by Amy Jarecki
His gaze shifting downward, he gasped. Every muscle in his body tensed.
Her left arm hung in a sling. Oh God, what happened? Had she fallen? Had she other injuries? Colin should have been on hand to protect her. He drew upon the last remaining ounces of self-restraint and resisted rushing to the dais and groveling before her. What had he done? Why had he stayed away for seven years?
Alas, she looked like a queen. His heart twisted and yearned for her touch, until Ewen MacCorkodale stepped beside her and kissed her cheek. Colin clenched his fists. Margaret gave Ewen a nod and reached for her goblet. The rogue took the seat beside her, his eyes not leaving her lovely face.
She glanced up.
Colin snapped his gaze away and sat on a bench at the lowest table. His gut churned. Seeing his enemy plying his wife with a kiss ignited a fire burning so hot, his fingers itched to pull the dirk hidden beneath his costume.
The kitchen door opened, and servants filed to the high tables. Their trenchers laden with fresh breads and roasted pork, Colin’s mouth watered. He could practically taste the meat.
The hall rumbled with excited voices, laughing and recounting stories. Behind him, a Campbell man had helped birth a calf that morning. Beside him, an old man tapped Colin on the shoulder. “Mind if we sit with you, mate?”
Colin tilted his helm so it partially covered his eyes, and gestured to the bench. “Please do.”
“Hopefully there’ll be a few scraps left by the time the trenchers make it this far.”
Colin could have broken his nose with one blow. “I’m sure Lady Margaret has planned enough for all,” he grumbled, his voice far gruffer than he would have liked.
The man’s wife climbed onto the bench across from them. “Aye, she’s a generous woman. I’ll say.”
Colin tried to converse with the couple, while continually glancing over his shoulder. Margaret talked and laughed, but not once did she touch the man beside her.
A servant stopped and offered Colin the quaich—the communal cup, filled with Scottish whisky passed to every soul at a Highland feast. Colin held up his palm and shook his head. “I’ll not be served by any hand but that of Lady Margaret.”
The servant eyed him from head to toe, his mouth forming an O. “My heavens, a proud beggar? You should be eating the scraps off the floor.”
Colin fingered his dirk. He’d not soon forget this servant’s hospitality. Clenching his gut against the urge to teach the moron a lesson, he firmly struck the table with his fist and eyed the man with inarguable intensity. “Go fetch your lady.”
With a sarcastic grunt, the servant stuck his nose in the air and traipsed to the dais.
When he whispered in Margaret’s ear, her gaze snapped up. Colin’s heart stopped. She smiled at him pleasantly, but no familiarity crossed her face. Next to her, Ewen shook his head. She placed a calming hand on the bastard’s shoulder and then, with that same hand, plucked the quaich from the servant’s fingers.
The large man sitting at the lowest table stared from under his old helm like a starved wolf. The wide nose guard almost completely hid his face. He appeared to have a strong back, and Margaret wondered what tragedy had transpired to turn him into a beggar. With an unkempt and outrageously long beard, he’d certainly never been to Kilchurn before. All guests must be honored.
She poured the contents of the two-handled quaich in a tankard, placed it on the table and filled it with her finest whisky. Blast her one-armed immobility.
Ewen pushed his chair back. “You cannot be serious? I should throw the old beggar out.”
“You’ll do no such thing. This is Lammas. Our doors are open to everyone.”
Ewen grumbled under his breath, but stood and bowed. Margaret was honestly relieved he didn’t accompany her to the far end of the hall. If he preferred not to show charity, he could remain on the dais.
The indigent man had intense posture. He watched her approach. The full beard hid the exposed part of his face—so long, it almost rested in his lap. With ragged clothes, Margaret assumed he’d smell foul. When she neared, only the faint musk of a man who perhaps had journeyed a long distance reached her nose. Gooseflesh rose across her skin. Odd.
She offered her most amiable smile. “Thank you for sharing our table, sir.”
