Tempted by the Highland Warrior
Michelle Willingham
HIS SILENT STRENGTH REACHED OUT TO HER… After years of brutal torture, Callum MacKinloch is finally free of his captors – but his voice is still held prisoner. He’d never let anyone hear him scream. Although Lady Marguerite de Montpierre’s chains may be invisible, they threaten to tie her to a loveless and cruel marriage.When Marguerite discovers Callum waiting to die, her heart aches for the warrior beneath the suffering – but they can have no future. Yet she is the one woman with the power to tame the rage locked inside him. Maybe he can find another reason to live…for her!The MacKinloch Clan Highland warriors prepared to fight fiercely for their country…and for love
The troubled look in her eyes suggested that she didn’t know the answer. When he removed the cloak she’d given him his hand brushed against hers. Her lips parted and he wanted to kneel at her feet, like the goddess she was.
Callum didn’t want her pity. Though his body and voice might be broken, he wouldn’t allow her to believe that he was less than a man. His hands threaded with hers, cold skin merging with warm.
He brought her fingers to his ragged cheeks, absorbing the warmth. A few strands of her golden hair slipped from her veil, resting against her throat. And when he brought her hand to his lips she inhaled a gasp.
He released her instantly, expecting her to pull back in disgust. Instead, her eyes were shining with unshed tears, her fingers remaining upon his face.
‘I won’t forget you,’ she vowed, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. Then she picked up her skirts and disappeared into the night.
In the shadows, Callum caught a movement and turned his head. The Earl was standing there, watching.
And fury burned within his eyes.
AUTHOR NOTE
When I wrote the first book in my MacKinloch Clan series—CLAIMED BY THE HIGHLAND WARRIOR—I was intrigued by the characters Callum and Marguerite. Their situation reminded me of the classic tale of Romeo and Juliet. As a broken hero who cannot speak Callum worships Marguerite … and yet he believes he can never win the heart of a duke’s daughter. Marguerite is deeply sympathetic to Callum’s plight, but as she loses her heart to him she has the challenge of standing up to her father and casting off the duties that bind her.
This book was quite difficult to write, especially since the hero cannot speak. It presented unique dialogue scenes, but I tried to give a strong sense of the emotions and words Callum wanted to convey. I hope you’ll enjoy this third book in the MacKinloch Clan series—if this is the first book you’ve tried, there are several other connected stories.
CLAIMED BY THE HIGHLAND WARRIOR is the first book, which tells the reunion story of escaped prisoner-of-war Bram and his childhood sweetheart Nairna. SEDUCED BY HER HIGHLAND WARRIOR is about the estranged marriage between clan chief Alex and his wife Laren, a stained glass artist. Finally, CRAVING THE HIGHLANDER’S TOUCH is a novella that gives Lady Alys of Harkirk her own chance at happiness with Finian MacLachor, a man seeking redemption.
Will Dougal MacKinloch ever get a story of his own? Time will tell …
You’re welcome to visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com for excerpts and behind-the-scenes details about my books. I love to hear from readers, and you may e-mail me at michelle@michellewillingham.com or write via PO Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662, USA.
About the Author
MICHELLE WILLINGHAM grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance. She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English. She lives in southeastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.
Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at michelle@michellewillingham.com
Previous novels by this author:
HER IRISH WARRIOR
THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH
HER WARRIOR KING
HER WARRIOR SLAVE
THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS
THE ACCIDENTAL PRINCESS
TAMING HER IRISH WARRIOR
SURRENDER TO AN IRISH WARRIOR
CLAIMED BY THE HIGHLAND WARRIOR
SEDUCED BY THE HIGHLAND WARRIOR
Available in Mills & Boon
HistoricalUndone!eBooks: THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN AN ACCIDENTAL SEDUCTION
INNOCENT IN THE HAREM PLEASURED BY THE VIKING CRAVING THE HIGHLANDER’S TOUCH
And in Mills & Boon
Historical eBooks: LIONHEART’S BRIDE (part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages)
The MacEgan Brothers
prequel to The MacEgan Brothers mini-series
The MacKinloch Clan
linked by character
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Tempted by
the Highland
Warrior
Michelle Willingham
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
In memory of Rafiq Salim Soufan,
with special thoughts for his wife Fatin
and their children.
Chapter One
Scotland—1305
The sound of a man screaming awakened her from sleep.
Marguerite de Montpierre jerked upright, clutching the coverlet as she stared at her maid Trinette. ‘What was that?’
Trinette shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. ‘I don’t know. But we should stay here, where it’s safe.’
Marguerite moved to the tower window, staring outside at the darkened moonlit sky. The man’s screams had fallen into silence now. Already, she sensed what that meant.
Stay here, her mind ordered. Don’t interfere. What could she do, after all? She was only a maid of eight and ten. Both her father and Lord Cairnross would be furious if she went out alone.
But if someone needed help, what right did she have to remain in her chamber? Fear shouldn’t overshadow the need for mercy.
‘I’m going to find out what it was,’ she informed her maid. ‘You can stay here if you want.’
‘My lady, non. Your father would not allow this.’
No, he wouldn’t. In her mind, she could imagine her father’s commanding voice, ordering her to remain in her bed. She took a breath, feeling torn by indecision. If she remained behind, she would be safe and no one would be angry with her.
And someone could also die. This wasn’t about obedience; it was about trying to save a life.
‘You’re right. The Duc would not allow me to leave. But he’s not here, is he?’ Marguerite murmured. She prayed her father would return as soon as possible, for with each day he was gone, her life became more of a nightmare.
Guy de Montpierre, the Duc D’Avignois, didn’t know what was happening here, for her betrothed husband had behaved with the greatest courtesy toward their family. The Duc was a man who valued wealth and status, and Gilbert de Bouche, the Earl of Cairnross, would provide a strong English alliance. A youngest daughter couldn’t hope for a better marriage.
But although the earl had treated her with respect and honour, his cruelty horrified her. He was a man who firmly believed the Scots belonged in servitude. He’d captured several prisoners of war, and she’d observed them building walls of stone for hours on end.
Trinette shivered, looking down at the coverlet. ‘I don’t think you wish to anger Lord Cairnross by leaving this chamber.’
Marguerite didn’t disagree. But the prisoner’s cry haunted her, digging into her conscience. She’d seen Cairnross’s slaves and the men were so very thin, with hopelessness carved into their faces. Two had already died since her arrival. And she suspected, from the screaming, that another man lay dying.
‘I can’t stand by and do nothing,’ she murmured. Otherwise it made her no better than the earl.
She pulled on a closely-fitted cote with long sleeves, a rose-coloured surcoat, then a dark cloak. Her maid gave a resigned sigh and helped her finish dressing before she donned her own clothing.
It was past midnight, and soldiers were sleeping along the hallways and in the larger chamber of the main wooden tower. Marguerite kept her back to the wall, her heart trembling as she stepped her way past the men. Her father had left half-a-dozen soldiers of his own as her guards; no doubt they would stop her if they awakened.
She left the wooden tower and moved towards the inner bailey. There, she saw the cause of the screaming. A man, perhaps a year older than herself, was lying prostrate upon the ground. Blood covered his back and his ankles were chained together. Long dark hair obscured his face, but she saw his shoulders move. He was still alive … for now.
Marguerite whispered to her maid. ‘Bring me water and soft linen cloths. Hurry.’ Though she didn’t know who the man was, she wouldn’t turn her back on his suffering. He needed help, if he was to live through the night.
Trinette obeyed, and after the girl disappeared, Marguerite took tentative steps toward the man. When she reached the man’s side, she saw him shudder, as if he were cold. She didn’t want to startle him, but whispered quietly in English, ‘Would you allow me to tend your wounds?’
The man tensed, his palms pressing into the ground. Slowly, he turned his head and his battered face was swollen and bruised. But the man’s dark brown eyes were empty, as if he felt nothing. She knelt down beside him and saw his blood staining the ground.
‘I am Marguerite de Montpierre,’ she said, switching to Gaelic in the hopes he would understand her. Though she was good with languages and had been learning the language of the Scots for the past year, she worried about her speech. ‘What is your name?’
The man studied her, but didn’t speak. Pain darkened his expression and he eyed her with disbelief, as though he couldn’t understand why she would show pity. A lock of hair hung down over his eyes and she reached for it, moving out of his face.
It was meant to help him see better, but the moment she touched him, his hand captured hers. Though his palm was cold, he held her hand as though it were a delicate butterfly.
The gentle touch startled her. Marguerite’s first instinct was to pull her hand back, but something held her in place. When she looked past his injuries, the planes of his face were strong, with the resilience of a man who had visited hell and survived it.
She waited again for him to speak, but he held his silence and released her palm. It made her wonder if Lord Cairnross had ordered the prisoner’s tongue cut out. She lowered her gaze, afraid to ask.
When Trinette brought the wooden bowl of water and linen, Marguerite saw the man’s shoulders tighten with distrust. ‘Stay back,’ she whispered to her maid, ‘and call out if anyone approaches.’
Marguerite dipped the first cloth into the water and wrung it out. Gently, she laid it upon the prisoner’s bloody back and he expelled a gasp when she touched it. ‘Forgive me. I’ve no wish to harm you.’
Though his mouth clenched at her touch, he made no move to push her away. Marguerite tried to wipe away the blood and dirt, hoping the cool water would soothe him. She’d never tended wounds such as these, for her father did not allow her near the soldiers when they were injured.
The sight of his blood bothered her, but she forced away her anxiety. This man needed her. As she cleaned his wounds, she kept her touch light, knowing how it must hurt. The whip lash had gouged his skin, leaving harsh ridges that would form scars.
‘Why did he do this to you?’ she asked, soaking the cloth again. She moistened his cheek with the cool cloth and he touched his mouth and throat, shaking his head as if to tell her he couldn’t speak.
‘It was you who cried out in pain earlier, wasn’t it?’
The man shook his head. Then he stretched out his arm and pointed into the darkness.
And Marguerite saw the motionless body of a prisoner with sightless eyes.
Every bone in Callum MacKinloch’s body ached, his limbs raging with pain. He couldn’t move if he’d wanted to. The English soldiers had beaten him bloody, then continued with twenty more lashes.
