by Amy Jarecki
In one move, he pulled her over him and impaled her onto his aching member, her sheath so tight and slick, he wouldn’t last but a few strokes. He grasped her hips and slid her up and down. She arched her back, finding that spot she craved to have rubbed.
Colin’s heart raced and his lips trembled as he worked her hips faster. Margaret gasped, and he exploded, his seed shooting into her as she cried out and shuddered with her own release.
When his breathing finally slowed, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead. “How in God’s name will I survive without you?”
23
Dunstaffnage Castle, 5th December, 1455
Colin opened the door to Margaret’s chamber. She sat on a stool while the chambermaid brushed his lady’s long tresses. Like spun silk, her hair glistened with amber highlights reflecting off the fire. He stepped inside and cleared his throat.
Margaret looked up and her face brightened with the smile he’d grown to love. “My lord. Is all well?”
“Aye.” He shifted his gaze to the maid. “Please leave us.”
He watched the woman exit and then bolted the door behind her. “I need to speak to you without prying ears.” He returned to Margaret and clasped her hands between his. “Before I take my leave, I must give you a token in utmost secrecy.”
He reached in his leather purse and pulled out two silver rings, one large, one small, both encircled with the same Celtic design that had no beginning and no end. He took her right hand and slid the smaller ring over her index finger. “I had two identical bands forged. And then I had the mold destroyed so never again will a ring be cast thus.” He slid the larger one onto his finger. “We will wear these as a silent reminder of our bond.”
Margaret held her hand up and examined the polished silver band in the candlelight. She then grasped his hand and compared hers to his. He admired the workmanship, too. The rings indeed were identical, with a woven pattern encircling both. A gasp caught in the back of her throat. “Oh my, Colin, they’re beautiful—so intricate.” An errant tear streaked down her cheek.
Colin dabbed her eyes with his sleeve. “If you should receive my ring from afar, you will know I have fallen. Tell no one of our pact—henceforth, the rings shall be referred to as our token signs.”
“Tokens,” she repeated. “How clever of you, how utterly thoughtful.”
He grasped her palms in his. “I cannot express enough the importance of keeping this pact secret. Tell no one what our tokens are.”
“’Tis like a cipher.”
“Of sorts,” he agreed.
Margaret glanced aside. “And if I should perish, I will have this ring sent to you in the Holy Land.”
Colin pulled her into his embrace. “You will not fall, nor shall I. These tokens are to be an ever-present reminder of the depth of our love.”
Sadness reflected in her lovely eyes. “I vow I shall never remove mine.”
“Nor shall I.”
Margaret squeezed his arms and then stepped back. “I also have a gift for you.”
She went to the board and opened the velvet-lined box she kept there. “My mother gave me this on our wedding day. It was passed down through the male heirs of her family for countless generations, but since there was no male heir in her time, her father gave it to her upon marriage to my da.” Margaret pulled out the large crystal stone she’d worn at their wedding and cradled it in her hands. “Legend has it the man who wears this charmstone in battle will live to vanquish his enemies, and anyone who drinks the water into which it has been dipped will have good health and a safe journey home.”
Colin didn’t know what to say. The gem was a priceless heirloom—part of her dowry. “Are you sure?”
“What good are its charms to me whilst you’re risking your life in battle?” She held up the necklace. “Kneel.”
Colin did as she commanded. “You honor me.”
Margaret fastened the chain and stood back to admire the stone. “The bold setting suits you far more than it does me.”
She opened her arms. Colin needed no more encouragement. He embraced her, his heart near bursting. Why, when love reached its pinnacle, did something always happen to shatter his happiness? Why had he been so pigheaded when they’d first wed? If he’d given in to his heart, they would have shared many more nights in each other’s arms.
He nuzzled into her hair. “I wish I could be here for you when your time comes.”
“God willing, I shall be fine.” Margaret’s voice had a slight tremor.
