Knight in Highland Armor (17 page)

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.”

Colin smoothed his palm over his dirk’s pommel. He’d killed men for less. One more accusation and this would become bloody. “How quickly you jump to Walter’s defense. I’ve witnesses.”

“And written proof,” Margaret said behind him.

Ewen leaned around Colin and made a show of studying Margaret from head to toe. A lecherous smile spread across his lips. “You’ve a woman speaking for you now?”

Colin stepped in and latched his fingers around the big horse’s bridle. “No one speaks in my stead, but if ’tis proof of treachery you seek, I’ve plenty—else you best prepare to join your cousin this night.”

MacCorkodale glanced down to Colin’s hand and then slid his gaze back to Margaret. He shifted in his saddle. “Word has it you’re off to Rome soon.”

“In time, perhaps.” Distrust clamped Colin’s gut. “I’ve a great many accountabilities to see to here first—especially tending the mess left by
your
cousin.”

“Unfortunate,” Ewen said, absently rubbing his chin. “’Tis not wise to leave such a fine woman alone.”

Colin itched to pull the bastard from his horse and lay him flat. “Lady Margaret to you, sir. And
if
I sail for the Crusades, she will be well guarded. On that you have my word.”

“I would expect no less.” Ewen tipped his head to Margaret. “Apologies, m’lady. I meant no disrespect.”

With a kick of his heels, Ewen spun his horse from Colin’s grasp. “Come, men. I am satisfied with Lord Glenorchy’s account…for now.”

The Cottage at Glen Orchy, 30
th
October, 1455

Colin grasped Margaret’s elbow far too firmly. “Come.”

She wrenched her arm against steely fingers. “I’ll follow, but I will not be muscled into the cottage by an angry knight.” She detested the way Colin could change from charming to overbearing within the blink of an eye.

He glared and moved his hand to the small of her back. That wasn’t much better, but at least it didn’t hurt. Queen’s knees, the man didn’t know his own strength. After ushering her into the cottage, he slammed the door. “When a threatening chieftain rides into camp hellbent on revenge, I bid you hold your tongue.”

“Me?” He was mad at
her
—not at the blackguard who’d spoilt the gathering? “But I spoke the truth.”

“It matters not. He could have drawn his sword and commanded his men to fight with women and children underfoot. ’Tis my duty to protect you and the others in my care.”

“You believe
I
put the entire clan in peril?”

“Aye, lady, you did.” Colin paced and smacked his fist against the wall. “Did you see the way he looked at you? The bastard clearly undressed you from head to toe.”

So now he was jealous? Margaret started her own pacing. “Oh please…”

Colin grasped her shoulders. “Do you have any idea how appealing you are? Must I keep you tethered?”

For heaven’s sakes, he’s completely nonsensical
. “You, sir, are overreacting. He took his leave. What more do you want?”

His fingers clamped into her flesh. “Obedience. Respect.”

Before Margaret could blink, he backed her against the wall and jammed his masculine frame against hers, pinning her there. She raised her chin to speak, but he crushed his mouth over hers. This was nothing like the kiss in the bath. His tooth scraped her lip. His tongue thrust with wicked force.

Her mind raged, conflicted between the hot cravings pooling in her loins and the sparks of fear firing across her skin. Margaret forced her fists between their bodies. She pounded on his chest and pushed away. Shaking uncontrollably, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Blood.

She inched toward the chamber door. “Y-you would do well to learn something of respect, especially if you care to receive it.” Her trembling hand grasped the latch. “You will not touch me like that again.”

The last thing she saw was his horror-stricken face. She slipped inside, jammed her shoulder against the door and turned the lock as fast as she could.

“Apologies.” Colin’s voice leached through the wood. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

In no way would she allow him margin to make amends. “Go away.”

Margaret crossed her arms and hugged herself. Black Colin was an overbearing tyrant.

