planning to ambush your next load of sand.”
Colin crossed his legs against his untimely surge of desire. She must be mistaken. “Walter?”
Margaret held up her palm, her chest heaving from exertion. “But first, I must vindicate myself. I am not daft enough to leave the castle alone. My guard, Mevan, faced an attack by outlaws and bade me to run. He’s back there on the trail.” She clenched her fists to her mouth. “I know not if he’s alive or dead. Your men are now preparing to go after him.”
Colin stood and averted his gaze from the wet cloth clinging to her breasts. “I must go as well.”
“Must you? Can the guard not handle this on your behalf?”
“I cannot sit idle when my wife and sentry have been assaulted.” He most especially couldn’t remain behind in the small cottage with her heaving breasts.
“Very well, but before you leave, allow me to explain.” Margaret rubbed her hands and held them to the fire—the view of her backside more alluring than her front. “I wanted to tell you what I learned from the MacGregor women, but didn’t gain the chance before you left me alone at Dunstaffnage.”
“I didn’t—”
She faced him and sliced a hand through the air. “It doesn’t matter now. The MacGregor men are innocent.”
Blast her wet dress. It befuddled his mind at a most inconvenient time. He rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on her words. “How do you know this?”
“Remember when I spoke to the women at the river?”
“Aye.”
“They told me a great many things. The MacGregors want to see the castle completed as much as you do. They’ve been trying to discover the plunderer—thought it was Walter MacCorkodale, but had no proof.”
Colin crossed his arms and shook his head, refusing to look her way. “He has been my trusted factor for years.”
“Has he?”
Her defiance was maddening. How dare she question him—dripping wet, attacking every sensible bone in his body? “I have no idea what I would have done without his services whilst I was on crusade.”
“Good men can turn to evil.”
Lady Margaret’s tongue could use restraint as well. “Are you asking me to change my opinion of a trusted servant because you overheard a conversation? Are you certain? Was it he who attacked you?”
“I ken what I heard, but I know not who set upon us. I counted three men. There could have been more. They wore hoods and masks.”
Colin dropped his arms. This was the first real lead he’d had to expose the vandals. “Then I will withhold judgment until I know for certain.”
“I would do the same if I were in your place.” Margaret grasped his elbow. Tingles skittered all the way up to the top of his head. “I would like to attend Mevan’s wounds. I feel responsible.”
Colin pulled away and strapped on his sword. “I believe you’ve done enough. I’ll appoint a retinue to accompany you to Dunstaffnage in the morning.”
Shoving his helm onto his head, he stormed off to the stables. He couldn’t spend another moment with Margaret standing in the same room in her wet gown. She may as well have been completely naked. He must act quickly, yet all he could think about was taking his dirk, cutting off her clothing and taking her to the bed—or the floor. That was much closer.
The MacGregor men met him inside the stable. Robert, the clan chieftain, stepped forward. “We want to ride with you, m’lord. This menace has been a thorn in our sides. We aim to see him finished.”
Colin eyed him. “Lady Margaret said you suspected Walter MacCorkodale. Is that true?”
“Aye, but we had no proof. I would not point a finger at my lord’s factor unless I could come to you with unshakable evidence.”
“Very well.” Colin surveyed his army. “Tonight we ride against our enemies and solve this mystery once and for all.”
Margaret awoke in the cottage bed without a stitch of clothing. The fire had gone out during the night. She pulled the bedclothes up over her shoulders. The fragrance of cloves an
d spice, decidedly male, washed over her. She’d caught Colin’s scent as soon as she’d walked into the cottage last night.
He’d been so angry, she’d nearly backed down. Mercy, his massive size intimidated her. However, for all that was holy, she owed it to Mevan to stand her ground. Margaret cringed. Mother would have been mortified. She’d actually slapped the beast. But she had to do something to make her pigheaded husband listen. Goodness, she nearly thought he’d put her back on her horse and point her toward Dunstaffnage in the dead of night in a rainstorm.
He could forget her heading there now. She was back in Glen Orchy, and she aimed to uncover a few things before she left. With no time to stay abed, she pulled the plaid from the footboard and wrapped it around her body.