He did not meet her gaze, but bent his bearded head toward the pewter quaich in her hand. His helm prevented her from seeing his eyes. Her skin again tingled. Had she met this man before?
She held out the cup.
His tongue slipped through his lips and moistened them. Large hands moved slowly to accept the pewter vessel. “My thanks for your gracious kindness.”
The rough pad of his pointer finger brushed hers. Burning heat radiated from the spot he’d touched, and she rubbed it against her skirts. Surely she must have seen this man somewhere. Her mind raced. He didn’t speak like a beggar.
Raising the quaich to his lips, his hands quavered slightly.
Margaret’s heart twisted. He must be starving.
The helm cast a shadow across his face while he drank. A satisfied rumble rolled from his chest. He lowered the cup and bowed his chin. “You have generously served me your finest. I am in your debt, m’lady.” His voice was gruff, and he kept his eyes downcast, passing her the quaich.
Margaret reached for it. A tiny metallic sound tinkled inside.
She glanced down.
The token!
He removed his helm. Dark brown eyes met hers.
The quaich crashed to the floor. Gasping, her hand flew to her chest.
Colin.
“My God.” Margaret’s knees buckled. A cry erupted from the deepest recess of her heart. Her hand clasped his grizzly face. Falling, her fingers smoothed down rock-hard shoulders. Tears streamed from her eyes. Her entire body quaked. Downward she dropped until her knees hit the floor. “Husband. Forgive, forgive, forgive me.”
The room spun.
She crouched over his feet, her tears splashing his leather boots. She cared not if they were covered with mud. Tenderly, she brushed shaking fingers over them and kissed each one. “Praise be to God. You have returned.”
37
Kilchurn Castle, 2nd August, 1462
Watching his wife grovel at his feet whilst her arm hung in a sling was more than Colin could bear. He gently grasped her shoulders. “Mo Leannan,” he said in a low voice, helping her to stand. “You’re hurt.” He cupped her beautiful face in his hands. “Let me gaze upon you.”
“Colin… What?” She leaned her cheek into his palm. “Why…”
Footsteps thundered from the dais. “Remove your hands from her, you ruttish, fly-bitten beggar,” Ewen bellowed, bounding toward them, shoving tables while people scurried out of his path.
Snatching his dirk from its hiding place, Colin spun and faced the backstabber. MacCorkodale had been behind every thorn that had ever plagued him. With all the hatred built from years of fighting soulless men, this was his nemesis, his most loathed enemy.
Ewen stopped midstride. The bastard’s face twisted with surprise. Guilt. Then horror. He sidestepped. His gaze shot to the door. Pushing a woman aside, he darted toward the courtyard.
With a roar, the Black Knight started after him.
Margaret wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “No.” She stumbled with the force of Colin’s retreat.
He stopped midstride. “I must avenge you.”
Her green eyes softened his lust for blood. “He showed me kindness.”
All guests’ eyes were upon them. John and Duncan raced in and clung to their mother’s skirts, confusion written on their faces.
Mevan followed, his sword drawn, his expression grave. “Lady Margaret, back away.”
“Stop,” she cried. “Can you not see? ’Tis Lord Glenorchy.”
“My God.” Mevan lowered his weapon.
Colin shoved the dirk in his belt and inclined his head toward Margaret’s guard. “My men are in the old stable. Tell them MacCorkodale is on the run.
They’ll know what to do. Tell them to retrieve my letters first.”
“Letters?” Margaret stepped beside him. “What letters?”
“I sent parcel upon parcel of missives to you. It became known to me you received not a one.”
“Is all well, Mummy?” John asked.
Margaret didn’t look at the lad right away. Her face blanked with a sharp gasp. Then, as if dazed by Colin’s news, she looked between the angelic faces. “Lads. This is your father.”
They regarded him, astonishment and wonder on each face.
Now was not the time to chase after vengeance. Colin removed the grungy surcoat and kneeled. “I’ve missed so much. Look how big you are.” He mussed Duncan’s hair. “You ran to your mother’s side to protect her. You men have done well in my stead, and have made me proud.” Somehow, he managed to keep his voice from quaking.
