Free Knight in Highland Armor by Amy Jarecki Page B

you.”
    In his heavy armor, Colin easily leapt into the back of the wagon and started moving things to the sides and stacking her trunks in the nose, creating a gap in the center. “I’ll lay down a plaid for you after supper.” He held up his finger, his eyes popping wide as if he’d had an idea. “I’ve just the thing to ensure you stay dry.”
    Margaret wrung her hands. “There’s no need to go to any trouble.”
    “For a woman?” He marched to his horse and untied his saddlebag. “There’s nothing but trouble.”
    Her hands dropped. Things between them might be a wee bit easier if he liked her. But no, he considered her a burden—one more yoke to add to his list of responsibilities.
    Colin turned and flashed a sheepish smile. “I see I’ve failed at my attempt at making a joke.”
    She crossed her arms. “I must admit, I’ve some difficulty understanding your humor.”
    He unfolded an oblong piece of oiled leather. “I purchased this doeskin at the Stirling fete for a pair of shoes. I’ll secure it over the wagon so you’ll stay dry if the rain should start up again.”
    “How kind.”
    Colin used his dagger to make holes in the corners of the hide. “I’m not a complete ogre.”
    “Oh no?”
    Margaret thought he’d be angry at her terse remark, but he glanced up with hurt in his eyes—a look that tied her stomach in knots. She busied herself looking for dry kindling. Why on earth would he not want her to think him an ogre? He’d behaved as one. Was he trying to make it up to her by fashioning a bed in the back of a rickety old wagon? He’d need to come up with something a fair bit more chivalrous than that.
    Margaret kneeled, reached under a thick conifer and found dry twigs. She deposited them in the center of the site and took on the task of stacking stones in a circle for the fire. Chilled to the bone, she imagined they all needed warmth.
    Men stopped by, carrying armfuls of wood and dropped them into a growing pile before setting out for more. Each one grinned in his own way, showing their appreciation of her willingness to help.
    Colin hailed his squire. “Maxwell, come help me remove my armor.”
    Margaret pretended not to notice when he slid his cloak from his sturdy form. But her insides shivered in concert with her skin. Why couldn’t he be reed thin or chubby, or anything but a rock-solid warrior? The man was so utterly distracting. But he doesn’t like me .
    She shook her head. Earlier, she’d spotted a satchel of char cloth and flax tow in the back of the wagon. She collected it with a flint and striking iron.
    Maxwell already had Colin’s leg irons removed. The redheaded lad had been trained well. Margaret gaped. God’s teeth, Lord Glenorchy needs to keep his body covered more than a woman ought. His form is scandalous .
    Colin turned his head, and Margaret continued to the fire pit before he could catch her staring. On her knees, she placed the swatch of char cloth in the center of the pit and struck the flint to the iron. A spark immediately took flame, and she quickly piled it with quick-burning flax tow. She picked up a handful of twigs while blowing on the tiny flame. The flax ignited and she carefully added a twig, and then more, stacking them to allow air to the flame so not to snuff it.
    “Margaret.”
    The back of her neck prickled. Colin stood directly behind her. She chose not to turn, picked up a thicker branch and placed it on the growing flame. “Aye?”
    “No wife of mine will dirty her hands when there’s a host of men about who can start a fire.” Before she had a chance to respond, he beckoned a pair of soldiers. “William, Fionn. Stoke the fire and fashion a spit whilst you’re at it.” Colin stepped beside her and offered his hand. “Are you chilled?”
    She looked at his callused palm— as callused as his heart . “Not only cold, but damp as well.” Margaret stood without his assistance.
    Persisting, he placed his hand in the small of her