They hadn’t killed him yet, but they would. It had become a test of endurance. Although his body was weak and broken, his mind had transformed into an iron band of strength. He hadn’t cried out in pain, for he’d lost the ability to speak, almost a year ago. After all the nightmares he’d witnessed, he supposed it wasn’t surprising.
Another wet cloth covered the lash wounds and he shuddered. This woman had offered him compassion when no one else would. Why? She was betrothed to the earl, a noblewoman who shouldn’t have left the sanctuary of the keep. From his peripheral vision, he caught glimpses of her. Her rose gown accentuated her slim form, and, as she leaned forward, long strands of golden hair hung from beneath her veil.
Callum didn’t deserve her sympathy. He’d been locked away for the past seven years, ever since he was a boy. His father had died in the raid and he’d been taken captive, along with his older brother Bram.
He lowered his face to the ground, wondering if Bram had escaped after all. It had been a while since he’d left and though his brother had sworn he would return to free him, Callum didn’t believe it. How could he?
No one would save him. It wasn’t possible. He was going to die, likely tortured to death.
Callum closed his eyes, wincing when Lady Marguerite sponged at one of the deeper wounds. The feminine scent of her skin cut through the fetid air, like a breath of mercy. He held on to it, inhaling deeply, as if he could absorb the memory of her.
When she’d finished, she lifted the cloths from his back and tried to ease him to sit. Callum glimpsed her face and wondered if he had died after all. Her clear skin and heart-shaped face were fragile, with soft lips and blue eyes that would haunt him for ever. He’d never seen a more beautiful creature in all his life.
‘You’re cold,’ she whispered and removed her cloak, settling it around his shoulders. Her scent clung to it, along with her body heat. He smelled exotic flowers and a hint of citrus, like perfumes from a distant land. As he stared at her, he took in the signs of her wealth—not only the expensive silk gown, but also the softness of her hands and her pale skin.
How could she marry someone like the Earl of Cairnross? The idea of such a man possessing this innocent maiden made Callum’s hands clench into fists.
You couldn’t stop him even if you tried, came the voice of reason. The whipping had nearly killed him. He still wasn’t certain why the soldiers had stopped. They’d left him here, no doubt believing the exposure to the cold air would finish his life.
Instead, Lady Marguerite had intervened. Though he wished above all else that she could help him to escape, tonight it would be a futile effort. A dozen guards patrolled the gate and he lacked the strength. He could hardly stand, much less run away from Cairnross.
Callum struggled to rise, but his knees seemed to fold beneath his weight. Lady Marguerite reached out and helped him balance himself. Though her face flushed at having to touch him, she offered, ‘Let me help you.’
He shook his head in refusal, steadying himself against a stone wall. He’d rather crawl on his knees like a dog than make her lower herself in such a way. She’d tended his wounds and given him her cloak for warmth. He couldn’t understand why she would want to help a stranger and a Scot at that.
Closing his eyes, he heard her murmur words of comfort in her own language. He heard the softness of her French accent, the soothing tones sliding over him like silk.
When he tried to take a step forward, his legs gave way and he nearly stumbled from his chained ankles. Lady Marguerite moved to his side, bringing her arm around his waist for support. He wanted to tell her no, for he was filthy and bloodstained. She shouldn’t have to endure contamination from him.
But she walked at his side, guiding him across the fortress. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll come to you and bring food. Perhaps when you’re stronger, I’ll petition the earl for your release.’
He sent her a questioning look. Why? Why would she spare a moment for someone like him?
The troubled look in her eyes suggested that she didn’t know the answer. When he removed the cloak she’d given him, his hand brushed against hers. Her lips parted and he wanted to kneel at her feet like the goddess she was.
Callum didn’t want her pity. Though his body and voice might be broken, he wouldn’t allow her to believe that he was less than a man. His hands threaded with hers, the cold skin merging with warm.
He brought her fingers to his ragged cheeks, absorbing the warmth. A few strands of her golden hair slipped from her veil, resting against her throat. And when he brought her hand to his lips, she inhaled a gasp.
He released her instantly, expecting her to pull back in disgust. Instead, her eyes were shining with unshed tears, her fingers remaining upon his face.
‘I won’t forget you,’ she vowed, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. Then she picked up her skirts and disappeared into the night.
In the shadows, Callum caught a movement and turned his head. The Earl of Cairnross was standing there, watching.
And fury burned within his eyes.
‘I saw you with him last night,’ Lord Cairnross began, when Marguerite joined him in breaking their fast. ‘The prisoner who was punished.’
Marguerite kept her eyes averted to the floor, showing no reaction at all. If she appeared dismayed, no doubt the earl would have the prisoner killed.
‘I heard a man suffering,’ she murmured. ‘It awakened me from sleep.’ She kept her tone even, as if she were speaking of a wounded animal.
‘You are so young, Lady Marguerite,’ the earl chided. ‘These are not noblemen, as you are accustomed to,’ he explained, making her feel like a small child. ‘They are ignorant Scots who dared to rise up against the King. They should be grateful that I’ve given them the chance to atone for their sins.’
Sins? She forced herself to stare at her hands, wondering what he was talking about. Although some of the men were, no doubt, rebellious toward the English, the prisoner was only a year or so older than herself. From the look of him, he’d been imprisoned for years.
A shiver crossed over her skin, for the look in the man’s eyes had been deliberate. She didn’t doubt that he could kill his master without a trace of regret.
‘Do not punish the prisoner for my ignorance, my lord,’ she murmured. ‘I saw him bleeding and meant only to tend his wounds.’
The earl took her hand in his. ‘Lady Marguerite, Callum MacKinloch dared to touch you. And that I cannot forgive.’
A coldness threaded through her as she stared at Lord Cairnross. In his eyes, she saw a man who believed in his own supremacy, who cared for no one but himself.
‘Did you take his life?’ she asked. Her voice held a quaver that she despised, but she tried to keep her tone calm. If he did, then it’s my fault.
‘I should have. But the MacKinloch clan is not far from here. They have remained resistant to the English troops and I have decided to keep him as a hostage. But not at a risk to you, my bride.’ His gaze turned possessive upon her, as if he’d guessed the uncertain feelings she held towards the man she’d saved. ‘I sent him south, where he won’t trouble you again.’
Marguerite feigned acquiescence, though inwardly she felt the cold anger filling her up. ‘You are a man of great mercy, my lord,’ she lied, and his arrogant smile sickened her as he raised her palm to his lips.
Whether or not he was telling the truth, at least she knew the name of the man who had touched her that night: Callum MacKinloch.
She didn’t know what it was about Callum that entranced her. He was hardly more than a wild man, with an unkempt appearance that should have repelled her.
Yet the touch of his mouth against her palm had conjured up a trembling fire within her. She’d thought of nothing else since she’d seen him.
He was a fighter who’d resisted his enemy, surviving amidst insurmountable odds. When he’d stared at her, it was as if he saw something more than others saw. A woman of strength, instead of a woman who blindly obeyed.
Were she in his place, she’d have broken apart. It was not in her nature to defy anyone. She obeyed her father, did as she was told. As his youngest daughter, she’d prided herself on obedience.
Or was it cowardice? She’d let her father select a husband for her, without even knowing the man. She’d journeyed to Scotland with the Duc, to the northern lands where hardly anyone spoke her language. Though she told herself that her father wanted only what was best for her, she questioned his judgement with the betrothal to Lord Cairnross. The marriage was meant to strengthen the alliance with England, after the recent war had ended.
Yet, Marguerite couldn’t imagine wedding Lord Cairnross after what he’d done to the prisoners. He enjoyed watching the men suffer and she loathed everything about the man.
She thought of Callum and the way he’d stared at the gates of Cairnross, as though he’d do anything to escape. They were alike, in so many ways. Both of them imprisoned, though her invisible chains were of her father’s making.
Somehow, she would find a way to free herself from this marriage.
Two days later
Callum dreamed of Marguerite as he slept upon the frozen ground. The bodies of other prisoners huddled near, for it was the only way to survive the freezing cold. They had been brought to Lord Harkirk’s stronghold to die and already he’d witnessed some of the weaker men succumbing to Death’s quiet invitation.
In his memory, he recalled her beautiful face, the gentle innocence of her touch. He couldn’t say why she had tended his wounds or why she hadn’t run away from him. Callum knew what he was—a battered horror of a man.
But he wasn’t weak. Over the years, he’d kept his arms strong, lifting stones to build the walls. He’d learned, in the early years, how to steal an extra portion of food when the guards weren’t looking, to keep himself from starving. When his brother had been imprisoned with him, Bram had warned him to keep up his strength. There would come a time when they could escape together, his brother had promised.
But Bram had left him behind, seizing his own freedom, even when the soldiers had held a blade to Callum’s throat.
Callum squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away his resentment. They hadn’t killed him that day, though he’d expected to die. Bram had called their bluff and it had worked.
Although a part of him knew that his brother hadn’t abandoned him, he wished he could have left this place. Seven years of his life had faded away. And so had his voice.
Days ago, when the guards had picked him up, forcing him into the back of a wagon with four other men, Callum had tried again to speak. They might have had a chance at escaping, if the others would join him in resisting the soldiers. But no matter how hard he tried, not a word would break forth. It was as if someone had locked away his words, keeping him trapped in silence.
Worse, the others treated him as if he lacked intelligence. Several of the men talked about him, as if he couldn’t hear their words.
But when one tried to shove him back upon their arrival, Callum seized the man’s arm and stared hard at him. The startled look turned to an apology and Callum released his arm with a silent warning. Rubbing his forearm, the prisoner glanced at the others, who now viewed Callum with new eyes.
I may not speak. But I understand every word.
And from that moment, they’d held their distance.
As the days passed at Lord Harkirk’s fortress, whatever hope he’d had of being rescued began to fade. Callum didn’t know any of the prisoners and, without a familiar face, he started to slip into the madness that had plagued so many. Visions collided in his mind and he tried to focus the memories upon Lady Marguerite. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine the scent of her skin, the softness of her hands.
