The Highland Dynasty: The Complete Series

by Amy Jarecki

  He glanced at the grim faces of the men—some his, others serving knights from every corner of Christendom. One thing reflected in each man’s eyes.

  Fear.

  That was no way to start a battle. Colin spurred his horse to a canter and rode back and forth in front of the gates until all eyes focused on him.

  “Are we going to let the Ottoman Empire drive us out of Christendom?”

  “No,” someone hollered from the crowd.

  “One person says no? That does not sound like an army ready to face the fiercest battle of their lives.” He slammed his pike into the ground. “I ask you again. Will you allow the rutting Turks to take our lands?”

  “No,” a unanimous roar boomed from the crowd.

  “Will you return home a coward and a failure?”

  “No!”

  “Are you ready to fight for your God and your freedom?”

  “Yes!”

  Colin gave the signal for the heavy gates to open. “Who are you fighting for?”

  “God!”

  “What are you fighting for?”

  “Freedom!”

  “We will not let them win…”

  “Deus vult, Deus vult, Deus vult!”

  Leading the ancient crusader’s cry “God wills it,” Colin led the charge out the gate to face the Ottoman army.

  Joined by the cavalry, Colin steadied his pike against his steed’s shoulder as they approached the enemy at breakneck speed. His fearless horse breathed a steady, but labored rhythm beneath his heavy plate armor. Colin glared into the eyes of his opponent, riding head-on, the bastard’s sword held high, ready to strike.

  One step before impact, Colin raised his pike and launched it into the heart of the man who aimed to chop off his head. The Turk’s stunned eyes bulged before he fell from his horse, trampled by his own men.

  Colin snatched his sword and swung, fighting the onslaught right and left, spinning his horse in the fray, heads and arms flying, men shrieking in pain, thudding to the ground. Hour after hour he fought, swinging, thrusting, hacking. There was no time to check his men. A sea of Turks washed over them. Cannons blasted from the battlements. Arrows hissed overhead, and though Colin’s muscles burned with the weight of his armor and the relentless fighting, he could not stop.

  His battle lust grew until something blunt struck him from behind. Bellowing, Colin spun and swung his blade. Out of the corner of his eye, a battle hammer flung through the air, straight for his temple. The weighty weapon connected with bone-jarring force. Flung from his saddle, his eyes rolled back.

  He’d never see home.

  Goodbye, my Margaret. My token will release your heart.

  Colin’s body thudded to the ground. Blackness took him to a place with no pain.

  31

  Kilchurn Castle, 1st May, 1461

  As they grew, Duncan and John became more similar—almost like twins. It was the Beltane Festival, and Margaret shared her plaid with Ewen near the big bonfire. All the children, Campbell and MacGregor skipped around the maypole, weaving their ribbons as they laughed and danced to the piper’s tune.

  Ewen sipped from his flask while Margaret clapped and laughed with the children. She glanced at Ewen’s face. A quirky smile crossed his lips, and he took another swig, keeping his gaze fixed across the courtyard.

  Margaret followed his line of sight. Alana’s eldest had just come of age, and she wore a gown that revealed far too much of her young flesh. Margaret grimaced, but leaned in so only Ewen could hear. “Morag just turned five and ten. She’s a sweet lass.”

  He snapped his gaze away and chuckled. “A lassie such as her won’t stay a maiden for long.”

  “Pardon me? Please excuse your vulgar tongue.”

  Ewen took a long draw from his flask. “Apologies, m’lady. I meant nothing untoward—just making an observation.”

  “I don’t care for that train of thought, especially coming from a leader of men.”

  “Aye, but all men think with their cods. We cannot help it.”

  “I think you may have indulged in a wee bit too much spirit this eve.” Margaret scooted away by a hand’s breadth.

  He held the flask upside down and belched. “’Tis empty. I suppose I’ll have to switch to ale.”

  “Mayhap you should seek your bed.”

  Ewen shrugged.

  Margaret pursed her lips and looked away. The laird usually wasn’t so uncouth. She hated the way Beltane and spirit brought out people’s unsavory side. Ewen was no different. Thank heavens she’d not seen him inebriated before—drunkenness didn’t become him.