The boys’ eyes grew round as silver sovereigns. They exchanged bewildered glances. Together they wrapped their arms around Colin’s neck.
“Da!” John exclaimed.
Tears streaked down Duncan’s face. “I knew you’d come. My da is the most fearless knight in all Christendom.”
Colin shut his eyes and stood, holding, hugging the lads in his arms. Tears glistening upon her cheeks, Margaret wrapped one arm around them, her smile lighting up the hall.
The room erupted in applause. Even the rude servant clapped his hands and bowed. Mercy, how Colin wished they weren’t surrounded by a hundred guests. He had seven years upon which to catch up, and he wanted to start now. With a lad on each hip, he inclined his head toward the dais. “I believe we have a feast to continue, m’lady.”
Margaret’s smile radiated through the hall. “That we do, m’lord.”
While they walked, the pipers filled the hall with a resounding pibroch of the Campbells. Benches scraped across the floor. Every soul stood and sang with passion. For the first time, Colin climbed the steps to the Kilchurn dais and joined in, singing in his deep bass, complemented by the youthful voices of his children and Margaret’s sultry alto.
It was very late when the guests bedded down or took their leave. Colin followed Margaret to the nursery to check on the boys. Both lads were bundled in their beds, sound asleep.
Colin couldn’t stop looking at Margaret. How could she be so much more beautiful than he’d remembered? He’d put her on a pedestal, but seeing her in the flesh exceeded all expectation. And there he stood beside her, his beard unkempt, his body in need of a bath. How could she bear the sight of him?
He carried a candle in one hand and threaded her fingers through his other. She led him along the passageway of his castle. Everything was foreign, not familiar like a man’s home ought. Give it time.
They passed a door on the right. “My chamber adjoins with yours.”
Good. Then next would be his. Opening the door, Colin swallowed. The fire had been lit, as had the candles atop the hearth. Numb, he stood at the threshold. His bed had been moved from Dunstaffnage, as had his sideboard, upholstered chairs and settee. The plaid rug on the floor was new, as were the magnificent landscape tapestries and bedclothes. Yet nothing had a homey feel. Margaret must have transferred his things and locked the door, except for the occasional dusting and clearing of cobwebs.
“Is something amiss, m’lord?”
Colin jolted, then chuckled. “No. All is nicely appointed, thank you.” Time had put an awkward distance between them.
She glanced sideways. “Would you prefer it if I left you alone, m’lord?”
“Colin.” He grasped her shoulders and stepped close. “Call me Colin.” Closing his eyes, he pressed his lips against her forehead. A warm heartbeat pulsed beneath his lips. Seven years of war melted from his icy heart.
She chuckled. “You kissed me like that on our wedding night.”
He led her inside and shut the door. “Do not remind me. I’ll carry the shame of my actions that night to my grave.”
She shrugged. “You were in mourning. ’Tis to be forgiven.”
“Mayhap by you.” He walked her to the settee. “Shall we sit for a moment?”
Margaret complied, and smoothed her skirts with her one good hand. So many questions coursed through his mind. Had she fallen in love with MacCorkodale? He couldn’t bring himself to ask. The hall had been too loud to hold any kind of conversation. They’d danced and laughed and stared at each other, but not much of anything had been said or understood.
“Tell me again. What happened to your arm?” If MacCorkodale had anything to do with it, he’d die the slowest, most painful death imaginable.
Margaret ran her hand over the sling. “’Tis nearly healed.” She blushed adorably. “I spirited away to Edinburgh to gain an audience with the queen. Before I married Ewen, I had to know if she’d received word from you or the order as to your whereabouts.”
Colin cringed when she uttered that bastard’s name. “Why did you need to be secretive about your trip?”
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ewen would have insisted on accompanying me.”
“And you didn’t want him to?”
“No.” She plied him with a pleading gaze. “He’d convinced me you were dead, but I needed more proof.”
Colin’s heart squeezed. “I take it the queen couldn’t give it to you?”