She’d been real. In his hands he grasped a crushed ribbon that he’d stolen from her blonde hair. It was a lighter blue than her eyes, but it confirmed that he hadn’t imagined her. She had tended his broken flesh, treating him like a man instead of a slave.
She was the sort of woman he would die to protect. Innocent and pure, she deserved to be with a man who would love her, who would set a kingdom at her feet. The way he never could.
He stared at the wooden walls surrounding the fortress. Lord Harkirk had begun converting them into stone, using the labour of Scottish prisoners like himself. Callum fingered the silken ribbon, imagining it was the curve of Marguerite’s cheek.
He would never stop trying to escape. Even if it was only for the chance to see her, one last time.
One week later
The fortress was on fire. Smoke billowed into the night sky and, outside, she heard the battle cries of men fighting. Marguerite’s hands shook as she reached for her cloak, silently murmuring prayers that somehow they would make it out alive.
Though it should have been safer to remain hidden within her chamber, the fire might spread to the main tower. Dying by the sword was at least swifter than being burned alive.
Her maid Trinette was openly weeping as she packed their belongings into a bundle. Marguerite went to the window and stared at the chaos below. Swords rang out against shields, the roar of the prisoners breaking the stillness. The earl shouted orders, unsheathing his own weapon while smoke tainted the air.
This was their best chance to escape, while the men were caught up in the fighting. She seized the bundle from Trinette. ‘We have to leave. Now.’
When her maid looked hesitant, too afraid to move, she gave her a slight push. ‘Go!’ she ordered, and Trinette hurried down the spiral stone stairs. Marguerite held on to the bundle in one arm while following her maid. The smoke created a dense fog within the main gathering space and in the darkness she couldn’t see the doorway.
Her heartbeat raced as she struggled to see, her throat raw in the smoky haze. She dropped low to the ground, trying to discover where Trinette had gone. She crawled upon the earthen floor until, at last, she spied the flare of a torch outside.
There. With a burst of energy, Marguerite fought her way towards the entrance, keeping her head down.
Outside, the cold air burned her lungs and she coughed again, trying to clear the smoke. The prisoners were escaping. She could see them pouring from their crude shelter, fighting hard, despite their chains. Another Scottish clan had attacked and half of the men created a diversion, while the others worked to free the slaves. Vengeance lined their faces while they struck hard against the Cairnross soldiers.
It was a welcome sight, watching the men go free. The only disappointment was knowing that if he’d been here, Callum MacKinloch would have been among them. Because of her interference, he was still a prisoner.
It simply wasn’t fair.
Marguerite huddled against one of the outer stone walls, tears clouding the back of her throat. She didn’t know what to do or where to go and dropped the bundle of her belongings upon the ground. She closed her eyes, wishing she could silence the sounds of death and fighting. Fear locked her feet in place.
‘Are you a hostage?’ a man shouted at her in English.
Marguerite turned her head slightly and saw a tall, dark-haired man standing before her. She gripped her arms, too afraid to move. He could kill her with a single blow if he chose to do so. But the look in his eyes held no threat and she saw a resemblance to Callum in the man’s features. She remained motionless when he reached out and lowered her hood, revealing her veiled hair.
‘If you want to leave this place, my brother can grant you sanctuary,’ he offered. ‘My wife will look after you and I promise you’ll face no harm.’
Marguerite closed her eyes, wondering what to do. Her first instinct was to refuse. It made no sense at all to leave Cairnross, fleeing a burning fortress with the strangers who had attacked it.
Yet the only choice was to remain here with a man she despised. She stood, trying to make a decision, when, in the distance, she spied her maid. Trinette had started to panic and screamed, running towards the earl, as if he could protect her from the brutal fighting that surrounded them.
Lord Cairnross was caught up in his own fight, too busy to pay Trinette any heed. When she ran too close, Cairnross reached out with his dagger and sliced it across the woman’s throat. Trinette dropped to the ground, her sightless eyes staring back at him.
Marguerite doubled over in horror, sickened by what she’d just witnessed. Dear God have mercy. Had she not seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed it. The earl knew Trinette was her maid yet he’d murdered her, simply because she’d been in the way.
Panic flooded through her lungs and Marguerite fought for breath. The truth was staring her in the face—she had to leave Cairnross or else be entrapped by a monster.
‘Please,’ she begged, searching for the right Gaelic words, ‘help me get to my father.’ She reached down and picked up the fallen bundle of clothing, trying not to think about Trinette. The maid had been her only companion from France and it broke her heart to imagine how alone she was now.
The Scottish warrior caught her hand and drew her outside the fortress, away from the fighting. Marguerite followed him, hoping she hadn’t made a mistake in this decision. But what else could she do?
This was her only choice, no matter how terrifying it was. The man led her to a group of waiting horses where she secured her bundle. She moved with numb motions, letting her mind fall into nothingness. If she tried to think of anything beyond the simple task before her, she’d start to weep.
Behind her, the fortress blazed with fire, the scent of destruction darkening the air. She rested her hands upon a brown mare, trying not to think of what would happen to her now.
Then another Scot strode towards them. His dark hair hung to his shoulders and a long claymore was strapped to his back. Fury and disbelief raged in his eyes. ‘Bram, what in God’s name have you done? She’s not coming with us.’
He spoke Gaelic, likely to keep her from understanding his words. Marguerite shrank back and stared at her hands, pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping. Her fingers shook, but she waited for the men to make their own decision.
‘We can’t leave her there,’ Bram argued. Her rescuer stared back into the face of the other man in open defiance.
‘She’s one of them,’ the first snapped. ‘And if you bring her, Cairnross’s men will follow her to Glen Arrin.’
She could see the doubts forming in her rescuer’s eyes. If she didn’t say something, he might leave her here.
‘No,’ Marguerite interrupted, using Gaelic to reveal that she’d understood every word. She had to leave, at all costs. Searching for a way to convince the other man, she offered, ‘If you send word to my father, he’ll come for me and you will be rewarded.’
‘And just who is your father?’ he demanded.
Marguerite sent him a cool stare. ‘Guy de Montpierre, the Duc D’Avignois.’
Although she’d never before evoked the power of her father’s rank, she saw that it indeed made a difference with the first man. His face grew intrigued, as if to wonder how he could use her.
She didn’t care. As long as he helped her escape from Cairnross and summoned her father, she would ensure that he was rewarded for his assistance.
‘I am Marguerite de Montpierre,’ she continued, sending him a regal nod. ‘I was betrothed to Lord Cairnross.’ Distaste filled her mouth at his very name.
‘You may have our protection until your father arrives,’ the first man agreed. ‘But you’d best pray that Cairnross doesn’t find you.’
She didn’t doubt that at all. If the earl learned that she’d conspired with the enemy to escape, she might share in Trinette’s fate. Silently, Marguerite uttered a prayer for the woman’s soul.
Bram boosted her onto the saddle, and she arranged her skirts around the bundle of clothes she’d brought. Her hands shook as she gripped the saddle, wondering if she was making a mistake to go off with strangers. She didn’t know these men at all, nor was there any reason to trust them.
But thus far they’d behaved honourably. Their leader hadn’t been pleased with the idea of bringing her with them, but he’d agreed to protect her, at a risk to his own people. It was the only hope she had left.
The fighting between the freed prisoners and Cairnross’s men continued in the distance, as the men led her away. Flames consumed the garrison, filling the air with smoke. ‘I’m glad to see it destroyed,’ she murmured. The earl deserved to lose his stronghold after everything he’d done.
‘How long were you there?’ Bram asked, as he climbed up behind her, urging the horse faster.
‘Just over a sennight. But the prisoners …’ She shuddered at the memory of all those who had suffered. Most had been freed this night, except those who had died fighting.
‘Did you ever see a man called Callum MacKinloch?’ Bram asked. ‘Younger than me, one of our brothers?’
She glanced back at him and realised she’d been right about the strong resemblance. It made her feel better about leaving with them, though she couldn’t say why. ‘He was sent away a few days ago,’ she admitted. ‘Oui, I saw him.’
‘Where?’
She shook her head, keeping her gaze fixed forward. ‘To the South. That’s all I know.’
‘But he was alive and unharmed?’
‘Alive, yes.’ At least, that’s what she wanted to believe. Her hands dug into the folds of her gown as she prayed it was still true. ‘Will you try to find him?’ she whispered, as they took her deeper into the hills.
‘He’s our brother. We’ll bring him home,’ Bram vowed.
The intensity of the promise gave her hope that he would keep his word. She didn’t understand why she felt the need to ensure that Callum was safe. She’d only met him the one night. There was nothing at all between them, not even friendship. But when he’d brought her hand to his cheek, it was as if an invisible bond had drawn her to him. He’d dared to touch her, and though she couldn’t say why he’d evoked these feelings, it was as if he’d been searching for her all his life.
As if he’d been waiting for her to come.
Deep inside, she wished she could see him again—if only to convince herself that she hadn’t imagined the interest in his eyes.
Chapter Two
Callum refused to remain a prisoner. After seven years of misery, waiting on his brother to make the decisions about how and when to escape, damned if he’d wait another day. Even if he died in the effort, he’d be no man’s slave.
Each day, he defied the soldiers, fighting to escape Lord Harkirk’s fortress. The baron was no better than Cairnross, for he killed men each day as an example to others. Callum didn’t doubt that he would one day be the next victim, his head mounted upon a pike.
Strangely, his rebellion appeared to entertain the soldiers. Each time he attempted to run away, they collected wagers from one another, depending on how far he’d managed to go. And once they captured him again, they took turns punishing him. Sometimes they withheld food, or other times he felt the pain of the lash upon his shoulders.
But everything had changed when he’d stolen a bow several nights ago. They’d whipped him afterwards, taking it back until one soldier had decided to test Callum’s skills. A guard stood behind him, holding a dagger to his throat while the others set up a wooden shield as a target.
‘Do you know how to shoot, MacKinloch?’ the guard had taunted, pricking him with the blade. ‘Show us what you can do. Hit the shield and you won’t feel the lash upon your shoulders any more this night. If you miss, you’ll have another dozen strokes.’