  The bagpipes stopped, and the children all fell to the ground in a heap of laughter. Margaret stood and clapped. “Duncan, John. ’Tis time to turn in.”

  John’s bottom lip jutted out. “Och, Mummy, we’re having so much fun.”

  Mistress Lena stood, but Margaret held up a hand. “I’m ready to retire. I’ll take them up.” She dipped a quick curtsey to Ewen. “Goodnight.”

  She grasped the boys’ hands and led them into the tower before Ewen could protest.

  “I wanted to dance some more,” Duncan complained. “You always make us go to bed when everything starts to become fun.”

  Margaret strengthened her grip. She would have allowed them to stay up a bit longer had Ewen kept out of his cups. One thing she hated was watching a man overindulge in spirit. They became loose with their tongues, as well as their hands.

  Amongst the courtyard filled with people, a black chasm filled Margaret’s chest, as if she were completely alone. If only Colin would return home. Alas, hope was running out.

  She put the boys to bed and read them a passage from The Manual of Good Conduct for Children. Though it contained valuable and important material, it never failed to put them to sleep.

  She shut the nursery door quietly and headed down the passage to her chamber. Footsteps echoed up the tower stairwell. Margaret listened for a moment. They were heavy steps, like a man’s. She darted to her door—Beltane was renowned for its ill effect on people. They lost their sense of propriety, became emboldened.

  She grasped the latch.

  “There you are.” Ewen slid between her and the door, smiling broadly.

  She frowned at the sour whisky odor wafting around him. “Laird, whatever are you doing up here?” She’d never invited Ewen above stairs, and his presence here now sent prickles along her nape.

  He brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face. “Do you not think ’tis time we took another step? I’ve resisted you for so long. ’Tis Beltane.” His voice grew husky. “The night when women choose their bed partner.” He placed a hand on her waist.

  Margaret’s entire body shuddered. Ewen’s warm hand upon her body was nearly more than she could bear. She gazed into his pale eyes. Filled with lust, they stared at her. Her traitorous insides fluttered. No, Ewen wasn’t as handsome or brawny as Colin, but he was a flesh-and-blood man. Too many years had passed since a man placed hands on her with an unmistakable intent to ravish.

  But she couldn’t.

  Groaning, Ewen tugged her body against his. He crushed his mouth over her lips. Knees turning to mush, Margaret clenched her fists against her deep, base urge for passion. Heat swirled inside her loins, and her breasts ached from the friction of Ewen’s chest colliding with hers.

  He thrust his tongue into her mouth. Margaret responded, sucking, swirling. Oh God, she wanted to feel a man make love to her, wanted to be caressed and dig her fingers into powerful shoulders.

  But not with the fleshy man who had her backed against her chamber door. Margaret’s mind took control of her reckless senses and screamed no. She closed her eyes and pictured Colin in her arms. She must, she absolutely must remain faithful to her husband—at least until hope had run its course.

  “Mummy,” a tiny voice called from down the darkened corridor.

  Trembling, Margaret pushed away and swiped a hand across her mouth. “Yes, John?” Her voice shook in time with
her trembling fingers.

  “I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?”

  “Of course you can, darling.” Thank God for little angels.

  Ewen grasped her arm. “But we…”

  Steeling her resolve, she shoved her finger in Ewen’s sternum. “You shan’t tempt me like that again. Either you wait until we are wed or you can head back to Tromlee and remain there.”

  The next morning, Margaret awoke to John’s tiny fingers playing with her hair. Toasty warm beneath the coverlet, she smiled at her youngest son, and the chasm in her heart stretched. The image of Colin brought tears to her eyes.

  He clasped her face between his tiny palms. “Are you all right?”

  She dabbed her eyes with the linens. “Och aye. Just missing your father, is all. Your bonny face reminds me of him.”

  “It does?”

  “Aye.” She mussed his hair. “And we’d best rise afore the master-at-arms comes and breaks down the door.”