He dipped his chin and kissed her, showing the passion and pain that filled his soul. If only he could devour her and take her spirit with him, he might find solace in his destiny. He held her tightly and showered her with kisses. “I swear to you I will not take a blade to my beard until I return to you.”
“Make haste, husband, for I like you best with your face smooth. It will be such a shame to cover your beauty with unkempt whiskers.”
Colin’s heart twisted into a hundred knots. Damn it all, he knew this was coming. Why did Margaret have to look at him with soulful eyes and pretend this was all right?
He hugged her tightly. “Do not worry about Kilchurn. Focus on the babe growing inside you, for he will be a testament to our love.”
“If only you could stay long enough for the birth.”
“I wish it could be so.”
She cast her gaze downward. “If you must go, I shall deliver you a healthy bairn and then see to it your castle presides over Glen Orchy for your return.”
He cupped her lovely face in his hands, torn between two loyalties. “If it’s a boy, name him John for my order, and if it’s a girl, name her Margaret after the love of my life.”
Margaret thought her heart would burst as she walked down to the pier beside Colin. She held her chin high and clenched her teeth to fight back her tears. Lord Glenorchy wanted her to show a strong front and be supportive of his men. But every fiber of her being wanted to scream and wail, plead with him not to go.
She clutched his hand with all her strength, walking alongside him as if she were heading to her own execution. Behind them, Mevan stood guard from a respectable distance to ensure Margaret made it back to the castle safely after Colin’s galley sailed.
Once they arrived on the pier, he wrenched his fingers free and grasped her shoulders. “I promise I will write to you upon every available chance.”
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.
He pulled her into his embrace and pressed his lips to her ear. “I love you.”
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
He held her at arm’s length. “I will make haste to return to your arms.”
“I will hold you to that, my lord.”
He dipped his chin and gave her a much-too-fleeting kiss on the lips. “Until then, you will be at the forefront of my every thought.” With that, he turned his broad shoulders and proceeded up the gangway and onto the ship.
Margaret touched her fingers to her trembling lips. When would he kiss her again? With a stuttered breath, a tear slipped from her eye and streamed down her cheek.
“Cast off,” Colin boomed.
Maxwell offered her a quick salute before he pulled the ropes over the hull. At the bow, the black Portuguese cannon sat upon the deck like an invitation to death. The cast iron gun was big and ugly. It embodied the frightful dread roiling on her insides.
Gradually, the galley ebbed away. Clutching her arms to her body, Margaret stood alone and watched Colin sail out the Firth of Lorn. Dark clouds loomed above and a cold breeze picked up her veil. It cut through her cloak like knives, but she remained. On the pier she stood until the galley became a speck on the horizon, and then disappeared, swallowed by dark blue waters.
Blinking, she realized tears had been streaming down her face. Her throat raw, Margaret hung her head and made her way back to the castle. How in God’s name will I cope without him?
24
Dunstaffnage, 25th Decemb
er, 1455
Colin had been gone twenty days—nearly three sennights of emptiness. She’d locked his chamber and slept alone in her drafty room, bundled beneath the comforter, shivering in the winter cold. Margaret had forced herself to green the castle in preparation for Yule, but her longing for Colin hung around her neck with the weight of an anchor.
After spending the morning vomiting her porridge, she’d dropped to her knees and prayed her misery would be short-lived. On Christmas day, Margaret would usually attend mass with her parents in Dunalasdair’s chapel, but the snow on the ground was impassable. She couldn’t even ride to chapel beyond the Dunstaffnage gates, let alone travel to Loch Rannoch with a four-month-old infant.
Afternoons were always easier on her insides, and she sat on the floor in the nursery beside Duncan. He could now hold his head up and roll over. Margaret strummed her lute and the bairn smiled. “You’re fond of music, are you, little fella?”
Margaret strummed again—a minor chord. Closing her eyes, she sang a woeful ballad. Duncan didn’t seem to mind. He kicked his feet and grabbed them with his little fingers, cooing all the while.
