Tempted by the Highland Warrior (11 page)

Marguerite reached up to touch his cheek. ‘I suppose I
shouldn’t have come with you last night.’

His answer was to kiss her again, pulling her close as if he
could absorb her into his own skin. Her mouth was open with shock, but he
wouldn’t release her, demanding that she respond.

There were no words to tell her what he felt, but damned if
he’d let her walk away. He kissed her roughly, demanding her response.

No man will ever touch you like this. No
one will ever make you feel the way I do.

Her mouth met his with her own desperation, kissing him back
while she held him for balance. Callum backed her against a tree, moving his
knee between her legs until she was seated upon him. ‘What are you—oh,’ she
breathed, as he shifted his weight against her. Her head leaned back and he
kissed her again, his tongue moving inside as he rocked her core.

A shudder broke over her and when he pulled back, he saw the
dawning pleasure in her eyes. He’d meant only to balance her, but the secret
response of her body reacting to the pressure of his thigh fascinated him. He
trailed his hands down her back to rest upon her hips. Marguerite opened her
eyes and the vivid blue entranced him.

Her breathing quickened and she began to press herself against
his thigh, colour rising in her cheeks as he bent to kiss her throat. The flush
of her arousal only heightened his own need and he drew her higher, pulling her
leg around his waist. Instinct commanded his mind, though he knew he was taking
things too far.

He didn’t care. Since he had no words to wield as weapons, he
had no qualms about using his touch instead. He wanted to seduce her, to bring
her such pleasure she would never think of leaving him.

But then she began to move against him, of her own accord.
‘I’ve never felt this way before,’ she breathed, pulling him into another kiss.
‘I want you in a way I don’t understand.’

Her body trembled against him, her thighs tightening. He
reached to lift her higher, wrapping her legs around his waist. Fiery and
passionate, Marguerite continued the stroking rhythm, lifting her hips against
his erection. He pressed her back against one of the trees as her breathing
quickened.

Control fled him and he supported her weight with one arm,
moving the other beneath her skirts. He needed to touch her, craved it beyond
all else. His hand cupped her bare bottom beneath her skirts, and she shifted
her hold around his waist.

‘Callum,’ she murmured, but her voice wasn’t a protest. It was
a demand.

Maddening lust gave him the courage to bring his hand between
her thighs and when he touched her damp curls, she gave a throaty moan.

‘Dieu,’
she whispered. With her
plea, he touched the wetness, exploring her intimate skin as if to mark her as
his. She trembled, her lips swollen from his kiss, but he saw the pleasure
breaking forth as her breath grew hitched.

He stroked her slowly, not wanting to hurt her, but she behaved
as if he were torturing her. Not knowing whether he should pull his hand away,
he held still. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘More.’

He dipped his fingers within her wetness and her legs squirmed.
She was exquisite, her body so tight against his hand. Using a soft rhythm, he
thrust his fingers within her and she ground her mouth against him.

He now understood why men killed one another out of jealousy.
The visceral need to mark her, to ensure that she wanted only him, was filling
his veins in a primal way. He burned for her, wishing he could remove the
barriers between them and be the man to claim her innocence.

Abruptly, she convulsed against him, her body racked with
violence. For a moment, he feared he’d hurt her, only to see a look of languid
passion on her face.

Slowly, he lowered her down. Marguerite pressed her face
against his chest, her arms around his waist. His body was so rigid, the
physical frustration hurt. But he merely stroked her hair, holding her.

‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ she murmured. ‘I should be
ashamed of what I did, but I’m not.’ Her blue eyes held the fire of longing and
she held his gaze. ‘I wanted more.’

* * *

Marguerite was shaken by the experience, though she
tried to pull her thoughts together. Her body was liquid, her legs hardly able
to walk. It was dangerous being around Callum, for he made her inhibitions
vanish.

She wanted him as her lover. She wanted to lie with him, to
feel the intimacy of his body inside hers.

But if she dared to reach for another future, her father
wouldn’t hesitate to use his power against the MacKinloch Clan. She was his
pawn, not permitted to have any say in her marriage. And with every moment she
spent with Callum, the suffocating resentment rose higher.