  John squirmed. “And skewer me with his dirk.”

  Margaret took pause. “Where did you learn that?”

  “Duncan always says it.”

  Margaret sighed. She’d have to have a word with Mevan to ensure the boys weren’t learning to be heathens. But first she had something more pressing to attend. After breaking her fast with the lads, she set out across the courtyard and surveyed the construction of the chapel.

  “M’lady. You’re up early,” said Tom Elliot. He gestured to the foundation. “The mortar’s nearly set. We can start on the walls in a sennight.”

  “No.” She tapped the foundation with her toe. “I want you to take your time on this project. Think on it as your masterpiece. Leave nothing for granted, spare no expense.”

  His face lit up. “Honestly?”

  “Yes.” She flung her arms wide. “I want this chapel to be your legacy, your greatest feat of architecture.”

  He rubbed his hands. “Yes, m’lady. I’ll need to revise the drawings.”

  “Then I suggest you set to it, Master Elliot. Make the nave as grand as Melrose Abbey.”

  Smiling, Margaret proceeded to the solitude of the gardens. This would be a very long engagement indeed.

  Please, Colin. If you are alive, I anxiously await your sign.

  32

  Dunstaffnage Castle, March, 1462

  Lord Argyll, now titled the venerated Earl of Argyll, stopped at Dunstaffnage on the king’s business. His life had been a whirlwind of madness since the death of King James II, followed by the crowning of his son, a child, now James III. The king’s mother, Mary de Guelders, had assumed the position of regent. The posturing and feuding throughout Scotland gave Argyll not a moment’s rest. This particular morning, he broke his fast in the solar and reviewed the ledgers of accounts on behalf of the king.

  His groom stepped inside and bowed. “Lord Argyll, the matron Effie wishes an audience with you.”

  “Colin’s old nursemaid?” He pinched his brows. “Whatever would she want with me?”

  “She didn’t say, m’lord. Shall I send her away?”

  “No, ask her in. I’m sure it will be a trivial matter—one easy to appease.”

  Effie, bent over a cane, hobbled through the door. “Thank you for seeing me, m’lord.”

  “’Tis my pleasure.” Argyll hopped up and pulled out a chair. “Mistress Effie, what news?”

  She shook her head sorrowfully. “’Tis very grave indeed.”

  He took the seat beside her. “Tell me.”

  “You are aware Lady Margaret has agreed to marry Ewen MacCorkodale after the Kilchurn chapel is built?”

  Argyll swiped his hand over his chin. He wasn’t aware. What else had changed while he’d been at court? “I’m sorry, I’ve been away so long, I’m afraid that information has slipped past me.” He leaned forward. “When is the chapel scheduled to be completed?”

  “Midsummer.” She grasped his hands and squeezed. “I know in my heart Colin is still alive. But he’s written not a word. Lady Margaret has put Laird Ewen off for years, and now time has run its course.”

  “This is serious indeed.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ve received no word of Uncle’s death. Yet it’s been…seven years with no word?” My, how time had slipped away. But it wasn’t like Colin Campbell to abandon his affairs. The lead in Argyll’s gut did not mirror Effie’s feelings. Has Glenorchy been killed?

  “Aye. What is Lady Margaret to do with two boys and no husband? They’re now approaching critical years.”

  Argyll sat back in the chair. “And what makes you think he still lives?”

  Though her skin was wrinkled, her blue eyes sparkled with an intelligent flicker. “First of all, he gave my lady a token and vowed if she received it, she would know he was dead. She has not received a single thing. Secondly, I know Colin as well as you do, m’lord. He’s alive. I can feel it in these old bones.” She pushed a gnarled finger into his sternum. “You must fetch him and bring him back before that onion-eyed varlet sneaks his way into Lady Margaret’s bed. Once Ewen MacCorkodale gets his hands on Campbell lands, you can bet the boys will be booted out and new deeds drawn.”

  “Dear God.” His mind raced. What were the options? Whom else could he send? The body should be retrieved. Above all, family lands and titles must be protected.

  Effie boldly poked him again. “You must leave at once.”