Last night she’d hung her clothes to dry in front of the fire, and thanked her stars Colin hadn’t returned to find her stark naked in bed. She fanned herself at the thought, praying he’d swiftly bring the plunderers to justice and confront his double-crossing factor. Oh how Margaret would like to be there when he did.
She pulled the dry linen shift over her head. Today, however, Mevan would be her first priority. She’d prayed for his rescue until she succumbed to sleep. She closed her eyes and prayed again.
A light rap sounded at the door. “M’lady?” A woman’s voice. “I’ve some porridge for you.”
Margaret quickly covered her shift by slinging the plaid around her shoulders. “Come in.”
The round-faced woman walked through the door carrying a tray. “After your ordeal last eve, I thought you’d need some oats to warm your insides.”
“That is very kind of you…ah…”
“Alana.”
“Such a lovely name.”
“Thank you.” Alana set the tray on the table. “’Tis cold in here.”
“Aye, I was just about to light the fire.”
“I’ll do it.” She gestured to the chair. “Sit and break your fast, m’lady.”
“’Tis ever so kind.” Margaret sat and lifted the wooden spoon. Worry squeezed her stomach. She had to know… “Did they find Mevan?”
“Two guards brought him in before dawn. The rest of the men are still out there chasing the brigands.”
Margaret swallowed. She didn’t want to ask. “Is he…?”
“He’s alive. Barely. The women are tending him.”
Margaret pushed back the chair and stood. “I must see him. His heroism cannot go unrewarded.”
Alana struck the flint. “Very well, I’ll take you after you eat your porridge. But you’ll have to be quick. An escort to Dunstaffnage is waiting.”
“I shan’t be going back there. Mevan is my responsibility. I will not ride away and leave him.”
“Aye?” Alana questioned over her shoulder. “I think Lord Campbell gave clear instructions for the guard to take you back to the castle.”
“He may very well have, but I am staying. My husband is not here to counter otherwise.” She sliced her hand through the air. “That’s the end of it.”
Alana rose from lighting the fire and brushed her hands on her apron. “I do like your spirit, m’lady.”
Margaret discarded her plaid and reached for her gown. “I’ll see to Mevan’s care and tend to a few things first. When I was here last, you told me the building project needs management.”
Alana’s eyebrows arched with surprise. “That I did.”
“I want to meet Tom Elliot and speak to the laborers, among other things.” Margaret turned for Alana to tie her laces. “Colin’s son is well cared for at Dunstaffnage and shan’t need anything from me for quite some time. I’m absolutely positive a few days here would be far more productive than at the castle.”
“If you should need anything, mine is the first cottage up the hill.” The MacGregor woman patted her shoulder. “Thank you for listening back at the river. I’d been wondering if anything would come of it.”
“I only wish I could have acted sooner.” Margaret turned. “You’ve been ever so kind. I should like to come calling if it wouldn’t be any trouble.”
Alana’s cheeks shone bright red. “It would be an honor.”
Margaret quickly ate a few bites of porridge then followed Alana to Mevan’s cot, situated in a small room at the back of the stable.
“This is a hospital of sorts—where men are stitched up and that type of thing, since there’s no abbey nearby.”
Another thing to add to Margaret’s growing list. “Once the tower house is completed I’ll ensure a grand-sized chapel will follow.”
“That would be a blessing indeed, m’lady.”
A woman tended Mevan, cleansing his wounds. He lay on his back with linens pulled up to his waist. Margaret stepped to the bed to better inspect him. His shoulder was bandaged, with blood seeping through it. His face was bruised and swollen, his nose at an awkward angle, a nasty gash on one side. His eyes were closed, purple puffiness surrounding them.
This was her fault. Margaret wrung her hands. “Is he awake?”
He opened one eye to a mere slit. “Aye, m’lady,” he managed through puffy lips.
Margaret dropped to her knees and reached for his hand, the only thing she could touch without causing more pain. “Thank you, thank you, dear Mevan. You fought like a lion.”
He smiled, then grimaced.
