by Amy Jarecki
“’Tis all we have. I drink it myself.”
Colin gazed at Maxwell’s face, and his vision cleared. He raised his chin for the squire to tip the cup again. This time he drank down the sulfur-smelling liquid. After Maxwell pulled the cup away, he tried his voice again. “Where are we?”
“In a Turkish pit.”
Someone moved behind him. “Left to rot I’d wager.” Colin didn’t recognize the voice.
He tried to remember—they were in a sea battle. All seemed lost. “What happened?”
Maxwell sat on the musty hay beside him. “The boom snapped—knocked you unconscious. The ship went down so fast, there wasn’t time to think. I slung my arm around you and grabbed the nearest floating piece of timber.”
Colin tried to concentrate on the lad’s words, but his head throbbed. “The crew?”
“Who knows? Some dead for certain. Willy’s here. Don’t know what happened to the others.”
“Are we on an island?”
“No one knows. They pulled us out of the water and stuck us in the bilges. Before we went ashore, they blindfolded us and shoved us down those stairs.” Maxwell pointed to a narrow case of steps leading to a black door.
“How long?”
“Two days.”
No wonder Colin’s tongue had turned to scored leather. “Why didn’t they let us drown?”
Maxwell scratched his arm, black dirt beneath his fingernails. “Wish we knew—planning something hideous, no doubt.”
“Bargaining chips, I’d wager.” William’s deep voice came from behind.
Colin blinked. “So they just dumped us down here to rot?”
“Aye, with a few other brethren.” Maxwell lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Italian, French, even a bloody Englishman.”
The agonizing pain in Colin’s head made it difficult for him to think. He found the lad’s hand and gave it a feeble squeeze. “Thank you.”
Everything mercifully faded into blackness.
Enjoying an afternoon in the cottage garden, Margaret balanced John on her lap and watched Duncan use a child-size barrow and shovel to move dirt from one heap to another. Effie was able to spend less time in the nursery due to worsening rheumatism, and Margaret had naturally taken on more of the daily supervision after John’s birth a year and one month ago.
Thus far, John looked more like his father than Duncan did. The babe had dun-colored hair and brown, soulful eyes. Every time Margaret looked at him, her heart squeezed. Nearly two years had passed with no word from Colin. She closed her eyes. Dear God in heaven, protect your servant, Colin, and bring him home to his family soon… Words she repeated countless times.
Hammering came from the tower. The roof would be finished soon. That lifted her spirits. She’d already had the carpenters build the tables for the great hall, and the tapestries had arrived from Edinburgh. Soon she’d have wagons bring their beds and furniture from Dunstaffnage. It was all so exciting. If only Colin were here to be a part of it.
Margaret had acquired more cattle and sheep—even invested in Galloway ponies. Since she’d taken the helm, the Campbell wealth had grown exponentially. Things were almost perfect…aside from a wee problem with missing cattle. It didn’t happen often, but had occurred enough for Margaret to realize someone was thieving a beast now and again. The culprit was smart about it, too. Only one cow would disappear. The shepherds would search the Glen Orchy lands without so much as a trace, not even a carcass.
Margaret suspected the thief was of the two-legged variety, possibly building his own herd, pinching but a cow per month. Mevan had the guard on it, however. She had every faith he would eventually uncover the guilty party.
Effie appeared from around the corner and took a seat on the garden bench beside Margaret. “Are you still planning to go to the Michaelmas Feast at Tromlee Castle?”
“Aye. Robert and Alana have agreed to accompany me, with Sir Mevan as our guard.”
Effie harrumphed.
What did she expect Margaret to do? Lock herself in the cottage and refrain from showing graciousness toward their neighbors? Surely not.
As Lady Glenorchy, she had a responsibility to encourage kindly relations between neighboring clans. Laird MacCorkodale had been ever so kind in the past year, sending several gifts. It was past time to thank him properly.