***

Colin could have taken his dagger and scored his palm for forcing his kiss upon her so brutally. He’d only intended to demonstrate his position as husband and Lord of Glenorchy. His actions had been far more brutish than he’d intended. He stared at the closed door. It was late and she was madder than a cook with no fire.

Now he’d done it. He didn’t want a wife, and he’d forced himself upon her like a common scoundrel. Blast her to hell anyway. Ever since the day they were wed, his mind had been rife with conflict. Could she not leave him to his mourning? She wasn’t even supposed to be at Kilchurn. Her place was at Dunstaffnage with Duncan. Ballocks to her meddling.

Margaret didn’t want him to touch her? Fine. That was exactly how he’d planned this whole wretched marriage in the first place. After the mudding, they’d return to Dunstaffnage. He’d sign the annulment papers and prepare his men to set sail forthwith.

Effie could tend Duncan’s needs for a few years, and then Colin would appoint a tutor.

He combed his hands through his hair and turned full circle. The lord of the manor would have to bed down in the fore chamber. With a table and four wooden chairs, he’d be more comfortable in the stable with the guard.

God would strike him dead before he showed his face to his men—it might have been acceptable when they were traveling from Stirling, but now they’d laugh him off his own lands.

No matter. Colin had slept in more miserable places than this. A knight could spend months sleeping in the dirt or upon a stone floor. On the morrow, he’d make a pallet of straw. Events of this night only brought back to full force the need to end this misshapen marriage and return to Rome.

He spread a plaid and stretched out before the hearth.
Jonet, why did you leave me, lass?
Closing his eyes, he willed himself to picture her raven hair, but in his dreams it turned chestnut, framing green eyes and a smile that could melt his icy heart.

***

Ewen MacCorkodale sat in the solar and tossed back a tot of whisky. It was too early to drink, but he needed something to ebb the fire in his chest. The only problem was the spirit made it burn more fiercely.

At least he’d faced his enemy—caught him dallying with the women. Ewen chuckled. Colin Campbell had bested him one too many times when they were lads. Though it had taught him a valuable lesson. Brute strength rarely ever solved anything, and a man could lose a great deal if he brazenly engaged in battle.

Ewen’s henchman, Ragnar, pushed into the room. “Will you spar this morning?”

“Nay.” Ewen gestured to the chair. “Sit. Drink with me.” He reached for another cup and poured one for himself and another for Ragnar. “I could have killed that bloody arrogant bastard last eve.”

The big man lifted the cup to his lips. “Why didn’t we? I could’ve taken them.”

Ewen sniggered at the henchman’s overzealous bravado. “Because Campbell’s man had a crossbow aimed at my heart. Besides, we were outnumbered.”

Ragnar wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The milk-livered Black Knight of Rome. I’d like to meet him man to man, without his army behind him.”

“He’s a snake, that one—and black suits the color of his heart.” Ewen batted the air. “Attacking him directly has never been an option. He’s got the king’s ear. That’s why it was so fortuitous to have Walter gain his trust—damn that miserable wench for overhearing him.”

“I don’t know. I prefer to fight a man rather than swindle him.” Ragnar reached for the flagon. “I reckon the Black Knight was within his rights.”

“What say you?” Ewen slapped the flagon from Ragnar’s grasp, sending it crashing to the floor in a mess of shards and potent whisky. “Have you lost your mind? You were there when the king granted him lands. We risked every bit as much as that bastard—rode beside him—and yet were not recognized for our part in quashing the Douglas uprising.”

The big man held up his palms. “Don’t take me wrong. I’m no’ saying I like the cur…”

“Walter was one of ours, my closest cousin. Do not ever say Campbell had a
right
.” Ewen shoved the tip of his finger onto the table. “No one crosses me.”

Ragnar folded his arms, chin jutting up. “So what will you do about it?”

Ewen stood and sauntered to the window. “He’ll be off to Rome soon. Mayhap thievery isn’t the best way to cut him down.”

