by Amy Jarecki
She took in a stuttering inhale. Unable to determine if his touch had affected her as it had him, or if she was merely cold, he wished he could see her face beneath her locks.
He lifted the cake to his nose and inhaled. As he closed his eyes, the fleeting picture of Margaret standing unaware and completely naked ravaged his mind. If only he were in heaven, he could gaze upon such beauty for an eternity.
Thoughts of the past would return to haunt him, but not in this moment.
Colin used circular, languid strokes to work the lather into her hair. Suds streamed down her flawless back, marked only by an adorable mole atop her shoulder blade. He squeezed the ends of her gloriously long tresses and watched the bubbles pop. His fingers trembled with his need to touch her.
“Mm.”
Christ almighty, does she ken how sensual she sounds?
His erection lengthened with her blissful moan, so soft, he wondered if she’d actually been aware she’d uttered it. The fragrance floated around him, tempting him to nuzzle into her neck, push her arms away from her breasts and knead them. As soon as he saw her naked, he should have turned and walked out the door. Now she had him in her clutches and he was powerless to flee.
“Hold your hands over your eyes so I can rinse.” His voice took on a deeper tenor, one he couldn’t remember hearing…ever.
Margaret obeyed, keeping her arms tight over her breasts, though creamy flesh peeped through the crook of her arms.
When the soap completely washed away, leaving a wall of chestnut hair hiding her face, he sighed and set the bowl down. He pulled her locks to the side and peered at her face. Margaret slid her fingers to her chin and blinked at him. “Thank you, m’lord.”
“I hope these big hands weren’t too rough.” His voice was still husky.
“You were as gentle as a chambermaid.”
He stared into her pools of green, his heart thundering in his ears, the almighty strain beneath his braies relentless. He could think of nothing else but this moment and the exquisite, wet woman whose eyes captivated his soul. Her tongue shot out and moistened her bottom lip. Rosy as a pink bloom in spring, her mouth begged him to kiss it. Before his mind could trigger a rational thought, he covered her delectable lips, unleashing the passion coiled deep in his groin.
Closing his eyes, he parted her mouth with his tongue and showed his wife how to kiss a man. He slipped his hand to the back of her neck, frustrated he could not move closer, could not press his manhood against her body and show her the extent of his desire. His tongue plied hers until a gentle moan erupted from her throat. Her posture softened and she responded, her mouth becoming more impassioned.
With a deep breath, Colin eased away. Margaret’s hands remained tight across her chest. He covered them with his much larger palms. “You are a beautiful woman.”
She blinked. “But I thought…”
He grinned. “You thought what?”
Her gaze dropped in opposition to the blush crawling up her cheeks. “You didn’t find me attractive.”
He tugged her hands. She resisted. “Let me look at you.”
Margaret nodded and dipped her chin. As he gently pulled her arms to the side, the ball of fire in his groin spread through his chest. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he croaked. Beneath all her clothing, Colin never imagined she’d be so—so exquisite. On their wedding night, he’d taken her in her shift. In his haste, he hadn’t paid a lick of attention to her beauty.
Margaret tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “You should never be ashamed to bare your flesh in front of me.”
Her chin ticked up. “I should dress for supper, m’lord.”
He released her hands, and she flinched. She blew on her palm and cradled it to her chest. “Are you injured?”
Wide-eyed, she shook her head. “No, m’lord.”
He chuckled. She’d never be one for cards. “Show me.”
“’Tis nothing, really.” She held out her palm. Scabs crusted across it.
“What did you do? Build the water trough on your own?”
She hid her hand against her body again. “Not exactly.”
“Tell me.”
“When the sand came in, I got so excited, I picked up a shovel and…” She showed him both maimed palms. “I’ll be fine in a day or two. Alana gave me a salve.”
He should admonish her, but she looked like a downtrodden puppy—except for the satin breasts teasing him just above the water. He resisted his urge to drop to his knees and kiss her again.
Then his gaze flashed to the bed. No, he’d not give in to his desires. She’d driven him to the point of drawing annulment papers. It would take more than a passionate kiss to change his mind.