The following day, the early autumn ride to Tromlee was invigorating. It was the first time she’d ventured away from John, but it would only be for one night. Soon she’d be back at the cottage with the boys, listening to the construction efforts, debating the final touches with Tom Elliot.
But today she would enjoy herself. They’d only been riding for two quarters of a sun’s traverse when Tromlee Castle came into view. It was a tall, narrow tower, surrounded by a curtain wall—almost a miniature of the castle Margaret and Colin were building in Glen Orchy.
She tapped her heels against her mount. “I do hope there will be plenty of dancing, and some charitable soul takes pity on a lonely matron.”
“I’ll dance with you, m’lady,” Robert said.
“Then I shall hold you to it.” Margaret cued her mare to a fast trot. “Come along. I can hear the pipers filling their hide bags already.”
Ewen MacCorkodale could scarcely contain his excitement when Margaret Campbell walked through his door. Ever so subtly he’d been keeping an eye on her, plying her with gifts, planning each move with the careful stealth of a landowning laird who got what he wanted.
With her husband off fighting in his third crusade, there was little chance of Glenorchy’s return to Scotland…and if he did, Ewen would know about it long before the man reached Kilchurn. As laird, he may not be as powerful a baron as Lord Glenorchy or his nephew, now titled the wretched Earl of Argyll, but Ewen was more cunning. An alliance built between neighboring clans would build his family’s wealth and augment his standing at court. But he must tread very carefully, bide his time. One wrong move would not only incite a feud he couldn’t win, it would lose him the grand prize.
Lady Margaret only need glance his way to stir the fire in his loins. He wanted her almost as much as he wanted Colin Campbell’s land. Almost.
He held out his hands. “M’lady. How kind of you to come to my humble gathering.”
Her sad face blossomed into a beautiful smile. “Thank you, m’laird. You have been most generous by inviting us.”
“Please. Call me Ewen.”
Watching the cautious arch of her brow, he admonished himself. Do not push her. He gestured toward the high table. “Please, do dine beside me.”
Margaret turned to her guests—the milk-livered chieftain Robert MacGregor and his wench. “Thank you for your generosity, but I must keep company with my escort.”
Blast her damned propriety. He forced his most genuine smile. “Yes, of course. I shall make room for all three.”
“Splendid.” Margaret clapped. “You are truly a most accommodating host.”
Her smile did something to his insides. He wasn’t quite certain what it was, but being close to her, smelling the light bouquet of her perfume, instilled a lightheartedness he couldn’t recall experiencing in the past.
He must guard against her charms. Allowing himself to be smitten was most certainly not a part of his plan. He was in charge. Not she.
He held the chair for her. “Have you news of Lord Glenorchy?”
She sighed deeply. “Alas, no.”
“How dreadful.” Ewen had difficulty keeping sarcasm out of his voice. He motioned toward two vacant seats at far end of the table, where Robert MacGregor and his wife could sit out of earshot.
He reached for the ewer of his best wine—a costly vintage reserved for the most special occasions. “May I?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured for her and then himself, and raised his glass. “Cheers for a pleasant evening where we can forget our trials, if only for a brief interval.”
“Agreed.” Margaret sipped. “Mmm. Your wine is del
icious.”
Ewen swallowed against the flutter in his chest. “And how is the progress on Kilchurn?”
“Ahead of schedule this season. I’m looking forward to moving the boys into the new nursery.”
“And your chamber?”
“That too, though I daresay the cottage has been more than comfortable.”
He held the goblet to his lips. “Though a woman of your stature deserves grander comfort.”
Something flashed in her eyes. His comment hadn’t sat well with her. Perhaps she was not as prideful as most of the other highborn women he’d met. Interesting. A woman with her beauty should be pampered endlessly. Had Lord Campbell been lax in his attentions? I’m sure the beef-witted knight is far too arrogant to give a woman her due.
It had been two years since she’d last seen her husband. Ewen knew. He’d counted every last day.
He spared no expense, at least for the high table. His best wine, nutmeats and fruits shipped all the way from Spain. Cook entered the hall carrying a masterpiece. Atop a trencher, the exact likeness of a peacock perched, its brilliant tail feathers flowing in waves to the floor.