“Nay.”
“Did MacCorkodale do anything to harm you?” He clenched his fists against the hate roiling in his gut.
“No. Mostly, he acted gentlemanly.”
His back stiffened. “Mostly?”
“There was an occasion or two when I felt he wanted to push me too far, though he backed down when I made my wishes clear.”
Colin knew exactly how the spineless vermin weaseled his way into her good graces. MacCorkodale would have pushed and taken advantage of her affable nature until she snapped. He ground his knuckles into the seat cushion.
She sighed. “I digress. A dozen Campbell sentries accompanied me. On the narrow path along Loch na Bi, we were besieged by outlaws. I was hit with a hammer before Mevan could spirit me away.”
Och, twice attacked whilst traveling? Christ. Colin rubbed his forehead. “I never should have left you alone.”
She splayed her palm. “What could you do? Go against the Pope and the edict of God?”
“Only man wages war, and when you are in the middle of it, ’tis hell on earth.” He hated that it had consumed him. “I should have been here with you and the boys.”
Margaret fell silent for a time. The crackling of the fire filled the chamber. Colin studied her profile—refined, regal, a goddess.
She caught him staring and smiled sadly. “What happened in Rome?”
“I was stationed in Rhodes, mostly.” Colin swallowed, then groaned. “Too much killing. Mehmed and his Ottoman Empire are hellbent on claiming the Holy Land. Their ruthless, clandestine methods are slowly chipping away at our forces. A man cannot sleep at night for fear he’ll never wake.” He stared into the fire, the hellishness of it all seizing his heart again. “Too many nights I slept in my armor, ready for an attack.”
Margaret threaded her fingers through his—gentle, feminine fingers, soft as pure silk. He never wanted to release them.
Colin blinked. “’Tis all in my letters. If they still exist, you can read them.”
She scooted toward him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Oh how he’d missed her sweet bouquet.
“Not one reached me. Who would…?” Her mouth dropped open. “Do you think…?”
“Aye. The bastard you were about to marry had something to do with it for certain.”
Her brow furrowed. “But he always tried to protect me.”
Colin smoothed his other hand over her fingers. “So he could lay his hands on Campbell lands.”
She sat erect. Her eyes probed his, as if the realization of the ruse had sunk in. “I cannot fathom how he could be so deceptive, so dishonest. Why, I think Effie suspected he was the one who’d been st
ealing our cattle.”
He squeezed her hand tightly. “Turned cattle thief, did he?”
“I’m not sure, but when I told Ewen about a problem we were having with the odd missing beast, he offered to set his man to the task of ferreting out the thief. Later, he only told me he’d found the culprit and that was the end of it.” She drew in a stuttered inhale. “I thought him a champion.”
All she had to do was say the word and Colin would barrel out into the night and kill the fly-bitten swine. “Blackguard,” he growled.
But she held fast to Colin’s hand, raising it to her chest. “Thank God you arrived before I went through with the wedding. I tried to put it off for years, but Ewen persisted.” Her eyes rimmed red. “He tricked me and took advantage…” A tear slipped from the corner of her eye.
“There, there,” Colin said, sliding his arm around her shoulder. “That cur will be caught and punished.” On my oath.
She swiped her hand across her face. “’Tis all so overwhelming. Forgive me.”
Colin nuzzled into the green silk at her temple that held her hennin in place. “There’s nothing to forgive. With no word from me in seven years, I’m surprised you held out this long.”
“I wanted to hold out forever…but the boys…and the keep.” She bit her bottom lip as if to stop herself from saying more.
“I could not have built a finer castle myself.”
He kissed her temple again. Sugared lavender. Only Margaret could smell as sweet. Lowering his gaze to her mouth, he bowed his head and caressed her lips ever so gently. ’Twas a simple kiss, but it sent a shiver across his skin.
Margaret smoothed her hand over her chin. “Do you think we could trim that awful beard?”
He threw his head back, a rolling laugh burst from his gut. “I’ve grown rather attached to it.”