Ragnar emitted an ugly chuckle. The henchman knew what he meant. Ewen would bide his time, but one day, Colin Campbell would pay—right where it would hurt him most.

Dunstaffnage Castle, 10
th
November, 1455

Now the Kilchurn mudding had begun, Margaret sat in a rocker by the hearth, cradling Duncan on her lap. “What an adorable smile.”

“He smiled?” Effie dropped the blanket she was folding and hurried across the room. “It’s his first.”

Margaret giggled and made a kissing sound. “Do it again for Mistress Effie.”

The little bundle blinked and delighted them with a gummy grin.

Effie clasped her hands over her heart. “Oh my, he is a cherub—as beautiful as his father.”

Margaret’s brow furrowed at the mention of her husband, but the dark circles under the nursemaid’s eyes concerned her more. “You look tired. How many times did Duncan wake you last eve?”

“Only once, but after his feeding, he decided it was time to tug on my wimple—right after he spat up on it.”

“Oh heavens, the late nights are taking their toll.”

Effie spread her palms to her sides. “Bah. ’Tis what I was born to do. He’ll be sleeping through the night in no time, then crawling, feeding himself, walking.” She let out a loud sigh. “And one day he’ll no longer need me.”

Margaret tapped her lips to Duncan’s wee forehead. Effie clearly had a great deal of experience raising little ones. “That must be difficult for you.”

“’Tis the hardest thing a nursemaid must do.”

“Much like letting go of your own children, I’d imagine.”

“Aye, very much the same.”

Margaret rocked Duncan and hummed a lilting madrigal, watching his eyelids grow heavy.

Effie resumed her folding. “Your voice soothes him.”

Margaret looked up with a sad smile. At least she could be of use to someone in this castle. Since the gathering at Glen Orchy, Colin had returned to his reclusive self, rarely taking meals with her, answering her questions with monosyllabic responses. He’d been working hard with his men, preparing them for their return to Rome. They sparred for hours in their heavy hauberks and armor. Colin said it made them stronger.
If a man practiced in his full kit, he could outlast any adversary
. That had been the longest string of words he’d uttered in the past ten days.

The bairn in her arms drifted off to sleep. Margaret stood and placed him in his cradle. “I could stay with him if you’d like to take a turn around the courtyard. The rain’s finally stopped.”

Effie reclined in a chair and picked up her needlework. “No, you go on. Find that husband of yours and tell him Duncan smiled.”

Margaret wrung her hands. “If I can pull him away from his men.”

The nursemaid offered a consoling pat. “If anyone can, ’tis you with your bonny smile. He’d best set to making another bairn before he sets sail.”

Heat burned Margaret’s ears. “You are incorrigible, mistress.”

Effie shook her finger. “Someone needs to pull that man’s head out of his arse, and you’re the one to do it.”

The old woman meant well, but she badgered almost as much as Margaret’s mother. Heaven’s stars, she hadn’t mentioned a word about her lack of “marital relations” with Colin, but Effie had sniffed it out all the same.

“I’ll return before supper.” Margaret hurried out the door and toward the tower steps before Effie could further embarrass her.

Make a bairn? The woman must be daft. Colin no sooner wanted to visit her chamber than she his. Honestly, this was the worst marriage she could have imagined. At least if she’d married Lord Forbes, he would have been thoughtful of her, caring, respectful, tender…perhaps he’d kiss her frequently with the desire Colin had shown when she was in the bath. She shook her fists. One passionate kiss did not a husband make.

Who was that knight who’d kissed her all those days ago? He certainly was not the man who’d returned with her to Dunstaffnage. That man was an ogre, a bombastic, self-absorbed knight who cared naught for his wife or his bairn. The blackguard had only visited Duncan once since their return.