“Very well—but I don’t want to hear of you doing hard labor ever again.” He used his “commander” voice to ensure she understood the gravity of his warning. “I’ll bring a plaid to sit upon, and see you at the gathering.”
Margaret stayed in the water until it became uncomfortably cool. Her lips still tingled. She raised her fingers to them and closed her eyes. At first his mouth had been forceful, though not overbearingly so. When his tongue entered her mouth, it startled her. She thought to pull away, and then recalled how much she longed for Colin to kiss her on their wedding night. Her curiosity needled. With shallow breaths, she gave in. His gentle hand slid to the back of her neck and held her lips against his. Beard hair tickled a bit, but Margaret was far more distracted by everything else, like her hammering heart and the unexplained melting of her insides.
His mouth demanded she taste him. Mmm. Fresh rain and spice. With trepidation, she probed with her tongue and met his. Gently, the warrior swirled with such passion, the knot in her shoulders released and liquefied. Tight, warm desire spread between her hips, like it did when she used to think about Lord Forbes in a short doublet and matching hose. No. This kiss embodied a far greater intensity.
When Colin deepened the kiss, her breasts ached to press against him and rub. In that moment, it was all she could do to keep her arms crossed and not launch her wet body out of the bath. What on earth would spur her to such unbridled passion? Colin Campbell, the fierce Black Knight, was a quandary at best.
Everything turned cold when he pulled away. Did she catch a flicker of regret in his eyes? She pondered, trying to recall his expression. Then he had to keep touching her hands until he ran his thumbs over her blisters. Goodness, he looked cross. She thought he’d burst into a tirade for certain. But he didn’t raise his voice—a wee bit stern, perhaps.
When she held up her hands, her nudity shamed her, especially when he studied her breasts. Then he turned away and left her to dress. She’d almost wanted him to stay. Almost. He’d looked toward the bed before he took his leave. If he’d stayed they could have ended up wrapped in the bedclothes rather than at the gathering.
She shuddered and reached for the drying cloth. Colin might come to her bed again one day. She clung to the hope he would not.
He doesn’t even like me. Not really. A lonely void gripped her heart. Was this her lot in life? She might have an unhappy marriage, but she’d made friends here in Glen Orchy. She’d established her place as lady of the keep. Colin couldn’t take that away from her.
After Margaret dressed and rubbed in Alana’s soothing salve, she did her best to dry her hair by the fire. She braided it and covered her head with a rose veil, secured in place with a green velvet band encircled with gold cord. Since leaving most her things at Dunstaffnage, she hadn’t much to be creative with.
The cottage empty, she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and headed to the growing crowd. The sun had set, and though the breeze blew in from the west, the clouds overhead were sparse. Huge logs crackled loudly in the fire pit, while men worked a fine-looking side of beef on a spit. The smoke-laced air smelled of char and roasted meat. Children laughed and chased each other around the fire.
Colin stood beside Robert MacGregor, deep in conversation. Margaret’s heart fluttered. H
er husband had shaved. His jaw was so smooth, it reflected the firelight. He’d removed his breastplate and wore a black doublet, fashionably short, with a mantle of fur draped over one shoulder. His hose hugged his powerful thighs. She fanned herself. He did have a physique to be admired—though she’d not admit it to a soul.
“Margaret.” He pulled a folded plaid from under his arm. “We’ll sit beside Robert and Alana.”
Gooseflesh tingled across her skin. Would he steal another kiss this night? Kissing seemed so much more natural, so much more enjoyable.
The gathering hummed with laughter and talk. Colin spread the plaid over the mossy ground and offered Margaret his hand. “’Tis not a great hall, but these are our lands blessed by God.”
She sat with her legs tucked to the side. “I do believe God’s cathedral is the grandest.”
Colin sat and reclined on his elbow. “It pleases me you can find enjoyment through hardship.”
Margaret smiled. “’Tis a lovely autumn night. Why spend it indoors?” Fortunately, clouds hadn’t rolled in as Alana had predicted. Moonbeams reflected white on the glassy loch.