Margaret clasped her hands under her chin. “Oh my, your efforts exceed that of the king’s table.”
She exaggerated. His idea for the peacock came directly from Stirling, but still, Ewen’s chest swelled. “I thought you’d like it.”
Cook made a show of placing the trencher on the table and arranging the feathers so Lady Margaret could admire them.
“Well done,” she bubbled.
The cook bowed. “Thank you, m’lady.” Then he lifted the peacock’s breast slightly. “The surprise is beneath.”
She closed her eyes and inhaled the aroma of the sweet meat. “My, ’tis too beautiful to eat.”
Ewen brushed his fingers across the back of her hand. “Nothing is too beautiful for you, Lady Margaret.”
Her smile waned and she pulled her hand away, turning the silver ring around her finger. It seemed a nervous gesture he’d noticed before. Ewen wasn’t dissuaded, confident he’d made a lasting impression. “I’ve killed a steer for the meal as well.” His insides fluttered at his ruse.
“Did you now?” She arched her delicate brow. “Tell me, laird. Have you noticed dwindling numbers in your herd?”
“Nay. Are you saying you have, m’lady?”
“Aye. Not too often, but every now and again, a beast turns up missing.”
Under the table, his foot began to twitch. “Thieves?”
“I believe so, someone trying to increase his own holdings.”
This conversation couldn’t have continued more to his liking if he’d written the script. “Or take advantage of a lady whose husband is away.”
Margaret frowned and sipped her wine. “Perhaps.”
Ewen pounded his fist on the table for added theatrics. “I will not stand for such a wrongdoing against a delicate lady such as yourself. Please allow me to intervene on your behalf.”
She tapped a finger to her lips. “Do you have an idea who is stealing my cattle, laird?”
Shaking his head, he held up his palms. “It shouldn’t take me long to find the culprit. My henchman can sniff out a thief in the next burgh. I’ll set him to task at first light.”
Margaret placed her hand over his and squeezed. “My thanks for your gracious kindness. My man, Mevan, would be more than happy to accompany your men.”
Ewen couldn’t help the sly grin spreading across his face. “That most likely won’t be necessary, m’lady.”
After the feast, the minstrels clambered onto the balcony. Margaret let out a little gasp. “Why, I believe those are the same musicians who played at Duncan’s christening.”
“Aye, the same.”
“Oh my. I daresay they are the best in the Highlands.” Her eyes flashed with excitement. “You shan’t keep me from dancing this evening.”
He stood and bowed. “I do hope you will do me the honor.”
She grasped his hand. “I’d love to.”
Ewen chuckled to himself. The last time he’d seen Margaret dance, her face made the entire room glow, and tonight was no different. When she’d arrived she could have even looked a tad melancholy, but swinging her around to the music made her laugh and clap, appropriate for a woman of her age.
She danced tirelessly, though rarely cast her gaze his way. She watched the other dancers or kept her eyes downcast. If he asked a question, she’d offer a guarded response at best. Did she not know the wine, the minstrels, the fact that he was dancing with her through the night were all for her? Bloody hell, this was the first time in his life he’d held a St. Michaelmas Feast.
Patience. Earn her trust.
When the music ended, Ewen offered his elbow. “Allow me to escort you to your chamber.”
She bit her bottom lip. Her gaze darted around the hall. Ewen smiled inwardly. Laird Robert and his wife had retired long before the music ended. “Surely there is a serving maid who can show me the way.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it. Come, m’lady. You are my esteemed guest.” He led her up the tower stairs. “I know not how you’re managing alone.”
“I say, you do underestimate me. Lord Glenorchy has been gone two years, and his estate has prospered. Forgive my pride in saying so.”
“Not at all.” He led her down a passage on the third floor. “But I was referring to more delicate matters.”
He stopped outside the guest chamber and lifted her chin with the crook of his pointer finger. Her green eyes were so penetrating, he swore she could read his mind. Her beauty emboldened him. “Your bed must be cold at night.”