She bent forward and kissed his fingers. “No need to say a word. We shall take you back to your family as soon as you are able to ride. I will see to it you are compensated for your gallantry.”
Mevan licked his lips. “M’lady.”
She stood and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Heal well, for there’s no one I’d rather have guarding my person than you, sir.” Turning, she placed a hand on the attendant’s shoulder. “See to it he receives uninterrupted care. If he should want for anything, notify me straight away.”
She curtseyed. “Aye, m’lady.”
It didn’t take much convincing to dismiss her escort and put them back to work on the castle. However, they made it clear all would face the lord’s ire when he returned. Margaret knew that well enough. She’d already faced Colin’s ire more than she cared, but she wasn’t afraid of him like the others seemed to be. He could affect a mean expression and bellow, but if he was going to raise a hand to her, he would have done it last night for certain.
She still couldn’t believe she’d slapped him. What was she thinking? Perhaps they simply were not compatible. She huffed. Now was not the time to dwell on her misshapen marriage.
Tom Elliot was working under a lean-to with his shirtsleeves rolled up, chiseling out a stone buttress for the kitchen ceiling. He proved all too happy to tell her about the problems he’d encountered on this project. He appeared so wound up about losing his job, Margaret needed to say something to appease him. “If Lord Glenorchy finds the plunderer, you’ll not be forced to continually make repairs. My guess is the supply will keep pace, as well.”
“I certainly hope so. I order timber and tools, and God only knows when or if they’ll arrive.”
“Have you not a blacksmith on site?” she asked.
He spread his palms in a woeful gesture. “No, m’lady. We use the smithy at Dunstaffnage.”
“Heavens, that is restrictive. Is there anyone in Glen Orchy who can work a bellows and an anvil?”
“Tormond Campbell is apprenticing at the castle now.”
“How long has he been there?”
“Longer than I’ve been building Kilchurn.”
“Hmm. It seems there’s something we could do about that.” She walked beside Tom and studied the foundation site. “I’d like to see this completed before Lord Colin returns.”
Tom scratched his head. “That’s unlikely.”
“What do you need?”
He kicked a stone. “A steady stream of supplies and a great deal of prayers.”
“I’ll see to that.” Margaret patted his shoulder. “Tell the men there will be extra rations if their goals are met.”
Two men lumbered past, each carrying a yoke with buckets of water tethered to the ends. Margaret stared. “What’s that?”
Tom clapped his chest with pride. “Water for the mortar, m’lady.”
“You must be jesting.”
“No.” He eyed her as if she were daft. “We need water to mix mortar.”
She sighed. “I helped my father build the west tower at Dunalasdair, and I assure you, men were not carrying water on their backs. That takes far too long.”
Tom’s face turned scarlet. “It works…”
Margaret pointed toward the loch. “Build a trough. One man simply stands beside it and pours in buckets of water. Gravity moves the water to your site. Simple. Have it done by the end of the day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a blacksmith to hail.”
Drop-jawed, Tom stared after her as she turned and strode away. She would have this building project moving. Colin would see some improvement before he returned—providing he didn’t arrive too quickly.
After sending a messenger to Dunstaffnage to fetch Tormond Campbell, Margaret sat down with Tom’s ledgers. She would understand the problems behind this project, and find ways to solve them one by one. If Lord Glenorchy didn’t want her meddling, he could go sit in a meadow of stinging nettles.
13
The Highlands, 15th October, 1455
If only this blasted drizzle would stop. At least the trail hadn’t been difficult to follow. Water filled the hoof prints. The only problem was that it seemed to be leading them nowhere. Colin had spent three damp and bloody miserable days in the saddle, watching the tracks of three horses pass beneath him until his eyes crossed.
He’d sent Robert MacGregor and his men to ensure the shipment of sand arrived in the Firth of Lorn without incident, and then to see it safely delivered to Kilchurn. But that was only one shipment of many. Though Robert had vowed an oath of fealty and demanded vengeance, Colin waffled. He dearly wanted to trust the clan chieftain, but trusting anyone outside his inner circle had become nigh impossible.