Serving maids came around with flagons of ale. Margaret watched the others drink straight from them. “I suppose ’tis too much bother to bring out stacks of tankards.”
Colin held the flagon out to her. “Aye, it is.”
She drank heartily and dabbed her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “’Tis good.”
Gold flecks in Colin’s eyes sparkled with the firelight, and they crinkled a bit in the corners. He reached for the flagon and tipped it up, his gaze not leaving hers. “This batch is especially good.” He turned to Robert. “Hats off to the brew master.”
“Aye, there’s none better than a MacGregor ale.”
Trenchers filled with meat and breads arrived. Colin and Margaret helped themselves and passed the food along. Tonight no one needed to hoard—there would be plenty for all.
She swallowed a bite of succulently marbled beef. “’Tis nice to be in a circle where there’s no high table or low.”
Colin chuckled. “Or no table at all.”
Robert’s belly shook with laughter. “You’re right there, m’lord. Nothing like breaking bread with the clan, drinking good ale and a roaring fire to warm you.”
Alana looped her arm through her husband’s and leaned forward. “How is Duncan, m’lord?”
“Well. Robust as a boy should be. The nursemaid tells me he’s already eating gruel.”
“Well done. We’re all anxious to see him,” Alana said. “Lady Margaret, are you looking forward to a bairn of your own?”
“Ah.” Good Lord, Margaret’s cheeks burned. “Duncan is my son now—should God grace us with more children, it will be a blessing.”
Colin’s eyes met hers with an unspoken question. She shook her head once, letting him know her courses had come. She swallowed hard. Gooseflesh spread across her skin. Did he want to see her with child? Her gaze dipped to his crotch and snapped back up.
He chuckled.
Oh queen’s knees, he’d seen her look. She turned her face away. She mustn’t ever allow herself to look at him there.
Across the fire, pipers filled their bladders with air. Margaret clapped. Among the musicians were a wooden flute, a lute and a drum. There most certainly would be dancing this night, and no one would keep her from it.
As soon as the instruments were tuned, the players launched into a country reel. Margaret tapped her foot while couples sashayed across the grass. “Who needs a dance floor this eve? The lea is fine.” She grasped Colin’s hand. “Dance with me for the next tune.”
He pulled his hand away and rubbed it. “I’m not fond of dancing, lass.”
Margaret pressed her fist to her lips. Just when I thought the grouch was softening, he jerks away. “But you dance so well.”
His face went dark, as if the thought of dancing brought on a painful memory. Most likely it did.
Tormond, the blacksmith, stopped by their plaid. “Would ye care to dance, m’lady?”
Margaret gave Colin a hopeful look. He waved her away. “Go on, then.”
Thank heavens. She would have died if she’d been forced to sit on the plaid all night without dancing.
Colin lifted the flagon to his lips and watched Margaret throw her head back and laugh while Tormond Campbell locked elbows and spun her around. Colin had been a sought-out dance partner at court, but the last time he enjoyed swinging a partner in his arms, it was Jonet’s face smiling up at him. He no longer yenned for such frivolity. If only Margaret could fathom the pain that still spread like a chasm in his chest. True, he’d had moments when it didn’t hurt so badly—mostly when he lost himself in Margaret’s unholy, seductive gaze, but as soon as he departed her company, the remorse and the guilt returned with the vengeance of the grim reaper wielding a scythe.
Margaret smiled at him from across the flames. Her face lit up, aglow with exertion and happiness. She seemed happier here in Glen Orchy, as he was. Of course, there was nothing wrong with Dunstaffnage, where they would winter—hopefully for the last time. Winter. Could he justify holding off his return to Rome until spring? He must make a decision soon—both about the annulment and the date of his departure.
Tormond placed his hand on Margaret’s waist and led her around the circle. The blacksmith was getting a fair bit too familiar. Colin sat forward. She smiled at her partner and spun away, then back. Blast it all, those bloody smithy hands were on her waist again.
“Is everything to your liking, Colin? From the scowl on your face I’d wager something didn’t sit well with you,” Robert said.