The Duc wasn’t the one who had to wed a stranger and welcome
him into bed. He didn’t seem to care what Marguerite’s desires were. It was
about strengthening his political ties, increasing the family wealth. Not about
her wishes.

The question was, did she dare to fight for what she wanted,
knowing that it would likely fail? It was too late to stop her father from
bringing back another potential husband. But perhaps there was a way to appeal
to him, to somehow make him see that there could be advantages to allying with a
Scottish clan.

Callum took her hand and led her back to the fire. He dropped
down to one knee and picked up a twig. He drew in the dirt for a moment and when
he stood, Marguerite saw her name written in the earth. Had he spent the past
few days practising? She’d only written her name once for him. The letters
weren’t perfect, but they were legible.

‘You learn quickly,’ she said, startled that he could have made
such progress. She welcomed the distraction of teaching him more letters, for it
kept her mind off the staggering pleasure he’d given her. Or their unknown
future.

Callum took her by the hand and led her to a log. There was
unrest carved into his face, the tension of a man who had been denied his own
release. The sting of shame made her wish she could do something for him.

And when she saw his attempts at her name written within the
dirt, she understood that he’d brought her here for another distraction.

Marguerite sat down and studied the words. He must have written
her name nearly fifty times. It touched her that he’d practised for so long.

As he swept the dirt aside with a pine branch, he handed her
the twig once more. She held it for a moment and said once more, ‘It’s not
enough. Even if I teach you the letters, I don’t think you can—’

Impatiently, he cut off her words, touching a finger to her
lips. Then he guided her hand down to the dirt in front of them. There was
determination in his eyes and a will to learn that she’d not seen before.

This might be his only way to communicate. The only way to
unlock the voice inside of him. She understood that, even if he didn’t know how
difficult it would be.

‘I can try to teach you,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know if there
is time enough for you to learn.’ It had taken her years to master writing and
she doubted if her efforts would do anything at all for him.

He pressed the twig into her hand, nodding for her to
begin.

* * *

Callum drank in the knowledge faster than anyone she’d
ever known. Marguerite had never seen anything like it. She’d written the
alphabet and Callum had practised each shape, struggling with the curved
letters. He’d worked as hard as he could, shaking out the stiffness in his
fingers.

She’d demonstrated each letter and sound, showing him how to
write simple words. Throughout the lesson, his eyes were intent upon the ground.
He struggled to string the words together, and although his spelling was
disastrous, at least he was starting to understand how to put the sounds
there.

Mor
, he wrote.

She added an ‘e’ to correct him, and wrote as many words as she
could think of, until her fingers were getting scratched from the branch she’d
used.

‘You’re doing well,’ she complimented him. He’d written and
rewritten the words at least a dozen times, practising them over and over, as if
his life depended on it.

And it might, if he stayed here too long.

Her fingers were aching and she massaged them, sitting back
against the log. ‘I think that’s enough for now,’ she said, rising to her feet.
‘I have to return. They’ll be looking for me.’ The evening sun now rimmed the
horizon in red and gold, and she couldn’t stay much longer.

He bent down and laboured over the letters, until he stood back
to let her see the word.
No
, he’d written.

‘I can’t stay and you know this,’ she said quietly. ‘They would
accuse you of abducting me, no matter what I say to defend you.’

He set down the stick, his dark eyes filled with frustration.
But he had to understand the truth of her words. Already she had spent far too
much time alone with him. If they were caught together, she didn’t doubt that
they would take him prisoner. She couldn’t let that happen.

‘If I can come back to see you, I will,’ she said. ‘It may not
be for some time, but…I’ll try.’ She sent him a half-hearted smile. ‘You have
many letters to practise until then.’

The likelihood was that her aunt would keep her locked away,
unable to leave until the Duc returned. Marguerite would suffer punishment for
what she’d done. But she held no regrets at all.

Callum extended his hand, but instead of leading her back, he
drew her palm to his waist. For a long moment, he cupped the back of her neck,
keeping his forehead pressed to hers.

‘I don’t know what will happen to us,’ she whispered. ‘I wish—’
Her words broke away, for wishes were worth nothing at all. Instead, she closed
her eyes, holding on to him. For now, she could only hold fast to the moments
slipping away like water through her fingers.