Already his limbs were leaden, blood pooling down his back. Callum’s vision blurred from dizziness and he knew they wouldn’t release him until they saw him shoot. It had been years since he’d used a bow, but he’d gone hunting often with his father and brothers. He’d always had a good eye and spent hours practising until he could hit anything.
The bow felt comfortable in his hand, like a lost friend. Although the soldiers expected him to miss, he knew the skill was there, buried through the years. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the weapon.
Without an arrow, he pulled back the bowstring, testing the tension. It wasn’t as taut as the bows he’d used as a child. Eyeing the distance of the target, he knew he’d have to use his arm strength to increase the speed of the arrow.
‘One shot,’ the soldier said, handing him an arrow. ‘If you try to shoot one of us, you die.’ The men gathered behind him to watch, keeping away from the target.
The cold blade rested against his neck, but Callum ignored it. He focused all of his concentration upon the shield, ignoring the fierce pain within his muscles. Pulling back the bowstring, he adjusted his aim. In his mind, he heard the memory of his father’s voice.
‘See your target not only with your eyes,’ Tavin MacKinloch had instructed him. ‘See it with your arm, your stance. Let it fly only when you know you’ll strike true.’
His arm was shaking now, the arrow pulled tight. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek and he ignored the jeers of the soldiers. He envisioned the arrow embedding deep within the shield. Then, at last, he released the bowstring, letting the arrow fly.
It struck the centre of the shield, just as he’d imagined.
The roar of the soldiers was deafening. They took the weapon from him, dragging him away. As promised, they hadn’t whipped him that night, but afterwards, they made him shoot every day, wagering upon him. It was an unexpected gift, allowing him to rebuild the lost skill.
He didn’t hit all of their selected targets and had been punished when he missed. But he hardly felt the blows any more. His silence intimidated the other prisoners, making them believe he possessed an unearthly tolerance for pain. They’d come to fear him and it heightened the sense of isolation. It didn’t matter. Soon he would find a way to make his escape from the fortress, leaving all of them behind.
One night, he thought he’d spied a weakness in the walls, only to be distracted by the sight of Lady Harkirk standing at the entrance of the tower. In her eyes, he saw the bleakness that echoed his own emotions. Her marriage to Lord Harkirk made him think of Marguerite, betrothed to a man who would eventually destroy her.
Callum’s hand paused on the wooden palisade wall. Instead of seeing Lady Harkirk’s brown hair and slim form, he saw Marguerite’s lighter hair and deep blue eyes. The young woman’s face was burned into his memory, though he didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was because he’d never imagined that a beautiful woman like her would ever bother with a man like him. The vision held strong in his mind, binding him to her.
Had Marguerite suffered any punishment for granting him mercy? The earl was infatuated with her, eager to have her as his wife. The idea of such a man touching her, forcing himself upon her slender body, brought out a violent edge to Callum’s temper. He wished he were at Cairnross, if only to grant her the shadow of his protection.
‘Behind you!’ he heard Lady Harkirk cry out. Her warning broke through his vision and Callum spun, finding three armed soldiers in chainmail armour. He ran hard, but the chains at his ankles hindered his stride, making it impossible to gain any speed. The men closed in on him and another stepped in to trip him with a quarterstaff.
Callum crashed into the ground, their laughter ringing in his ears. He tasted dirt and blood in his mouth and, when he raised his head, saw the silent sympathy of Lady Harkirk.
The soldiers dragged him back to the centre of the fortress. He saw where they were taking him and ceased his struggle.
‘Beg for mercy, MacKinloch, and we won’t put you inside,’ one taunted. They knew he couldn’t speak, much less beg for anything. Callum stared back in defiance.
They lifted the trapdoor leading to the underground pit and threw him inside. All light extinguished when they closed the ceiling lid, weighing it down with a heavy stone. Though he tried to push against it, the stone wouldn’t budge.
Suffocating darkness overwhelmed him and he wondered how long they would leave him in here. The small space was akin to a grave, and he forced himself to breathe slowly. They wanted him to be afraid, to lose his last grasp of sanity. Instead, he closed his eyes and sat down, reaching inside his tunic for the crumpled ribbon. He held it to his nose, absorbing all thoughts of Marguerite.
As the minutes drifted into hours, he remembered the gentle touch of her hands, the soft music of her voice. If there were such a thing as a living angel, it was she.
And hours later, when they dragged him out, he kept the ribbon gripped in his palm as the whip struck him down.
‘You should set the MacKinloch slave free,’ Lady Alys Fitzroy of Harkirk remarked to her husband. ‘He’s half-dead and no good to you any more.’
Last night, she’d been too late to stop the brutal beating. The prisoner, Callum MacKinloch, hadn’t uttered a single scream. And she’d found him lying among the other slaves, huddled with his knees drawn up, trembling violently. One of the other Scots had put a tunic upon him and the fabric was stained dark with blood.
Harkirk’s gaze narrowed. ‘You saw his family approaching.’
Alys shrugged, as if it were no matter. ‘Aye. The sentry reported that they’ve brought a purse to ransom him.’ She prayed her husband would accept the bribe, for Lord Harkirk valued silver far more than a man’s life.
‘Why would I let him go? If I release him, it will weaken my authority. Better to let him die for his insolence.’
‘He might die anyway. And you’d still have the bribe.’
Though it bothered her deeply, Alys lowered herself to kneel beside his chair. Robert preferred her subservience and she saw the moment his eyes gleamed with interest.
He reached out to rest his palm upon her head. ‘You found him handsome, didn’t you?’
‘My loyalty belongs to you, my lord,’ she answered quietly. ‘If you wish to keep the slave, then that is your right.’
‘It is.’ His hand dug into her hair in a silent reminder of possession. Thick fingers moved over her face, down to her shoulder. ‘I will consider your request.’ When his fingers slid beneath the neckline of her gown, touching her bare skin, she flushed with embarrassment. ‘And I’ll share your bed tonight, wife. For that is also my right.’
Alys said nothing, keeping her head bowed in obedience. An icy shield kept her courage from shattering apart. Just as the Scots were imprisoned in servitude, so too, was she a captive in this marriage.
She couldn’t free herself … but she could help them. It was her own form of silent rebellion. Although most of the prisoners were men, there had also been a few women. And recently a young girl, hardly more than ten years old.
Only a monster would imprison a child. Above all others, Alys would fight for the life of the girl.
She only wished Harkirk were dead, so she could free them all.
A restlessness brewed within Marguerite. Though Bram and Alex MacKinloch had gone on a rescue mission to free Callum, nearly a sennight ago, she couldn’t stop herself from pacing. Bram’s wife Nairna had given her a few tasks to occupy herself while they were gone, but household duties had done little to ease her preoccupation. She wished for a needle and thread, for sewing often helped her to calm herself.
‘They’ll be back,’ the chief’s wife Laren reassured her. ‘And soon your father will come for you.’
‘Perhaps.’ Marguerite wasn’t entirely certain that her well-being was more important than political alliances. Though the Duc had been good to her and her sisters, his primary interest was in using their marriages to support his own position. No doubt he would be furious when he learned she’d run away from the earl.
Ever since she’d come to live with the MacKinlochs, the immense freedom had been overwhelming. There was no one to tell her what to wear, where to go, or what her duties were each day. Although Marguerite tried to offer her help, she was unaccustomed to living this way. She felt awkward, trying to settle into a pattern that wasn’t her own.
A commotion outside caught their attention and Laren hurried to see what it was. Marguerite followed and saw the men returning on horseback. Callum was with them, but he stared off into the distance as if he were blind. In his broken posture, she glimpsed a man who had suffered years’ worth of torment in only a few weeks.
An aching regret squeezed her heart. It’s myfault, she thought to herself. If Callum spied her, he might be angry with her for what had happened. A strange rise of nerves gathered inside her like a windstorm of leaves. She wanted to see him again, but it was possible he didn’t remember her.
She disappeared within the fortress and gave orders for a hot bath to be prepared for Callum. It shamed her to realise that she was hiding from them. From her vantage point in the far corner, she saw the men gathering. Nairna’s face was pale as she followed behind her husband and the others.
When Bram tried to touch the ragged tunic, Callum exploded into a fight. He was like an animal, raging at his brother, attacking with his fists. He didn’t seem to recognise his own family any more or realise that they were trying to help him.
It was awful seeing him like this. It was as if the man she’d saved was no longer there, lost in a world of his own madness.
Alex and Bram tried to subdue him, but Callum kept fighting, his blows striking hard.
‘Help us bring him above stairs,’ Alex said to Ross, one of their kinsmen. The older man had greying hair and a full beard, but there was no denying the brawny strength of his forearms.
‘He needs food,’ Ross said and Nairna hurried to fetch it. When the men half-dragged Callum up the winding stairs, Marguerite moved behind them. They brought him into Alex’s chamber and she remained on the stairs, watching from a distance. When they tried to remove his bloodstained tunic, Callum fought harder. Bram expelled a curse as a fist caught him in the eye.
Men and women came and left the chamber, but Marguerite remained in the shadows, feeling like a coward. Several of the MacKinlochs had brought in hot water, but she didn’t know if Callum would avail himself of the bath.
After a time, Nairna found her and the woman’s face was lined with worry. ‘You said you helped Callum on the night he was wounded. Would you be willing to go to him now?’
‘I don’t know if I could do anything,’ Marguerite admitted. ‘He might not remember me.’ Or if he did, he might resent her for being sent away.
‘Will you try?’ Nairna took her by the hand, drawing her into the hall. ‘You’re the last hope we have.’ Her face grew upset, but she revealed, ‘The tunic on his back has stuck to the wounds. He won’t let us take it off. It will grow poisoned if we leave it.’
Marguerite closed her eyes, suppressing a shudder. Callum would die a long-suffering death, if he didn’t allow anyone to assist him. She took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
She followed Nairna into the room, worrying that she would be unable to help. Inside, she saw Bram seated across from his brother, an untouched cup of mead resting upon a table beside him. Callum stared at the wall, as if he weren’t aware of his brother’s presence. His knuckles were bloody, matching his brother’s swollen face.
Nairna spoke quietly to her husband, while Marguerite tried to summon her courage. Why would you think you could help him? her mind demanded. He won’t even remember you.