  Argyll blinked. “I cannot just pick up and sail across the high seas.” He was an earl, for God’s sake.

  “You’re Colin’s only able kin. You’ve been to Rome. You know where to look. Who else could find him as fast as you?” She stood and fingered the bold medal of the Earl of Argyll, which hung on a heavy chain across his chest. “You must surely ken you owe all your success to him. Dunna be an arse and pretend he didn’t foster you and turn you into the great earl you’ve become today.” She spat on the floor. “You’d be a sniveling, bull-witted measle if it weren’t for Colin Campbell.”

  Effie dropped to her chair, panting and fanning herself from her exuberant discourse. Argyll ran his palm over his mouth. The old nursemaid was always one to speak her mind—no matter whom she addressed.

  Argyll didn’t care to be ordered about by a bent old woman who looked not a day younger than eighty, but she was right. Blood ran thick between the Campbells, and the Lord of Glenorchy had had more to do with making Argyll an earl than his own father. He could not sit idle while another man claimed Colin’s wife and lands—and Effie spoke true. Argyll had been to Christendom as his uncle’s squire. He probably knew more about the Order of St. John than any man in Scotland.

  Could he afford the time?

  Who else can I trust?

  Another year’s Mayday festival behind them, Margaret walked through the garden with Ewen. He held her hand firmly. She tolerated his affection. After all, it had been nearly seven years since Colin left. She had no other marriage prospects, no other suitors.

  Margaret studied her betrothed. His face wasn’t spectacular. He had a noble hook to his nose, his chin bold, not effeminate in the least. But there was something about his eyes she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A dark shade of blue, they shifted—never really focused on her for long. She really shouldn’t let that bother her. He was a laird with many responsibilities, and a myriad of thoughts must course through his mind at any given time. Even his conversation hopped from one topic to the next—except when he pressured her.

  Today he appeared to be in good humor. “When we are wed, you shall not have to worry about anything except the latest fashions and dances.”

  She chuckled. “I do love to dance, but I rather enjoy keeping a finger on the pulse of the castle.”

  “’Tis a man’s job.” He gestured toward the roofless chapel. “That building should have been completed last summer. I’m surprised you haven’t fired Tom Elliot by now.”

  If he only knew she’d been the one to slow the mason’s progress. “Not to worry. The chapel will be complete soon.”<
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  “Yes it will, and you shall not be faced with such daunting tasks ever again.” He stopped and pulled her around to face him. “The chapel’s completion is why I asked you to walk with me. We must set the date.”

  Margaret chewed her lip, a weight pressing on her chest. She could put it off no longer. She must face the fact Colin was gone for good. The boys needed a father. Keeping Ewen at bay only hurt their future prospects. She wasn’t about to petition the queen and marry someone unknown to her. Ewen was a laird and had been kind and patient. “I’ve given it a great deal of thought.”

  His eyes brightened. “Oh?”

  “We’ll have a big gathering for the Lammas Day Feast.”

  “Aye, the harvest looks promising already. The day of the feast, then?”

  “I was thinking the morning after—August third. It has a nice ring to it.”

  Ewen held his fists in the air as if he’d just won the grand prize in the Highland games. “At last we will be wed. We shall be the talk of Argyllshire the entire summer.”

  Margaret tried to smile. So she was his conquest? A prize he’d won? She didn’t honestly want a tender, earth-shattering communion of emotion. Did she?

  He grasped her shoulders and planted a slobbery kiss on her lips. “You’ll not regret this.”

  She took in a deep breath and smiled broadly. That did feel better. After all, what did she expect? She was now nine and twenty. Her days of fluttering hearts and breasts swelling with desire were long gone. She must now make decisions for the good of her children and her kin.

  Ewen stepped back, holding Margaret’s hand out at arm’s length. “I must away to court. The regent has summoned me to parliament.”

  “Very well.” Margaret dipped in a curtsey. “Haste ye back, my…friend.” She could think of nothing more endearing. She certainly would not refer to him as dear, love or sweetheart. Those worlds refused to form upon her lips. She would never utter those words again.