At her side, Callum took her hand and pressed it to his chest.
The firm reassurance and strength only dug deeper into her heart.

She suspected he would wait for the rest of his life, if she
asked it of him. And it simply wasn’t fair.

Chapter Seven

T
he sound of dogs barking drew closer to
their position within the forest. Callum fitted an arrow to his bow and stood
before her.

‘They’re going to find us if I stay here any longer,’
Marguerite said. And though he knew she was right, it didn’t mean he was going
to step aside and let them lock her away again. He’d been imprisoned and
tortured before and he’d endure it in a moment if it meant protecting her.

But she turned to him, forcing him to lower the bow. ‘I need to
face them myself.’ Her voice came out with a tremble and he shook his head.

‘If they see you, you would bear the punishment for my
rebellion.’ She gave him a broken smile, adding, ‘The only way I’ll ever be free
is if I speak to my father.’ Her hand moved to touch his cheek. ‘Stay back,
Callum. Let me try to fight for what I want.’

Though he understood her desire, he had no intention of letting
her face them alone. How could he hide away like a coward, letting her bear the
brunt of their anger?

‘They won’t hurt me,’ she told him. ‘And if they deny me food
again, I’ll speak to the servants. Surely they would help me, if it meant
gaining a reward from my father.’

She moved in, winding her arms around his neck. Though her hair
was tangled, her face still held the satisfied flush of fulfilment he’d given
her. He wasn’t about to let her go alone.

He might be able to watch over her without her knowledge. He
could infiltrate the castle, guarding her as best he could, until she gained her
father’s permission to come back with him.

It will never happen
, his mind
taunted.
The Duc will never accept a broken man such as
you.

He dulled the voice of reason and gripped Marguerite in a
fierce embrace. When he pulled back, he saw the tears glimmering in her eyes,
though she tried to send him a reassuring smile.

‘I’ll be all right.’

He didn’t believe it, even as he gestured for her to walk
towards them.

But first she stood on her tiptoes to give him a last kiss. It
was the softest touch, like a farewell. And when she turned away from him, a
sense of foreboding intruded, as if their shared dreams would never happen, no
matter how hard they fought.

Callum climbed a large oak nearby and hid himself within the
branches, watching as she walked towards the sound of the dogs. She moved with
her head held high, offering no excuses for her actions. And when the riders
caught up to her at last, they seized her, lifting her atop one of the horses
before they stole her away from him.

* * *

‘I should have you beaten for your disobedience,’ Lady
Beatrice said coolly. ‘Never have I seen such behaviour from you. I can promise
you, your father will hear of this.’

Marguerite held her shoulders back, keeping her silence. She
had decided not to answer any of their questions, nor make excuses for what
she’d done. Like Callum, she intended to lock away her words.

‘You’ve caused everyone a great deal of trouble,’ her aunt
continued. She took Marguerite by the wrist, squeezing so tightly that a bruise
would form. ‘I can’t understand why you would go off into the forest. And I do
not believe you were taken against your will.’ She pulled Marguerite towards the
stairs, forcing her to return to her chamber.

When they reached the door, Beatrice stopped. ‘The guards
outside your room confessed that they saw a man who took you. A Scot, they
believe.’ Her aunt’s gaze grew cunning. ‘Or am I wrong?’

‘And where would I have found such a man?’ Marguerite
countered, unable to hold her silence any longer. ‘I know none of the nearby
clans.’ She stared up at her aunt. ‘Perhaps I was the one to free myself. The
men would be too ashamed to admit they were bested by a woman.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

No, but she refused to endanger Callum by letting anyone
believe he was involved in her escape. So far as she knew, only the guards had
encountered him and the lie might work. It was all she had.

‘I don’t expect you to believe anything I say.’ She walked into
her room and sat down before the fire, warming her hands.

Her aunt closed the door behind her. Beatrice’s mood seemed to
discolour the air with rage. She took deep breaths, as if to control her temper.
‘You spent a night away from the castle. You, who can hardly dress yourself,
much less take care of a household. Your father entrusted Duncraig Castle to me
and he gave strict instructions about keeping you here.’

‘Imprisoning me, you mean.’ Marguerite stood up and faced her
aunt. ‘I’m not as helpless as you think I am.’