But the moment she stepped forward, Callum turned to face her. There was disbelief in his expression, as if he couldn’t understand how she had come to be here. His brown eyes stared into hers, and though she saw the pain within them, there was something else. Almost … a longing.
Her throat grew swollen, her eyes blinking back tears, but Marguerite didn’t turn her gaze away from him. He was drinking in the sight of her, as if her presence brought him comfort. Seeing his wounds made her heart bleed, knowing what he’d endured.
You have to help him, came a voice within her. He needs you.
As if approaching a wounded wolf, she continued moving towards Callum. One foot before the other, moving closer, until she took Bram’s place across from him. She gripped the folds of her sapphire silk gown, trying to think of what to say.
Nairna took her husband’s hand. ‘We’ll wait just beyond the door if you need us.’ They retreated, leaving the door open by only an inch or two.
When they had gone, Marguerite forced herself to look back at Callum. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her and she grew nervous beneath his stare. ‘I never meant for this to happen,’ she murmured in French, knowing he wouldn’t comprehend her words. ‘I had hoped to save you. Not to make you suffer.’
He reached out, his palm covering hers. The rough skin contrasted against her own, but she understood his silent forgiveness. With each second that passed, she grew more sensitised to his touch. Not just his hand, but the warmth of his knee pressed against hers as they sat across from one another. The heat of his eyes burned into her, speaking more than any words could say.
Her cheeks flushed at his attention, but she turned her palm over to clasp his. She stroked her thumb across his skin, as if to soothe him. Although she was seated a slight distance away, it felt almost like an embrace. If she leaned forward, she could rest her head against his chest.
Callum brought her hand to touch the pulse at his throat. She could feel the rapid thrum beneath his skin, as if he were telling her the effect she had upon him. Her lips parted and she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Would he be fierce and demanding? Or quiet and arousing?
His nearness flustered her, so Marguerite rose to her feet, reaching for a length of linen that Nairna had left. She soaked the cloth in the warmed water of the tub and brought it to his bearded face. Though he had only minor wounds upon his cheeks and chin, she wanted him to trust her, to understand that she wouldn’t hurt him.
Callum endured the cleansing, breathing slowly as he allowed her to tend him. Then, he caught her hand and pressed something into it. She opened her palm and saw one of her ribbons, wrinkled and faded. There was a faint bloodstain upon the edge of it, as if he’d gripped it hard.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, in his language.
Callum reached up to her hair, removing the veil. Marguerite felt the touch of his warm hand, threading into her hair. His thumb caressed the edge of her temple, as if to apologise for what he’d done.
He must have taken it from her, the last night she’d seen him. She’d never noticed it was gone.
He’d kept it, all this time. In her mind, all she could imagine was him gripping the ribbon while the soldiers scourged him. A guilty tear spilled over, as she thought of what had happened to this man.
Marguerite pressed the ribbon back into his hand before resting her hands on his shoulders. ‘It was my fault you were sent away.’
He shook his head, denying it.
‘I’m so sorry for it,’ she whispered. ‘Your brother came for you, a few days after I saw you last. He brought me here, after Cairnross was burned.’
His gaze turned stony, but he gave a nod to show he’d heard her.
‘He would have freed you,’ she said softly. ‘They never stopped looking for you.’
Callum didn’t seem to believe her words, from the dark look in his eyes. She turned her attention to his back and the sight of the bloodstained tunic made her stomach turn. She knew what she had to do, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying.
‘I want to help you,’ she said quietly. ‘The tunic should come off so I can treat your wounds.’
Tension knotted his face, but he seemed to understand her. He turned around and gripped the edge of a table, as if to brace himself for the worst.
‘I’ll try not to hurt you,’ she offered. The garment had stuck to his skin; no doubt removing it would reopen many of his wounds.
Marguerite loosened the ties and brought her hands to the hem of the tunic, lifting it slowly. The underside wasn’t so bad, but when she reached the middle of his back, it was stuck fast. Callum’s knuckles whitened on the table and she had to force herself to continue.
She closed her eyes, as she felt his skin tearing away from the cloth. Revulsion formed in her stomach and she heard a rushing sound in her ears as she pulled the tunic over his head. It wasn’t until the edges of her vision started to blacken that she realised she was about to faint.
Don’t, she ordered herself. She bit hard against her lip, taking deep breaths with her head lowered. And when she’d regained control of herself, she opened her eyes and saw his bleeding wounds.
Mon Dieu, he was suffering so badly. Marguerite soaked another cloth in the bathwater and touched Callum’s face again before she wet it once more and laid it upon his bare back.
He lifted his head to look at her, and though she’d caused him pain, there was also relief in his eyes.
‘You’re safe now,’ she whispered. ‘It will be all right.’
But the way he was looking at her made her feel vulnerable. She didn’t understand the needs hidden behind his eyes, or what he was thinking.
‘I’ll leave you to bathe,’ she whispered. ‘If you want, I can send Bram back to help you.’
He shook his head, returning to the bench. Though he said not a word, he rested his forearms upon his legs, lowering his head. Exhaustion weighted him down and she didn’t like the look of the wounds upon his back. He was thin, his ribs revealed in the torchlight. But his arms held a wiry strength, his muscles well defined.
‘Or would you rather I stayed to help you?’ she blurted out.
Heaven only knew what provoked her to make the offer. Although she’d assisted her father’s guests with their baths in the past, there had always been several servants in attendance. It was an expected duty and she’d thought little of it.
But the prospect of seeing this man naked made her feel breathless, almost anticipating something that would never happen.
Callum stood up and raised questioning eyes to her. Marguerite held still, trying to feign a calmness she didn’t feel. Her mind was ordering her to leave, for to stay meant far more than tending his wounds. She was a maiden, untouched and innocent.
‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘If you need me, I’ll stay.’
When he turned his back, reaching to untie his trews, she quickly averted her gaze.
The water had grown cooler, but it was like sharp blades cutting into his back. Callum sat in the wooden tub with his knees drawn up, wincing at the burning sensation.
He should have sent Marguerite away. Letting her see him like this wasn’t right. But the past few weeks had changed him, making him care less about what was expected and falling into the instinctive urges that bordered on wildness.
He wanted her with an urgency that consumed him. When she dipped a cloth into the water, washing the dirt from the wounds on his back, he was grateful for the pain. It kept the urges under control, for her very presence had aroused him.
As she moved her hands to wash his shoulders, his skin erupted with shivers. His treacherous mind envisioned her hands moving over his chest, down to the part of him that was growing harder.
Callum slowed his breathing, trying not to get distracted. He’d never been with a woman before, and right now her touch upon his skin was firing up his imagination.
He remembered one night at Cairnross when a prisoner’s wife had visited her husband, trying to free him. She hadn’t succeeded, but they’d spent an hour in each other’s arms. She’d lifted her skirts and rode him, impaling herself upon his arousal.
Every man had been unable to tear his eyes away when her head had fallen back in passion, her rhythmic cries making each of them wish that he could experience such a pleasure.
When Marguerite’s hands moved to his hair, Callum let out a gasp. Though no sound broke from his mouth, his fingers dug into the wood as he struggled to keep from touching her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise that would hurt you.’
It wasn’t that. God above, he wanted to reach out and pull her into a kiss. He imagined tearing her gown apart, baring the softness of her body before he laid her down upon the bed, tasting every part of her until she knew the same torment he did.
He nodded for her to continue and she washed his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp. It felt so good that he closed his eyes to immerse himself in her touch. When her hands moved to the base of his neck, he started to lose his edge of control.
To distract himself, Callum held his breath and dipped his head beneath the water. She doesn’t want you, he reminded himself. This was a duke’s daughter, a woman who ranked the same as a princess. She shouldn’t have to lower herself, bathing him.
When he emerged for air, water droplets rolled down his bearded face. He opened his eyes and saw her staring at him. Beckoning to her, he touched his beard and pointed to the blade at her waist.
Her eyes furrowed a moment. ‘You want me to help you shave?’
He nodded. The heaviness of the beard bothered him, for it seemed that the dirt of the prison was caught within it.
‘Would you rather do it yourself?’ she asked.
If he tried, no doubt he’d slit his own throat without meaning to. He’d been imprisoned since he was a young boy and when the first signs of a beard had come a few years ago, he’d simply let it grow. Never before had he shaved and he didn’t know how.
But he wanted the touch of her hands upon him, no matter what the reason.
‘All right,’ she agreed, ‘but I’ll need a sharper blade. Wait here.’
While she was gone, he soaped his face, trying to wash the dirt from it. It seemed that no amount of scrubbing would rid him of the wretched years he’d spent in chains.
When Marguerite returned, she knelt before the tub and touched his chin. First, she trimmed away the beard with shears, then reached for the soap again. When her hands washed his roughened cheeks, he remained motionless. Right now, he wanted to close his eyes and revel in the feeling of her hands upon him. He imagined her hands moving lower, to his shoulders, and while she shaved him with the blade, his desire for her intensified. Her face was so near to his, her blue eyes concentrating on the task.
He was hungry for a taste of her lips, but he forced himself not to move. Instead, he drank in the sight of her, memorising every feature. When she finished shaving him, she ran her fingertips over his cheeks.
‘I don’t think I missed any places,’ she said, but before she could move away, he captured her face in his hands. Gently, he drew his wet thumbs over her temples, down to her cheeks. Her lips parted in surprise and he drew closer, watching. Wondering if she would let him steal the kiss he wanted so badly.
Her face flamed, and she stood up. ‘Y-you can do the rest while I get your clothes.’ Handing him the soap, she moved far away from him, leaving him to wonder if he’d only imagined the answering interest in her eyes.
Callum washed his legs and the rest of his body, hiding himself from her. Upon the floor, he spied a drying cloth and picked it up. He emerged from the tub, drying himself off and wrapping the cloth around his hips. Marguerite turned around, her gaze furtive. He waited for her to approach, not wanting to frighten her. Beneath the cloth, he was still heavily aroused; if she dared to look, she would see it.
She walked slowly and he noticed the way the blue silk clung to her body, outlining the curve of her breasts and her slim figure. Her veiled hair hung below her waist, a few of the golden strands damp from the water. When she held out the clothing to him, he didn’t take it.
