Knight in Highland Armor (32 page)

The Firth of Lorn, 2
nd
August, 1462

Early morning, Colin alighted from the galley with Argyll and his men. Without his ship, the journey took far too long, changing transports in port cities until they chartered a galley in London. Colin touched Maxwell’s shoulder. “Take the men and ready the horses. Arrange for a wagon to haul our gear. Meet us at Effie’s cottage. We’ll ride from there.”

Though he could use a bath, Colin took Argyll and headed toward Effie’s home. They walked past the chapel where Duncan was christened, and also where Jonet and Mariot were buried. So much time had passed. Everything looked the same, yet different, almost odd.

Argyll stood behind Colin while he rapped on the wooden door.

“A moment,” Effie’s brittle voice came from within.

The door creaked open. Colin gasped. She’d aged so much, bent over a cane, her hair completely white.

She gaped at him. “Lord Jesus almighty, you look like you fought with the devil and lost. If it weren’t for your eyes, I never would have recognized you.” She had uncouth spirit. Some things hadn’t changed.

Colin ran his hand down the beard that now reached his navel. “We stepped off the ship and came straight here.”

She gaped at him. “With not a moment to spare. Where have you been? Why were you gone so long? You’re a stranger to your children.” Yes, this was the outspoken Effie he’d always known.

Colin glanced at Argyll and sighed. If only she knew he’d been fighting against Satan for seven long years. “May we come in?”

She stepped aside and held the door wide. “Yes, apologies. I must be losing my manners in me old age. Sit at the table and I’ll fetch some bread and cheese.”

Though Colin was starving, there wasn’t time. “No need, mistress.” He pulled out the bench for her. “I bid you sit.”

Effie hobbled over, a puff of flatulence tooting from her backside. She ignored her impropriety and lowered herself onto the seat. “You are aware today is the Lammas Day Feast?”

“Is it?”

Her black gaze darted to Argyll. “He doesn’t know?”

Argyll straddled the bench across from her. “What?”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Lady Margaret told Laird Ewen she would marry him the day after Lammas Feast unless she received word Colin lived.” She shook a gnarled finger. “How could you be away such a long time without nary a word?”

He plopped on the bench beside her and cradled his head in his hand. “I sent parcels of letters near every sennight. Argyll said not a one reached her.”

Effie slammed her cane into the floor. “That milk-livered swine. I smell a rat as large as Dunstaffnage Castle.”

“MacCorkodale?” The name flowed bitter on his tongue.

“Aye, who else?”

“Does she…” Colin wanted to be sick, but he had to ask. “Is she in love with him?”

The old woman’s face pruned when she pursed her lips, but her eyes were fierce. “Would she have put him off all this time?”

Colin grasped her hand. “I must know.”

“I’ve been retired for ages—all is hearsay brought from Kilchurn. I’ve not seen Lady Margaret since Eastertide three years ago.”

He slumped. How ridiculous he would look if she shunned him.

A tattered surcoat by the door caught his eye. “May I borrow that?”

Her face twisted in question. “The old coat my son wears to tend the pigs?”

“Aye, you said I look like shite. I may as well dress like it too.”

“What the devil?” Argyll said.

Colin grinned for the first time in—well, probably in seven years. “I have a plan.”

***

They drove the horses hard the twenty miles to the mouth of Loch Awe, the site of Kilchurn Castle—Colin’s castle. Before the trees gave way to grassy lea, Colin signaled for the men to stop. In the distance, the keep grandly towered above the loch. Kilchurn stood paramount, ruling over the pomp and beauty of the scene. Verdant mountains, torrents, lakes and wood united to pay it homage. Indeed, his castle had become a magnificent and formidable fortress—more modern and grander than Dunstaffnage, and peaceful in its mighty setting.
Ah,
Lady Margaret. How much she has accomplished
.

“Colin?” Argyll said. “What
is
this plan of yours?”

Colin waffled between drawing his sword and leading his men on a charge to take the castle, and his original scheme. He ground his back molars and pointed. “Take the men to the old stable and wait. I do not want anyone to recognize us.”

He dismounted and handed his reins to Maxwell. He removed his cloak and claymore as well, passing them to the young knight who still acted as squire. After hiding his dirk in his belt, beneath the peasant’s surcoat, Colin pushed a tarnished helm over his head and traipsed through the mud. Kilchurn’s gates were open wide, welcoming all to the feast. Passing through the portcullis, he stopped and stared at the capstone above the heavy wooden gate. His initials were carved into the sandstone beside the Campbell crest. Next to that were etched Margaret’s initials.
How long ago had she commissioned this work?

Laughing, people pushed past, paying him no mind. He recognized one.
Mevan, Margaret’s guard
.

With gooseflesh rising on his arms and along his nape, he walked inside the gatehouse—a vaulted ceiling of stone—a dungeon on his left—unoccupied. Smells from the kitchen wafted—freshly baked bread for the Lammas Feast, roasted pork and something sweet.
Apple tart
. He salivated.

A stranger in his own castle, stepping into the busy courtyard, Colin drifted as if he were not inside his body. Music filled the air. Children laughed and played a game of tag. A boy ploughed straight into him. Craning his neck, the lad’s brown eyes looked stunned. “Sorry, sir. I…I wasn’t looking.”

The corner of Colin’s mouth ticked up, and he placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was almost as if he were looking into a mirror that took him back in time. “Are you John?” His voice quavered.

The boy stepped away, his eyes wary. “Yes, sir.”

A young lass skipped up to John and slapped him on the back. “You’re tagged.”

Colin’s son turned and ran toward the mob of scattering children.

His heart in his throat, Colin’s gaze darted from one young face to the next. Which one was Duncan? Darker hair, slightly taller than John—it had to be his eldest son using a smaller boy to shield himself from getting tagged. Colin laughed aloud.

No one spoke to him. No one even looked his way.

The ram’s horn blared, announcing the feast. Everyone headed into the tower.
The Great Hall
. Colin knew exactly where it was—at least on the drawings. He waited for the guests to pass, watching John and Duncan shove each other through the door. It was all he could do not to pull them into his embrace and tell them who he was.

Ascending the stairs, his breath stuttered. Everything was exactly as he’d planned it and more. Lined with richly embroidered and colorful tapestries, the hall could rival any other in the kingdom. Tables filled with people circumvented the walls. Immediately, his gaze snapped to the dais at the far end. His breath whooshed from his lungs. Far more beautiful than his memory, Margaret sat at the head table, wearing a crimson gown, her hair held back by a conical hennin. The styles had changed a bit. Lord have mercy, she was a vision.

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.