Och, something didn’t sit well with him. That fat-kidneyed codpiece spinning Margaret on the floor like he’s a strutting pheasant. “Nay. I just need another tot of ale, is all.” Colin tipped back his flagon and guzzled it.
Robert pointed to a group of young bucks huddled at the sidelines. “I’ll say everyone wants a turn with that pretty wife of yours. She’s got all the laddies drooling in their cups.”
Alana smoothed a hand over her skirts. “She’s a beauty, that’s for certain. ’Tis a wonder she’s nay on your arm.”
The music ended. Margaret laughed and clapped her hands, heading back to the plaid. A pimple-faced laddie had the gall to tap her on the shoulder. She looked so bloody innocent, clapping her chest in surprise, mouthing “me?” Colin wanted to stomp over there and admonish her… You are a flirtatious tart, dancing and laughing like you’re at court. He rocked back on his haunches. Now he’d have to watch her take another turn with a slavering pup.
Colin stood and sauntered around the fire. No one would partner with his wife for the next dance. In the shadows, he patiently waited for the pipers to end their reel, then walked straight toward her. A gawky lad grasped her hand, but he reached for the other. “Lady Margaret promised this dance to me.”
“M’lord?” Margaret gaped. “I thought you hated dancing.”
He placed his fingers in the curve of her waist and pulled her closer to him. “Mayhap I’ve a feel for the music this night.”
The bagpipes started in low. Colin led Margaret into the circle as the drum rolled a snare. He’d done this dance so many times, the steps came without thought.
Margaret moved with him, a step, a hop, a skip. Gracefully, she molded into him as if she were an extension of his very own body. He faced her and offered his hands. Aglow in the firelight, her cheeks shone like beacons calling to his heart. She placed her small palms in his and he wrapped his fingers around them.
Time slowed.
Watching her smile, his every heartbeat pounded against his chest. She was so much smaller than Jon...He blinked—Margaret was so small, his desire to protect her filled the hollow cavity in his chest. He led her into a spin. Her laughter uplifted him. Her gaze alive, tempting him to give in to her joy.
He focused on her lips. His breath caught. Rosy, bow shaped, petite, he wanted to kiss them again, wanted to taste her as he’d
done in the chamber. He’d possessed her, naked by the fire, innocent. He’d wanted her then—just as he wanted her now.
Margaret’s skirts brushed his calves, ever so lightly. His manhood stirred to life. Mayhap he could win her heart. But did he want to try? What about the papers?
The music ended and Margaret applauded. “They’re wonderful.”
“Aye.” He kept his eyes focused on her. “Magnificent.”
“MacCorkodale,” someone yelled.
Colin’s mind snapped to the present. He peered through the dark shadows in the direction of approaching hoof beats. Blast. He’d left his sword on his plaid. He ran his fingers over the hilt of his dirk and glanced at his men. They’d already armed themselves. Thank God the guard still had their heads.
Ewen MacCorkodale, chieftain of the neighboring clan, rode into the fray, mail-clad and outfitted for battle. His small army of mounted men encircled the gathering.
Colin pulled Margaret behind him, praying for a peaceful parley, though the death of Ewen’s cousin had most likely sparked the chieftain’s ire. Colin should have expected retaliation. He quickly surveyed the scene. All of the MacGregor men drew their arms—dirks, swords, poleaxes. No one had come to the gathering without a weapon. Aside from his sword, Colin had his dirk in his belt, an eating knife in his sleeve and a dagger bound to each ankle. Behind him, Fionn aimed his crossbow at Ewen’s heart.
The errant chieftain was far outnumbered. Colin girded his loins and marched forward without drawing a weapon. He’d rather end this peacefully, for once in his life.
Ewen’s beady eyes peered from under his helm. The man chose not to dismount—a sign of disrespect, though he kept his hands on his reins and away from his weapons. “Are you the man who killed my cousin?”
“Aye.” Colin moved his fists to his hips, fingers brushing his dirk’s hilt. “Walter promised fealty, yet he ordered his men to attack Lady Glenorchy after she uncovered his plot of thievery.”
“You lie. My cousin was an honest man.”