No words would come from his throat, no sound to tell her how grateful he was for her presence. There was no means of telling her the thoughts imprisoned deep inside. He couldn’t speak.
But he could touch.
With his hands, Callum traced the curve that skimmed from her shoulders to her throat. His fingers moved up her jaw line, watching to see if she would pull away. Her blue eyes held a myriad of emotions: regret and sympathy, along with hesitation. She didn’t know him at all, nor would she understand what her kindness meant to him.
Death was easy. So was madness. But something about this woman drew him nearer. In all the darkness he’d known, she’d become the single shard of light that gave him a reason to survive.
She uttered a soft breath when he drew his hands down the back of her neck. Beneath his palms, her delicate skin prickled. He could feel the tension within her, but as he massaged the tightness, she closed her eyes.
‘I shouldn’t let you do this, I know,’ she whispered.
He touched a finger to her lips, bidding her to be silent. Then he went down on one knee before her.
‘What is it?’ she asked, frowning at his position. But Callum took her hand and set it upon his head, needing her to understand what he couldn’t say.
Her hand moved against his wet hair and she sighed. ‘I know you’re not going to hurt me.’
Slowly, he stood and took her hands. He struggled to speak, trying to force the words out. I never thought I’d see you again. The desperate need for words tormented him, but nothing came forth. Marguerite saw his failure, but instead of offering sympathy, she stood on tiptoe, resting her cheek against his.
God above, he’d never expected this. Her arms came around his neck, offering solace. And danger.
The scent of her skin, and the fluid lines of her body made him fully aware of all the ways he wanted to worship her. Never taking his eyes from her, he lifted her hand and placed it over his racing heart. The touch of skin on skin enslaved him. She was a woman he could never have, so far beyond his reach as the sunlight in the sky.
But for this moment, he would take what he wanted.
He rested his mouth above hers, waiting for her to pull away. Her blue eyes held confusion and the flushed warmth of her cheeks revealed her embarrassment. At any time, she could pull back and he wouldn’t stop her.
Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.
Chapter Three
Marguerite couldn’t breathe when Callum kissed her. His mouth was warm, coaxing her to let go of her shyness. Although it wasn’t her first kiss, this one slipped beneath her skin with a slow burning fire, transforming her inhibitions into ashes.
The connection went deeper than that between a woman and a man she’d rescued and tended. He treated her as though no one else on the earth existed. As if he needed her more than the air he breathed.
It was something she wasn’t used to. At home, she was the youngest of four daughters, largely overlooked. Her older sisters were mischievous and outspoken, accustomed to having suitors vie for their hand. Marguerite was quiet and usually remained in the background, unnoticed.
But she suspected that Callum MacKinloch would always notice her.
He was half-naked before her, his body pressed against her own. There were no thoughts spinning through her mind, only the need to bring him closer. Her arms wound around his neck but when she felt the evidence of his arousal, it didn’t frighten her as she’d thought it would. Instead, it awakened her own response, with an answering need between her legs.
The kiss turned deeper and Marguerite let out a shuddering gasp as Callum conquered her mouth, bringing her back against the wall. With his kiss he broke down her defences, until she was trembling beneath the onslaught.
At last, he let her go, resting both hands upon the wall. His dark eyes were heated with desire, his mouth looking as if he wanted to do more, kiss her in other secret places.
She didn’t know what to do or what to say now. Confused, she fumbled for words—anything to distract herself from the turmoil of ragged feelings. ‘Y-you should get dressed,’ she told him quietly.
He studied her, his eyes discerning. Then he touched her cheek, a question hidden within his expression—almost as if he were asking if he’d overstepped his bounds.
She didn’t know what to say. Colour flooded her face at what she’d done, for she could give no reason why she’d allowed him to kiss her. Only that she’d wanted him to.
Taking his hand, she led him over to the pile of clothing. ‘Nairna brought these for you.’ Then she went to the far side of the room, turning her back. Inside, she trembled from the kiss. He’d shaken her deeply, making her crave his touch.
From behind her, she heard the light rustle as he picked up the clothes. Heaven only knew what possessed her to do it, but she turned over her shoulder to steal a look at him.
Callum’s shoulders and back held stripes of both healed and unhealed lash marks, scars that he would carry for the rest of his life. His waist was lean, but, despite his thin frame, he had the body of a fighter. He had tight, muscular buttocks and powerful thighs.
And, oh God, he’d caught her looking at him.
A slow, wicked smile curved over his mouth, as if daring her to look further.
Marguerite whirled around, wondering why she’d done such a thing. But he hadn’t been angry. In fact, she’d caught a glimpse of amusement in Callum’s eyes, as if he’d wanted her to look.
He was undeniably handsome, despite the harsh conditions he’d endured. His dark eyes held secrets and an intensity that weakened her senses. Long dark hair flowed past his shoulders and she imagined what it would be like cut short. His clean-shaven face revealed a strong jaw and a determined confidence in his demeanour.
She didn’t know why she was attracted to a man who’d been held prisoner for so long. It might be compassion, but more likely it was her own curiosity. Callum had made no secret of his interest, and she could not have chosen someone more different from herself.
She’d been raised in a castle, surrounded by servants. And although it wasn’t her nature to demand material goods, she’d had everything she ever wanted. Callum was the third-born son, with hardly more than the clothes on his back. He could give her nothing at all.
Perhaps that was what drew her to him. He saw her, while the other men saw only her father’s wealth and power.
When Marguerite risked another look back at him, Callum was sitting on the bed, fully dressed. His wrists rested upon his knees, his head bowed. He looked tired, yet unable to sleep. She took a step forward, and the sound of her motion prompted him to lift his head. He let out a slow breath, his face masked. Then he touched the place beside him in a silent request for her to sit.
She remained still, unsure of herself or what he wanted from her. Time hung suspended while she debated whether or not to stay a little longer. He appeared calmer, more in command of himself.
‘You can’t kiss me again,’ she warned.
He didn’t tease her with a smile, but gave a single nod as his silent promise. In his hands, she saw the faded blue ribbon.
She took a breath and moved a slight distance beside him. ‘It’s all right to sleep, you know. No one will harm you.’ Though she was tired herself, she intended to return to her own room, once he had found a peaceful rest.
Callum reached out and pulled her to sit beside him. Then he laid his head upon her lap.
The gesture should have made her uneasy. Instead, as she stroked his long hair back and watched him close his eyes, heavy tears pricked at her. He’d suffered for so long, chained in the dark. Was it any wonder that he yearned for human comfort?
Although the weight of her own exhaustion burdened her, Marguerite didn’t move. Callum clasped her other hand in his while he slept. She let him rest against her, though her back ached.
In time, she succumbed to the need for sleep, lying back against his pillow.
The raucous cries of a raven haunted him. The birds were known for circling the camp, awaiting the moment when a prisoner died. Callum hated them, for they fed upon the flesh of the dead. Just the sight of the birds sickened him, and he’d chased dozens of them away from the corpses.
Though most of the other prisoners were nameless companions, they didn’t deserve to be dishonoured, their flesh picked away by black-winged predators.
And so he’d begun collecting their feathers. He couldn’t say why, but when the guards watched him making more arrows, he’d glued their dark tips to the shaft. It was as if he could honour the memory of the fallen.
One day, he would avenge them. He’d grown to hate Lord Harkirk as much as his former master. While Cairnross had believed himself superior to the Scots, punishing them for imagined crimes, Harkirk cared nothing for men’s lives. Men were killed for no reason at all, simply as entertainment.
But Harkirk would die one day. And, God willing, he’d be struck down by a black-feathered arrow, one of his own.
Callum’s eyes opened as the remnants of sleep slid away. Against his cheek, he felt the softness of Marguerite’s hair and their bodies were tangled together. Her delicate scent surrounded him, his arms cradled her body close. He savoured the moment of holding her, wishing to God he could make it last.
It wasn’t yet dawn and in the faint light, he saw the golden outline of her hair. For a moment, he listened to her breathe, watching her sleep.
He’d never dreamed she would let him kiss her. It hadn’t been his intention, but when she’d put her arms around him, resting her cheek upon his, he’d lost sight of the world. Her lips had tasted sweet, but beneath her innocence, he’d tasted the promise of more. She’d tempted him, until he could do nothing except savour the moments that wouldn’t last. She was a duke’s daughter and despite the fierce desire to be her protector, he knew he’d never be a part of her life.
A sound from outside caught his attention. Callum reluctantly got out of bed, listening to the sounds of night. In the corner, he saw Bram sleeping and he wondered why his brother had allowed him to sleep with Marguerite. Silently, he moved to open the shuttered window. In the darkness, he spied faint pinpricks of light moving towards them. He didn’t know what it was, but within seconds the light vanished. Instinct warned him that whatever the source of the light was, he had to warn his brother.
Before he could say a word, he heard Marguerite moan in her sleep. She clenched the sheets, murmuring words in French that he didn’t understand. And when he tried to awaken her by touching her cheek, her eyes flew open.
She sat up and gripped him hard, still shaking from the nightmare. Callum held her tight, stroking her hair to soothe her.
It’s all right. I’m here.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I was dreaming about the tower and the fire that night. I dreamed I couldn’t get out.’ Her face rested against his neck and he kissed her hair, moving his mouth lower to console her in the only way he knew how.
She drew back, closing her eyes and lifting her mouth to his. Before he could taste her lips, the door swung open and Alex entered. His brother’s face darkened with misunderstanding, as if he thought Callum was trying to dishonour Marguerite.
‘Get away from her, Callum,’ Alex warned.
At the sudden sound, Bram woke up from his place on the floor and stood. ‘Leave them,’ he said, stretching. ‘She calms him.’
‘Did he hurt you?’ Alex asked Lady Marguerite. She shook her head, her face turning dark red.
‘I should go,’ she murmured. ‘I never meant to fall asleep.’ Embarrassed, she fled the room.
Callum stared at his brothers, needing to tell them what he’d seen. He pointed toward the window, trying to signal to them, but they didn’t understand.