Margaret groaned and descended the stone steps. At least Colin allowed her to pour over Walter’s ledgers. Since returning to Dunstaffnage, she’d spent most of her time either with Duncan or in the solar trying to make sense of the factor’s entries. One thing was for certain—the man had been given too much freedom with Colin’s coffers. Fortunately, Lord Glenorchy’s holdings were vast. Going forward, Margaret might not collect the rents herself, but she would be present often and would audit the entries regularly. If Colin didn’t seem happy with her involvement, at least he’d appeared resigned to accept it.

Fine. At least she had a great deal of work to attend to and occupy her mind. However, today the sun made an appearance after several consecutive days of drizzling rain. She pulled her cloak tight across her shoulders, then marched through the great hall and out into the courtyard. The scene resounded with a familiar clang from the smithy, horses trotting on cobblestones, voices grunting, swords clanging.
Swords?
That turned her head.

Naked torsos gleamed with well-muscled flesh.

She nearly tripped over her gown gawking at the sight before her. Merciful Lord of lords, her knees turned to boneless pegs. Though a crisp autumn day, half the men wore no shirts at all.

Had she been at Dunalasdair Castle, she would have thought it fortuitous to be so close to a mob of men, sweat glistening on their chests whilst they swung their practice swords. But in the center of the throng, Colin Campbell fought two at once—William and Fionn. His back muscles rippled with every thrust, every block—indeed, every single little twitch.

Margaret inhaled sharply. Unable to look away, she stood motionless. She’d been married to the man for weeks and yet had never seen him this naked. Colin wasn’t wearing chausses, only a plaid belted low around his hips in the Highland style.

His arms bulged like fierce badgers, powerful and deadly.
Why, they must be as thick around as my thigh
.

Colin didn’t let up. He advanced on his foes with relentless and brutal skill, driving them backward across the courtyard. Never had Margaret seen a warrior as fierce.
Black Colin of Rome
. A knight feared throughout Christendom, and now she knew why.

Her eyes glued to Colin’s magnificent form, desire claimed her mind. She could not drag her gaze away, nor could she stay her thundering heart. Oh how she longed to smooth her fingertips over a warrior’s muscular flesh. Heat coiled between her hips.

If only.

No man could possibly want to face Colin in battle. The other guards stopped to watch as he continued to beat his tiring companions. William thrust. Colin blocked with a downward strike. The sword flew from Willy’s hand. Colin spun and took on Fionn. Lunging, Colin knocked him to the ground with his pommel. With a roar, the lord advanced.

William came from behind with his shield.

Margaret’s hand flew over her mouth. “No!”

Her husband lowered his sword and turned. William slammed his targe against Colin’s temple. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, Colin crashed to the ground.

“Merciful father!” Margaret dashed to his side. Blood pooled on the stone beneath. Colin didn’t move. She dropped to her knees and held her cheek to his nose. Praise God, his breath warmed her skin.

Margaret jostled his shoulder. “Colin. Wake up.”

But the big warrior lay unconscious.

She eyed William. The younger man spread his palms. “He dropped his guard.”

“What were you thinking, hitting your lord in the head? He’s not even wearing his helm.”

William looked stunned. “He usually drives us until we can no longer stand.”

Margaret wouldn’t listen to excuses. Not now. She pointed. “You four, carry him to his chamber. Fionn, bring a ewer of hot water—and I mean hot, not tepid, do you understand?”

“I’ll call for the physician,” Hugh offered.

Margaret nodded and shooed him away. She hated physicians, but if she couldn’t bring Colin around herself, it was best to have one on hand. “I’ll fetch my medicine bundle and meet you there momentarily.”

She lifted her skirts and dashed up the tower steps to her chamber. Fortunately, her mother had insisted she learn something about the healing arts. She now wished more. But as a dutiful wife, she’d packed a supply of herbs and remedies to accompany her to her new home.

Margaret arrived at Colin’s chamber before the men lumbered up with him in their arms. She held the door. “Put him on the bed.”

They did as asked. William paused. “What else do you need, m’lady?”