She snatched her arm from his and stepped back. “I am quite certain I do not care for the direction of your conversation, m’laird.”
Blast. He’d warned himself over and over, yet meeting her gaze had turned him into a lecherous cur. “E-excuse me, m’lady. I meant no disrespect.”
“I’d thank you to remember my station. I dearly hope that we can remain friends, but I will always and forever be faithful to my husband.” She opened the door and gave a curtsey. “My gratitude for a lovely evening.”
He bowed. “M’lady.”
The lock clicked. Ewen turned on his heel and bounded down the passageway to the laird’s chamber. He’d spent the entire evening gaining her trust, plying her with his wealth, and then he had to push her in the last hour. He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a tot of whisky.
He would coax Lady Margaret into his bed, but he must do so short of a scandal—and with the promise of her hand. Without her lands, the alluring woman was useless to him.
27
The Island of Symi, February, 1458
The piss-soaked straw still burned Colin’s eyes. He’d been in the Ottoman pit for six months now. The only thing keeping him alive was his memories. Had Margaret birthed a son or a daughter? Of course she’d have survived the birth. He knew it in his soul. A woman with her grit could bring a brawny lad into the world. Another son would be nice—but a daughter would also be a blessing. Regardless, the child would be healthy and loved. When he closed his eyes he could see Margaret smiling, chatting, naked. Thoughts of his leannan gave him strength in his darkest hours.
No other prisoners had been interned. He, Maxwell, William and a handful of other knights rotted in the bowels of a fortress. He’d been on the brink of death the first three months of his tenure. Thank God for Maxwell. The squire had tended Colin and nursed him back to some semblance of health.
He reached up and rubbed the knot at the back of his head. It still brought on vicious headaches, but Colin’s vision and memory had returned. At least for the most part. Not a man in the pit knew where in God’s name they were.
Getting information out of the guards was a useless effort. They spat and spoke in an indecipherable tongue.
The iron gate above creaked open. A man tumbled down the stone steps, his back bleeding from welts of the lash. Colin scurried over to him. Dark hair
and dark skin. He looked as if he could be one of the infidels. “Maxwell, bring a cup of water.” Colin levered up the man’s shoulders. “Who are you?”
He wailed and shook his head.
“Que êtes-vous?” Colin asked in French, the language of the order. He made the sign of the cross known only to the Hospitallers.
The man drew a cross on his chest in a weak reply. “Pierre Laurent.”
“Français?”
“Oui.”
“But you look like a Turk.”
“’Tis why I’m here.”
“A spy?”
Pierre took a moment to catch his breath. “Oui.”
“Where are we?”
“Symi.”
Colin balled his fist. They were close enough to Rhodes that they could swim. Maxwell arrived with the water. Colin held the dirty, communal wooden cup to Pierre’s lips. “Drink.”
The man guzzled and sputtered. “Merci.”
“What are our chances for escape?”
The man laughed. “From here? We’re in a pit, if you hadn’t noticed. There’s only one way out.”
“How many guards above?”
“Too many to count.”
“Guess,” Colin demanded.
“A dozen.”
“How many paces from the gaol to the sea?”
Pierre hung his head, as if all was lost. “How should I know?”
“We cannot be far. I can smell it when the wind comes through the window.” Colin glanced at the small hole at least fifteen feet above them.
He pulled the knight to the wall and piled the somewhat clean hay he used for his pallet behind him. “Rest here. I wish I had something to cleanse your wounds, brother.”
“Merci. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”
Colin frowned. “Do you know why they’re keeping us here?”
“No. There’s been some talk of using Christians for human shields when they march on Jerusalem.”
“Or public hanging,” William said.
“Oui.” Pierre swallowed with effort. “Or worse.”
Colin stood. Restlessness jittered through his limbs for the first time since he awoke in this dank dungeon. He scanned the defeated faces of the men around him. “Who wants to break out of here?”