He saw in their eyes that they believed he’d gone mad, as if he weren’t aware of what was going on.
‘Did he sleep at all last night?’ Alex asked Bram.
‘He kept waking up, but Marguerite stopped him from lashing out.’
‘We should keep her close, then, if she’s able to get through to him.’
Callum’s temper exploded. He moved between the men, grabbing each of his brothers by the shoulder.
Look at me. I hear your words. I understand them.
But not a single sound came, despite his mouth moving. Frustration clawed at him that he was unable to communicate anything at all.
He grabbed Bram’s tunic and hauled him towards the window, pointing outside once again.
‘There’s nothing out there,’ Bram said. ‘You’re safe now.’
He didn’t believe it. And they were fools if they did.
Alex poured a cup of wine into a goblet and handed it to him. ‘Have something to drink. Whatever it is, we’ll look in the morning.’
He drank the wine and, too late, tasted the bitter herbs within it. Staring at his brother’s betrayal, he wondered what they’d done to him.
‘It will help you sleep,’ Alex said. ‘You need rest, to regain your strength.’
Despite his efforts to fight them, the heavy narcotic effects of the herbs pulled him under. As he slipped into the dark dream, he inhaled the scent of Marguerite upon the sheets.
Callum awakened with his mouth dry and the aftertaste of the herbal brew lingered. His back still hurt from the lash marks, and he struggled to open his eyes. He overheard Bram’s wife Nairna talking to her husband and caught the last few words of his brother’s conversation.
‘I don’t know if he’s even aware of where he is.’
Callum gritted his teeth. He knew exactly where he was, yet no one trusted him. He struggled to rise from the bed, thankful that Alex and Bram were focused upon Nairna instead of himself.
‘When I was out walking this morning, I saw a torch light in the hills,’ the young woman said. ‘Do you think any of Lord Harkirk’s men might have followed us?’
No doubt of it. From the flickering torches he’d seen, it was impossible to tell how many men there were.
‘I’ll inform the men,’ Alex replied. ‘If it is an attack, send a runner to Locharr and alert the Baron that we may need his help.’ He turned to Nairna. ‘Tell Laren—’
‘She’s already gathering the women and children.’
‘Good.’ Alex turned back and Callum met his gaze steadily. His brother’s face held a magnitude of worry for all the people they had to protect. There weren’t enough men and if they were invaded, many would die.
In an instant, his older brother assessed him, as if to decide whether or not he was dangerous. Callum stared back, meeting the silent question with a determined look of his own. He had no doubt of his ability to defend them, especially with a bow.
‘I’ll need your help guarding the women and children,’ Alex said at last, unsheathing his sword. ‘Even Lady Marguerite.’ He held out the weapon, hilt first, and Callum inclined his head in answer.
Though he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling, he managed to grasp the sword. Alex had offered him the chance to fight and he wouldn’t fail his brother, though a sword wasn’t his first choice. From the corner of his eye, he caught Bram’s wife Nairna eyeing him with uncertainty.
I can fight, he wanted to tell her. Especially if it meant protecting Marguerite. Upon the floor, he spied the faded blue ribbon and reached for it, tucking it away for safekeeping.
Callum followed them down the stairs, still feeling the effects of the potion from the night before. He settled his mind to the task ahead, though he didn’t know if it was a small raid or a larger force.
Nairna led them outside to the place where she’d seen the torches. Though it was now dawn, the faint light wasn’t enough to determine how many men threatened Glen Arrin. While his brothers and Nairna climbed up to the top of the gatehouse, Callum stayed below, beside the gate. He studied the opposite side, wondering what had happened to the lights on the far end of the fortress.
Then the sun gleamed over the hills, revealing the glint of chainmail armour. They were outnumbered, perhaps three to one. Callum didn’t doubt that both Cairnross and Harkirk were allied in this attack.
The only question was how many of his clan would survive it.
Marguerite followed Laren to warn the rest of the clan. The chief’s wife looked terrified, but she explained what was happening. One by one, they gathered the women and children, leading them back to the tower.
‘We’ll bring them underground,’ Laren explained. ‘We’ve taken shelter there before.’
Marguerite picked up Laren’s youngest daughter Adaira and started towards the keep. When she glanced behind to be sure that no women or children were left, she saw Callum approaching.
He walked slowly. In his eyes, she saw the grim look of a man who was about to fight. Seeing his ruthless determination made her heartbeat quicken, for he wouldn’t hesitate to shed enemy blood to protect them. Marguerite set the child down, then hung back from the others, waiting for him.
Callum stopped walking a moment, his eyes passing over her. From the top of her veil, over her face and down her body, it was as if he needed to assure himself that she was all right.
‘Did you sleep at all?’ she asked, feeling self-conscious from the look in his eyes. He gave a slight nod, then sent her a questioning look as if to ask the same.
She shrugged. ‘A little. I was worried about you.’
Callum took her hand and led her behind one of the small homes. She didn’t understand what he wanted, but Laren and Nairna were guiding the rest of the women and children inside the keep.
Her pulse beat against her throat as he slowly pressed her back against the wall. With his hands, he touched her veil, moving down the sides of her face as if he were trying to memorise her features. Marguerite saw the promise in his eyes, of a man who would lay down his life for hers. An aching fear clenched within her, for she didn’t know what lay ahead.
Though he was strong, he’d been badly wounded and shouldn’t be fighting so soon after his rescue. Yet, in his eyes she saw the steady resolve. Callum wasn’t a man who would stand aside while his family was in danger.
‘Will you be all right?’ she whispered, touching his shoulders.
His answer was to lean in, stealing a kiss. It was as if he drew strength from her, needing this one last touch. His mouth was gentle upon hers, unravelling the edges of her heart. There was no reason to kiss this man, nor give him any reason to think that they could stay together. Once her father came for her, she would have to go with the Duc and marry a man of his choosing.
But as she surrendered to Callum’s kiss, answering his need with her own, she refused to feel any guilt for it. He had endured so much, remaining strong in the face of suffering. Knowing that he wanted her, and that she felt the same answering desire, was enough for now. Either of them could die today.
When he pulled her into an embrace, she felt the quiet assurance of his protection. He wouldn’t leave her, no matter how dire the circumstances. Marguerite took a deep breath. ‘We should join the other women and children. They’ll need you to help guard them.’
He took her hand and led her forward, his gaze searching the perimeter for any threat. When they caught up to the others, Marguerite went with him into the underground passageway beneath the fortress. For now, they would hide from the invaders. And if the worst happened, she knew he would use every last breath to defend them.
Callum worked with Nairna to find the secret tunnel that led outside the fortress. The damp smell of earth permeated the space and he could sense the fear of the women and children behind him. Though most men would be afraid of the impending battle, inwardly he felt a sense of calm. Once he found a bow, he could strike down any man who dared to attack the women. In this, he would not fail. And if he died this day, at least he would keep Marguerite safe.
The taste of her lips lingered upon his mouth. He still couldn’t believe that she’d allowed him to touch her again. She’d welcomed him into her arms, until his thoughts went well beyond a kiss. He could imagine her creamy naked skin, the flush of arousal rising on her face. God above, what he wouldn’t give to spend a night pleasuring her. This woman, who had given him a path out of darkness, made him want to live.
The acrid scent of smoke caught his attention only seconds before his brother’s wife Nairna sensed it. The invaders had set fire to the keep and it was only a matter of time before it spread below. ‘We can’t stay here,’ she insisted, staring at him with horror. ‘We have to evacuate the others.’
Callum moved to examine the underground chamber, knowing that his older brother would have more weapons hidden somewhere. Behind him, he heard Alex’s wife speaking with Nairna, both arguing about whether to stay or go. He kept searching until, at last, he found the weapons. There were two longbows with arrows and a crossbow, as well as a few dull knives and one sword.
He claimed one of the bows for himself, along with a quiver of arrows. Though he still had the sword Alex had given him, he preferred to fight from a distance, since he lacked stamina.
His younger brother Dougal, who was only four and ten, looked uneasy at the prospect of fighting, but he’d agreed to help defend the women and children. Callum emerged from the darkness, holding out a bow for Dougal and more arrows. When Nairna tried to take his weapon, Callum shook his head, keeping his grip tight upon the bow.
In her eyes, he saw the lack of trust. ‘Can you defend us?’
He stared back at her and gave a single nod, hoping she would understand that this battle was his to face, not hers. Nairna stepped back, as if she were still wary of him. He gave no reaction, for she would see his skills soon enough.
Marguerite gathered the women together while Dougal cleared the exit to the outside. Callum reached for her hand and felt the cold soft skin of her palm.
He held it for a time, watching her, trying to let her know the words trapped inside of him. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.
A blush transformed her face as she nodded. ‘I know.’ She remained at his side as they moved towards the exit. The sunlight reflected the rainwater within the ditch. They would have to cross through the water and up the opposite hillside to reach the sanctuary of the trees and the dwellings hidden in the forest.
When Nairna started to move forward, Marguerite stopped her. ‘I know the way to your house, Nairna. I’ll go first and lead them, if you’ll help Laren gather the others. I don’t know them as well as you do.’
Callum slung his quiver of arrows over one shoulder. Though he understood Marguerite’s desire to help, he wouldn’t let her go anywhere without him. He chose a single arrow from the quiver, while Nairna returned to the store of weapons, choosing a crossbow. The young woman’s face was pale with fear, but Callum admired her willingness to fight.
The smoke grew worse, and when the children began coughing, Laren picked up her own daughters, one over each hip, as the women gathered together. Marguerite moved to the front of the passageway, but Callum kept at her side, nocking the arrow to his bow.
Her blue eyes held terror and she cast a last look at him.
It will be all right, he wanted to tell her. No one will harm you.
But without the words to reassure her, he reached out and stroked the side of her face with one hand. She held his fingers to her cheek and sent him a nod of trust.
And it was what he needed to face the danger ahead.
Callum left the shelter of the tunnel, studying their surroundings. There were no soldiers on this side of the fortress, nor any sign of them in the forest ahead. Satisfied, he signalled Dougal to cross the bank and take a position on the opposite side of the ditch. With both of them armed, they could protect the others from all sides.