‘You’ve never done anything except wield a needle and smile
prettily at your father. He indulged you in anything you wanted, after your
mother died.’

‘I was grieving—’

‘And so was I,’ Beatrice snapped. ‘She was my only sister.’ Her
face twisted with frustration. ‘When my husband died, the Duc might have brought
me into his household, but I will not stay in a barbaric country such as this.
Soon enough, I’ll coax him back to France where I belong.’ Her aunt sent her a
calculating smile. ‘I have your father’s favour, you know.’

From the insinuation in Beatrice’s voice, Marguerite suspected
precisely what sort of favours the matron had granted the Duc. It sickened her
to think of the pair of them together.

‘He can’t wed you,’ Marguerite argued. ‘It would be against the
laws of the Church.’

‘There are many ways he can provide for me.’ Beatrice crossed
her arms beneath her voluptuous bosom. ‘And believe me when I say that he will
do
anything
I ask of him. You had best remain in
your room for the next sennight if you want me to hide your secrets from
him.’

‘I have no secrets.’

‘Liar.’ Beatrice reached out and cupped her chin. ‘Even if it
wasn’t in the past two days, you’ve been touched by a man. You might have taken
a lover, even. What do you think your bridegroom will say if he finds out you
are no longer a virgin?’

In spite of her efforts, Marguerite couldn’t stop the flush on
her cheeks. She had allowed Callum to touch her in ways he shouldn’t have. She
had given in to temptation and the guilt weighed upon her.

‘I am a virgin still,’ she said quietly. But had she remained
with Callum, she doubted if she could have kept her virtue. She wanted him more
than any other man. And she didn’t know how to get out of her betrothal
agreement to the Earl of Penrith.

‘Get out of my chamber,’ she ordered her aunt. ‘And cease
treating me like a prisoner.’

‘You will be guarded at all times,’ Beatrice said. ‘Until your
father returns.’ She crossed the room and stood at the door. ‘And as for your
former guards? They each received fifty lashes on your behalf, Marguerite.’
Venom laced her tone and she finished by saying, ‘Remember who holds the power
here.’

After her aunt had gone, Marguerite closed her eyes. Somehow,
she had to find her own power.

* * *

Callum stood in the shadow of the trees, far below
Duncraig Castle. Though Marguerite hadn’t wanted him to follow her, he intended
to watch over her and somehow gain a means of protecting her within the
castle.

You’re unworthy of her
, the voice
inside him mocked.
There’s no place for you
here.

He knew it, but he wasn’t going to dwell among the trees like
an animal. He wasn’t going to abandon Marguerite, despite the danger to
himself.

The afternoon light skimmed over the hills, casting shadows
over the castle walls. He cleared his mind of the doubts, steadying his resolve.
From the size of the castle and the men he’d seen during his first encounter, it
was a large household with many servants. Surely they would need another. And
although he couldn’t speak, he could show the others that he was strong enough
for any task. Sometimes actions held more weight than words.

His pace slowed as he neared the drawbridge. Inside the gates,
he saw the soldiers guarding their post. They locked their spears, barring his
way.

At first they spoke French and he shook his head, not
understanding their words.

‘What do you want?’ one demanded, in heavily-accented English.
They were eyeing his horse, for that made it apparent he wasn’t a beggar. Callum
met their gaze evenly and held out empty hands. Then he touched his mouth, in an
effort to make them understand.

They eyed him with no idea of what he meant. Frustrated, Callum
dismounted from his horse. With effort, he tried to speak, but it felt as if his
throat were blocked, the words trapped inside. Nothing came forth, not even a
single sound.

‘If you’ve nothing to say, then be gone,’ the first soldier
ordered.

Callum stared at the man. They believed he was witless, didn’t
they? Good for nothing at all. His anger gained a foothold, rising higher. The
idea of simply shoving the men aside sounded better than trying to make them
guess what he wanted.

He gripped his horse’s bridle and forced himself to calm down.
There had to be another way. Callum lifted his eyes just beyond the guards and
spied a man approaching. From the stranger’s appearance, he appeared to be a
fellow Scot.