A tear streamed down her face. This Yule, the babe was the only family she could share the holiday with. Given the snow, she couldn’t expect her parents to show up at the castle gates—or even Argyll. He was at court celebrating with the king and queen. Christmas at court must be an extravagant affair, with mysteries and plays each of the twelve days.
This was so different from every other Yule she’d experienced with her parents, brothers and cousins. One could never feel lonely at Loch Rannoch.
Alas, Colin was gone. Only God knew when he’d return to her.
Margaret shuddered and pulled the plaid tighter around her shoulders. No matter how much wood she piled on the fire, the cold north wind blew in from every window and crevice in this drafty old castle. With winter came the dregs of an icy and dead season.
Effie stepped inside, her arms filled with wood. She dropped the pile beside the hearth. “Thank you for allowing me to spend the morning with my son, m’lady.”
Margaret set her lute aside. “Of course. Is he well?”
“Aye. Looking forward to the feast this eve.”
Margaret glanced to the fire. “Mevan and his men assured me we’d have pheasant to spare.”
“’Tis grand you are so generous, m’lady.”
“’Tis my duty as matron of the keep.” She forced herself to smile. “I want every soul in my care to be well fed and in good cheer.”
Effie sat on a stool beside Duncan and pulled him onto her lap. “’Tis time you indulged in some cheer of your own.”
“Colin said no one could fool you.” Margaret sniffed. “But I’m afraid a bout of melancholy has consumed my heart. Yule without Colin or family…”
“What say you? Your family is the entire clan.” Effie gave her a sideways look. “And ye’d best raise that chin of yours if you want your bairn to be healthy.”
Margaret reached for a stick of wood and tossed it on the fire. “I cannot pretend all is well. My heart cannot bear to have Colin away, fighting in the Crusades, not knowing whether…”
Effie arched a brow. “Would Colin want you to pine for him as you do?”
“Nay,” Margaret said, staring into the rising flames.
“Then I suggest you go to your chamber, don a festive gown, go down to the great hall and dance.”
Margaret glared at the old woman. Effie smiled like a child caught pinching a piece of apple tart. Queen’s knees, she could not chastise the nursemaid—especially when she was right.
Effie smoothed her hand over Margaret’s shoulder. “Ye’ve arranged for minstrels, have you not?”
“Aye.”
“Then you should dance.”
Margaret tapped her hand to her chest. “Without Colin?”
“Yes, without Lord Glenorchy. The entire clan now looks to you for leadership—you said yourself you want them in good cheer.” The nursemaid shook her finger. “You alone set the tone for their peace of mind. Do you think for a minute the entire castle hasn’t been in mourning with you these past sennights?”
Margaret clapped her hands to her cheeks. “It has been that obvious?”
“Aye. It has.” Effie regarded Duncan in her arms. “Even this wee bairn senses your sadness, as does the one you’re carrying.”
Margaret rubbed her palm over her stomach. If anything, she’d lost a quarter-stone with the sickness, and she knew that wasn’t good. “Do you honestly believe the bairn inside me feels unhappiness as I do?”
“I have no doubt. And you’d best listen to the likes of me. I’ve been nursemaid to over a dozen babes. I ken what I say.”
Margaret had no idea how much her mood had been affecting others. Neither Duncan nor her unborn child could suffer because of her selfishness. “Well then, I shall begin today. ’Tis the birthday of our Lord—what better time to start anew?”
“Aye, m’lady. I can think of no better time than now.” Effie flicked her fingers through the air. “Now off with ye.”
With a renewed sense of purpose, Margaret dressed in a green velvet gown, trimmed with ermine. Aside from the dress she’d worn at her wedding, it was the finest gown she owned. Everyone stood when she arrived in the great hall.
She clapped and called for silence, smiling broadly. “I thank you for sharing my table for this, our Yule feast. Though the wind whistles outside, we will be warm within. Eat and make merry, dance and laugh, for I ever so want to share joy with each one of you. Happy Yule.”
“Happy Yule!” every voice boomed in unison.