His younger brother obeyed, but Callum didn’t miss the apprehension in his eyes. The lad was afraid, and whether or not he could shoot with accuracy was anyone’s guess.
While Nairna climbed down into the water with Marguerite, Callum kept his bow taut, searching for any threat. From his peripheral vision, he watched the women making their way through the water. Nairna’s dog dove in behind them, paddling across the water. The animal appeared unconcerned by the exodus and Callum took it as a good sign that the enemy had not yet reached this side of the fortress. Bram and Alex must have kept them occupied with fighting in the main fortress.
‘Go and take cover in the trees,’ Nairna told Marguerite, setting her crossbow on the ground. ‘I’ll stay with Dougal and help the women out of the ditch.’
Callum watched over her and Marguerite sent him one last look. He locked the image into his mind, afraid it was the last time he would see her. Her long golden hair gleamed against the sun and her blue eyes filled with worry. Despite the danger, he didn’t regret the moments he’d spent with her. If he died today, at least he’d glimpsed Heaven.
You’re unworthy of her, his conscience reminded him. All you can offer is your protection.
While more women evacuated with their children, Callum could only hold his position until Marguerite disappeared into the forest. He resumed his place on the bank beside the fortress, the arrow poised to shoot. And yet, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. It wasn’t fear—only the raw anticipation coursing through him.
Nairna’s dog began barking and Callum spun, taking aim at the emerging soldiers. He stretched the bowstring taut, adjusting his aim. Slowly, he waited for the soldier to draw near and when he loosed the arrow, it struck the man’s face.
Too high.
He followed up with a second shot to the heart, dropping the man where he’d stood.
A slight motion caught his attention and, while Callum readied another arrow, he saw Marguerite watching from the trees. Whether it was her thanks or a quiet farewell, he met her gaze with the promise to defend her.
His brother Dougal cried out a warning and Callum seized another arrow. When more men crossed to the opposite side, the boy panicked and fired too soon. The arrow struck the ground, but before his brother could run, Callum sent a steady stream of his own missiles into the charging soldiers, one after the other, each arrow striking its intended target.
He dulled his mind to the fighting and death around him, focusing only on bringing down the threat. For the first time in years, he could defend his clan. With his bow, he was no longer less than a man, but equal to his brothers. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t speak, only that he could wield a weapon.
In this, he had a purpose. And soon enough, the women and children would be within the forest, away from the worst of the fighting.
Behind him, Callum heard the groaning of the keep’s tower, while Nairna brought the last of the women out of the water. He kept his gaze focused on his surroundings and saw his brothers Bram and Alex approaching at a full run.
Bram crossed through the water, helping his wife up the hillside before he pulled her into his embrace.
At the sight of them, a tightness expanded through Callum’s chest. Nairna gripped her husband as if she never wanted to let go. He envied them, for he wanted to be with Marguerite, to reassure himself that she was all right. Letting her go while he stayed behind was the only choice, but he didn’t like it.
A shower of fire sparks drifted in front of him and a prickle of awareness caught him. Behind him, a cracking noise resounded, just as his brother roared, ‘Callum, dive!’
He threw himself into the ditch, just as the tower collapsed. The icy water numbed him, but Callum swam to the opposite side, dragging himself out. His bow and arrows were soaked, and he rested on his knees, catching his breath.
Nairna was pushing Marguerite back inside the forest. ‘He’ll be all right. Take the women up to the ridge and I’ll send him soon.’
Callum’s gaze snapped to hers. She was holding on to Nairna, as if she didn’t want to leave. It seemed that she’d started to lead the women away, only to return when the tower had fallen.
As if she cared about him, despite the danger to herself.
If he could have, he’d have abandoned all else, taking her away from the chaos of battle. But that wasn’t a choice. He was bound to defend his family and the only home he’d ever had.
As if to remind him of that, Bram extended a hand and helped him up. And for a moment, he saw the gratefulness on his brother’s face. ‘Thank you for defending them,’ he said below his breath, so that only Callum would hear. ‘And I’m sorry for every day you spent in captivity. I blame myself for it.’
Though he could make no reply, he squeezed Bram’s hand in forgiveness. After what they’d been through, he knew his brother had done everything possible to free him. Nairna sent him a smile of gratefulness, still standing by her husband.
Before his brother Dougal could join the women and children, Callum offered his sword. The lad needed a weapon of his own, now that he’d spent all of his arrows. After taking it, Dougal disappeared into the forest, just as more enemy soldiers emerged, surrounding them on all sides.
Though Callum wanted to reassure himself that Marguerite had escaped with his youngest brother, he forced himself not to look, for fear of drawing the soldiers’ attention there.
Too late.
One of the archers fired several arrows towards the forest before he could bring the man down. Not all of the women had made it to the top of the ridge, and Callum worried that one of them could have been struck. The thought of Marguerite lying prone, her life ended by an arrow, sent a dark rage pulsing through him.
Bram and Alex split off on either side to meet the men, their shields and weapons ready. Callum kept firing at the enemy archers, dropping as many as he could, until he had only a single arrow left. Alex handed him a shield, but he refused it, needing both hands to wield the bow. They were completely outnumbered by the enemy and he saw no way out.
Nairna held fast to Bram while their enemy awaited the order to kill. Callum held his bow steady, hoping he could take out Cairnross or Harkirk with his last arrow.
Even if he did, there was one unavoidable truth. Today he was going to die.
Marguerite clenched her hands together, her heart racing. Though she’d made it into the forest, away from the battle, she couldn’t stop herself from returning to watch. She chose an isolated place near the edge of the trees, her heart numb with fear as Lord Cairnross and Lord Harkirk closed in.
Through a haze of tears, she sat, wondering if she could plead with Cairnross for their lives. Was it possible that he might spare them, on her behalf?
No. She’d fled with the MacKinlochs, betraying their betrothal. Though the earl might still want her for his wife, she didn’t trust him to free the others. Especially Callum.
She stood, resting her hand against a tree, her heart sick with terror. Because of her, Cairnross had come. If she’d remained behind, none of these men would have died.
Marguerite took a step towards Callum, but before she could emerge from the trees, she saw Bram explode in fury. His claymore flashed as he brought down man after man and Alex stood at his back to defend him.
They fought for their lives and in the midst of the battle, Callum seized a quiver of arrows from a dead archer. As he released the arrows, one after the other, he moved into the forest, moving straight towards her.
Marguerite didn’t move, not understanding why he was leaving his brothers behind. When he reached her side, he pulled her veil free and dropped it, pulling her to higher ground. She suddenly realised that the white colour had made her visible from below. And she was still in range of their arrows, where she’d been standing.
‘You can’t leave them behind,’ she pleaded, looking back at Bram, Alex and Nairna. ‘They need you.’
Callum’s face hardened and he climbed atop a large boulder, drawing back his bow. He released another stream of arrows toward the enemy, bringing down one man after another.
Shame reddened her cheeks when Marguerite realised she’d accused him of cowardice. That wasn’t it at all. He’d been moving into a position where he could better defend them.
‘I misunderstood,’ she apologised. ‘I’m sorry for what I said.’ By leaving his brothers and hiding within the trees, he’d gained a more strategic position, fighting where the enemy couldn’t see him.
Callum pointed to the top of the ridge, in a wordless order for her to join the other women. She understood, but hesitated, not wanting to leave him behind. ‘Thank you for protecting me,’ she whispered.
He lowered his bow for a moment. His brown eyes held a steady reassurance, as if he would never allow anyone to harm her. The look on his face was of a man prepared to die.
Marguerite reached down to the fallen veil and brought it to him, binding it slowly around his left forearm. ‘Take this,’ she said. ‘It will protect your arm from the bowstring.’
It was all she could give him. Callum remained motionless while she tied it off, then he covered her hand with his. The warmth of his palm reassured her, and he squeezed her hand in silent farewell. She didn’t know what would happen to either of them now, but she squeezed it back.
The rumble of horsemen approaching caught Marguerite’s attention. She saw two armies of men and, at the sight of the tall man leading the group, her heart soared. The Duc D’Avignois had come at last.
She started to move downhill, but Callum caught her by the arm. ‘It’s my father,’ she explained. ‘I have to see him.’ If she could reach the Duc in time, she might convince him to save the MacKinlochs.
She started to pull free, when something made her stop and turn around. Callum held his bow over one shoulder, his gaze shielded. He gave her a signal to leave, that he wouldn’t stop her. But she realised the truth of what was happening.
The moment she reached her father’s side, everything would return to the way it had been. She would be safe with her family, and likely she wouldn’t see Callum again.
Regret pulled at her, even though she’d known the moments between them were never going to last. They would fade into bittersweet memories.
‘I’ll never forget you,’ she whispered, touching his cheek in farewell.
Callum drew his bow as soon as Marguerite left the trees, intending to shoot any man who came near her. Two of her father’s guards escorted her to safety and she spoke to them, gesturing toward the MacKinlochs as if to intervene.
He kept low, crouching with his bow as he watched the men. Harkirk was still alive, but the body of Cairnross lay upon the ground, slaughtered by his brother Bram.
He should have been relieved that Marguerite would never marry the earl. Instead, angry resentment filled him up, that Bram had wrought justice instead of himself. He’d wanted to be the one to set her free.
More, he wanted to take the earl’s place as Marguerite’s husband. He touched the veil she’d bound around his arm as a makeshift guard and the softness reminded him of her.
I’ll never forget you.
He didn’t believe that. As soon as she returned to France, her father would arrange another marriage to a nobleman. She would wed the man, bear him children and forge a different life for herself. One that didn’t include him.
Callum watched as they brought a horse for her. He saw his brothers negotiating a truce while Harkirk’s men withdrew and Nairna spoke to the Duc. And just as he’d expected, Lady Marguerite rode away with her father. The evening sunset glinted upon her hair like a fading band of gold.
And he knew he would never see her again.
Chapter Four
Summer—1306
The blue ribbon was so faded it had turned to grey, the edges frayed with time.
‘You’re hurting by being apart from Marguerite, aren’t you?’ his brother’s wife Laren had said to him, only months ago. ‘Surely, she would find it romantic if you were to steal her away, taking her back with you.’
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