The man’s gaze narrowed as he drew nearer, just behind the
guards. When he was within view, the stranger looked at Callum and turned back
his sleeves. Upon his wrists were reddened scars like his own.

The man interrupted the guards and offered, ‘He means no harm,
lads. It’s only my cousin, come from the north.’

Callum kept his face blank, not knowing why the man was helping
him. His suspicions went on edge, but he made no effort to deny the man’s
words.

‘Your cousin, is he?’ the guard remarked. ‘Why is he here?’

‘After all the raids, I suppose he’s looking for a new place to
live. Am I right?’ He stared at Callum, who gave a single nod.

Reluctantly, the guards let him through and the man brought him
towards the stables. ‘You can put your horse with the others, for now.’ With a
sidelong glance, he murmured under his breath, ‘You’re a MacKinloch, aren’t
you?’

Callum inclined his head and the man smiled. ‘I thought so. I
knew your brother Bram. You were just a boy when I saw you last. Colin, is
it?’

There was no way to correct the man, so he shrugged. It was
close enough.

‘I am Iagar Campbell.’ The name was unfamiliar to him, but the
scars upon the man’s wrist gave the clearest indication that he wasn’t lying.
Iagar seemed to notice his stare, and he added quietly, ‘I was at
Cairnross.’

When they reached the stables, the stable master began speaking
in French, so rapidly that Callum couldn’t follow any of it. Iagar answered on
his behalf, and after a time the stable master grumbled and brought his horse
Goliath to a stall.

‘If you’re looking for a place, this is the best you’ll get.
The others think we’re good for nothing except shovelling dung.’ Iagar winked at
him. ‘But there are ways to get what you want if you know how to ask.’ He passed
Callum a shovel and led him into one of the stalls. In Gaelic, he added, ‘Go on
and start. We’ll talk later when there aren’t any ears to overhear our
conversation.’ With a light slap to his back, Iagar left the stable.

Callum eyed the horse in front of him and guessed her to be
Marguerite’s horse. She was a light grey mare with delicate features. When he
touched her nose, letting her learn his scent, she gave a whuff and then lowered
her head to drink from a trench of water.

* * *

Over the next few hours, he worked until nightfall. The
stable master Jean never took his eyes off him, but when he realised that Callum
had done well enough cleaning the stalls, there was a noticeable difference in
his demeanour.

‘You don’t speak, do you?’ Jean asked, using English at last.
Callum shook his head, touching a finger to his lips. The stable master studied
him. ‘You’ve earned a meal after the work you did. You’re hungry, I suppose?’ At
his nod, Jean led him outside.

Torches lined the walls, the orange flames flickering in the
twilight. Callum kept his face lowered, so as not to attract attention. He
didn’t doubt that the guards he’d attacked on the night he freed Marguerite
would recognise him if he showed himself.

He followed Jean to the kitchen, where he saw a few other men
and women gathering outside. ‘You can get some table scraps here,’ the stable
master offered. ‘And you can sleep in the Hall, as your
cousin
does.’ From the emphasis he placed on the word, Jean had
guessed they weren’t related.

After he left, Callum found a barrel of rainwater and splashed
his face, thoroughly scrubbing his hands until he was clean. He didn’t suppose
anyone would want to give him food, smelling the way he did.

* * *

He waited for over an hour among the others, his stomach
raging for something to eat. Though he was accustomed to hunting for his own
meat, he didn’t have the choice of returning to the forest. The idea of begging
for leftover food didn’t sit well with him.

The cook was still busy preparing a light meal of sliced meat,
baked salmon, cheese and assorted breads for the Duc’s family. Seeing so many
exotic foods made his mouth water. He noticed the cook struggling with a heavy
iron pot of water. Without asking, Callum took it from the older woman and hung
it over the fire.

She stared at him, her round face narrowed.
‘Merci.’
Then she took a crust of bread and placed bit
of the salmon on it, ladling a thick sauce over it. Callum’s stomach roared with
hunger at the sight and he accepted the food, nodding his thanks. When he bit
into the warm fish, the succulent flavour was like nothing he’d ever tasted. He
caught the cook’s gaze and sent her a smile.

She spoke in French again, but he shook his head to indicate he
didn’t understand. Then she asked in English, ‘Do you like it?’