“Tend the fire. There must be no chill in this room.” She glared at William, well aware Colin’s enemies could seize an opportunity to attack a weak defense. “Keep this quiet. I want you to personally speak with each man who saw him fall. Tell them Lord Campbell is resting and will be sparring forthwith.” She eyed him directly. “Do you understand?”

“Aye, m’lady. I’ll do it now. Maxwell, you see to the fire.”

Margaret set her bundle on the bed and regarded the men over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

When Maxwell left to fetch an armload of peat, Margaret studied the jagged gash at Colin’s temple. “Why did you take your eyes off William if you kent he would attack?” She knew the answer. It had been her voice calling out “no” that snapped him from his concentration. But why? He seemed impervious to every other sound erupting in the noisy courtyard.

She used a cloth to wipe away the blood now caked in Colin’s hair. It still seeped, though he’d lost most outside.
So much blood in such little time
.

“’Tis best to stitch it before you wake.” Margaret spoke to him as if he could hear. After bathing his wound with St. John’s wort, she threaded a fine bone needle. Her fingers trembled a bit. She’d never stitched anyone before.

A knock resounded from the door.

“Enter.”

Effie hobbled inside, wringing her hands. “I just heard.”

Margaret held up the needle, managing to keep it steady. “He needs to be stitched.”

The nursemaid glanced at Colin, wariness darkening her eyes. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Snip off one suture at time?”

“Aye. Let me help.”

Margaret gripped the needle tighter. “I’d like to do it.”

“Of course. I’ll attend you with the shears.”

Margaret swallowed. She should allow Effie to stitch. The nursemaid had probably made countless sutures. Margaret had once practiced on a leg of pork. It was fleshy, unlike Colin’s temple, which was ridged with bone. But he was her husband, and hers to care for. He mightn’t want much to do with her, but by God, she’d prove herself useful to him. She made the first stitch, pushing the needle straight down, then pulled the thread through the jagged opposing edge.

She bore down to stop her stomach from convulsing.

“Good,” Effie said. “Now make the knots firm, but not so tight they tear through.”

Margaret bit her lip and prayed Colin’s skin was as tough as pork. If pigheadedness had anything to do with it, he’d be fine. Winding the thread around the needle, she pulled the knot snug against his flesh and looked at Effie. The nursemaid snipped and nodded her approval.

With a deep inhale, Margaret tied off three more sutures.

Effie snipped the last threads and examined the wound. It didn’t look half as bad now it had been closed. Located at the side of his temple, his hair would cover most of the scar. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

“Really?” The tension in Margaret’s shoulders eased. “Thank you—that means a lot coming from you.”

William and Fionn strode in with the physician. Black robed, with a black coif framing a gaunt face, he looked more like an effigy of death. He shouldered Margaret toward the wall and examined her work. “I daresay there won’t be much of a scar.” He looked back at the men. “How long has he been unconscious?”

Margaret stepped in and placed a protective palm on Colin’s crown. “In the time it took for the men to carry him above stairs and for me to stitch his wounds—no more than two turns of the hourglass.”

The physician frowned. “’Tis grave indeed. You did right by sending for me.” He placed his black leather kit on the edge of the bed, untied and unrolled it. He picked up a tarnished lancet and a tin cup. “I believe a healthy bleeding will do him good.”

Is he mad?
Margaret forced her body between the physician and the bed. “You must be jesting. Lord Campbell lost at least a pint of blood in the courtyard—he hardly has any to spare. I’m quite certain.”

The older man puffed out his chest, turning a brilliant shade of scarlet. “M’lady, you dare question a learned physician? Why, I’ve the king’s charter—”

“I care not if His Eminence the Pope sanctioned your abilities, you will
not
stick that knife in one of my husband’s veins. Not when he has already been bled.”

The pompous man grumbled something about useless women under his breath, then stared Margaret in the eye. “Madam, if you do not move aside, I cannot attend the patient, and I assure you I am far more qualified than you.”