The resounding and cheerful noise made the bairn inside her flutter with excitement. It may be the dead of winter, but to Margaret’s heart, spring had come early. There was much to do, and Margaret would prove to the world she could manage in Colin’s stead. She would ensure the Campbell Clan thrived and prospered.
Her husband would return home to flourishing and wealthy lands. She vowed it.
25
The Vatican, January, 1456
A cardinal ushered Colin into the starkly decorated papal apartment’s anteroom. Pope Callixtus III sat in a high-backed mahogany chair upholstered in red velvet. Dressed in white robes, the old man’s skin withered beneath his coif.
Hearing his name announced, Colin strode up to His Holiness and knelt, swallowing his grimace at the pain of kneeling in his battle armor. Though he had jointed knee-guards, the metal cut against bone. The Pope held out his hand. Colin took it and kissed the ruby ring he had once kissed when it adorned the hand of the late Pope Nicholas. “It grieves me to attend you under such dire circumstances, Your Holiness.”
“Rise, sir knight.” Callixtus pulled his gnarled hand away. “How was your journey?”
“Difficult. Three men perished. Winter seas always take their toll. My small galley was forced to cross at the channel and hug the shore all the way from Northern France.”
“It is a tragedy to lose those who fight for right. But their deaths will not be in vain.”
“I pray not.” Colin bowed. “I have a sound ship armed with the latest six-foot Portuguese cannon. I am yours to command.”
The Pope clapped, and a Cardinal stepped forward. “You will take Peter, the Archbishop of Tarragona, to Rhodes. With him you will command a fleet of sixteen ships and drive the Turks from our stronghold islands.”
Colin nodded to the cardinal. There was always a holy man assigned to every crusade—monks in the order also fought, though Colin could not take an oath of celibacy because he was married.
Peter bowed politely. “How many man your galley?”
“Twenty well-trained fighting Highlanders.”
“We sail at dawn.”
“Very well. That should give me time to gather provisions.” Colin deeply bowed to the Pope. “With your blessing, we shall prevail.”
After His Holiness made the sign of the cross, Colin took his leave and headed to the pier. From ex
perience, he anticipated many months of fighting ahead. The sooner he sailed into hell with his men, the sooner he could return to his beloved Scotland and Margaret.
He’d written several letters during the journey to Rome, all of which he dispatched before climbing the hill to meet the Pope. Margaret would receive all at once. He’d numbered them so she would open each in the order written. If only he could watch her face when she did.
During winter, Margaret met with tailors and weavers, selecting patterns for tapestries and bedding for the new castle. She’d ordered a fabulous landscape tapestry of Loch Awe for Colin, with Ben Chruachan in the background. His canopy and comforter would be a rich emerald-green silk. She’d spent more coin on his chamber than any other. But her husband’s rooms should be the grandest of them all.
March arrived at Dunstaffnage with blustery wind and driving rain. That didn’t slow Margaret. She ushered grooms bearing trunks into the nursery. “Effie, we’re moving to the cottage at Kilchurn as soon as weather permits. I want everything packed and ready to be loaded onto the wagons.”
The old woman planted fists on her hips. “You’re serious? ’Tis miserable out there. We should wait until spring has taken root.”
“In no way will I sit in this drafty castle for another two months.”
Gurgling, Duncan rolled over and rocked on his hands and knees. He’d be crawling soon. Margaret swooped the bairn into her arms. “I’ve sent for Tom Elliot. Last November, he promised me work would begin in March.”
“Och, the men can start without ye getting in their way.”
“Perish the thought. What they need is leadership.” Margaret set Duncan on the blanket. “Now set to packing, and I shall do the same.”
“But what of your condition?” Effie wrung her hands. “The cottage will be cramped with the three of us.”
Margaret rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve already planned to build on a nursery. That will be Tom’s first task.” She smoothed her hand over the small bump in her belly. “This bairn won’t be cosseted. Besides, Alana is the best midwife in all of Argyll. ’Tis better for the bairn to be born in Glen Orchy than here.”
