Tempted by the Highland Warrior (12 page)

Callum devoured the food and stood, coming close to her. The
older woman’s hair was grey and wrinkles rimmed the edges of her eyes. He took
her hand and kissed it in thanks.

‘Scottish devil,’ she chided, snatching her hand back. ‘If you
think you’ll get more food out of me by flirting…’

She turned her back to him and began rummaging through another
part of the kitchen. Callum waited and she handed him a tart the size of his
palm, dripping with cherries.

‘You’d be right.’ The cook’s face cracked into a smile and
Callum bit into the tart, the cherries oozing into his mouth. Never in his life
had he tasted food like this. When he’d finished licking his fingers, he kissed
the cook on the cheek.

‘Make yourself useful by taking one of these trays to the
Hall,’ she ordered. ‘Follow the others and if you value your life, don’t spill a
crumb. Or if you eat it before it gets there, I’ll have you flogged.’ She
pointed to the heavy tray of herbed salmon and he followed the other kitchen
servants to the Hall, being careful not to spill the sauce.

Inside, the large Hall was immaculate, with fresh rushes upon
the floor. Callum held the heavy tray, absorbing the sights around him,
searching for Marguerite. If she’d been locked away in her room again, he would
do what was necessary to set her free.

But then he spied her at the far end of the room. She sat
alongside an older matron, a shuttered expression on her face. She wore a
ruby-coloured surcoat and a cream cote that hung to the floor with tightly
fitted, draping sleeves. A veil and gold circlet rested upon her head. Around
her throat, he spied the silver chain and the blue glass pendant rested upon the
crimson gown. Although her expression remained serene, he sensed the unrest
simmering beneath. Callum carried the tray and stopped before her, waiting for
her to notice him.

When she did, her hand stilled upon the goblet of wine, panic
etched on her face. She appeared frozen, not at all pleased to see him. It was
as if he’d invaded her safe world, the uninvited guest whom she could never
present to her family. Though she accepted a piece of salmon from his tray, not
once did she look at him.

He gave no reaction to her dismay, slipping into the role of a
nameless servant. Frustrated anger simmered beneath his skin, for he no longer
knew if she wanted him here or not.

But when he followed the others back, he caught her stricken
gaze and sent her his own challenge. He’d infiltrated the castle walls just to
see her—let her come if she dared.

* * *

Marguerite waited hours before slipping away from her
guards during the evening entertainment. Distracted by the storytelling, they
hadn’t noticed her disappearance. But they would. She had only moments to warn
Callum.

She found him standing outside the stables. He’d stripped
himself of the tunic and had poured water over himself. Though the night air was
warm, his skin puckered from the cool droplets. She saw the reddened scars upon
his back and the strong muscles that corded along his upper arms and torso.

She remembered what it was to touch his skin, to taste the firm
mouth that stole away her wits, leaving her breathless.

‘You can’t be here, Callum,’ she whispered. ‘Please. You have
to go.’ Couldn’t he understand that if they were caught together, his life was
in danger? Beatrice hated the Scots and she wouldn’t hesitate to punish him or,
worse, have him killed.

‘If they find me with you—’

Her words broke away when he led her into the shadows. There
was no light and she couldn’t see anything, not even his face.

‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered. ‘I’m trying to keep you safe.
If anything happened to you…’

He drew closer, his dark eyes shadowed with persistence. It had
been such a mistake to let him touch her as he had in the forest, for now he’d
glimpsed the secret desires within her heart.

He took her hands, lifting them to his shoulders in a blatant
invitation. Marguerite’s fingers moved to his throat where she felt the rapid
pulse. Her own heartbeat echoed his, for she was caught without knowing what to
do. Like the apple of sin, he offered her a temptation she didn’t want to
refuse.

* * *

Callum pressed her back against the wall, supporting her
as his warm breath silenced her protests.
She
cared.

He sensed how distraught she was, but he wasn’t going to
abandon her. Not after they’d hurt her before.

‘It’s too dangerous for me to see you any more, Callum,’ she
murmured. ‘My father will return soon. And my new…betrothed husband will come
with him.’

His hands stilled on either side of her as the coldness slid
through his veins, freezing into anger. Was she giving up?

‘I am grateful to you for protecting me,’ she whispered. ‘And I
am glad that you are healed. But it has to end between us.’

No. He wasn’t going to stand back and let her fear dictate the
future. He gripped her hand and drew it back to his throat. Reminding her that
he couldn’t speak, but it hadn’t stopped him from coming here.

She was his and he intended to fight for her.

His hands moved up to cradle her head, his thumbs edging her
temples. He wanted her to feel his touch, to know the thoughts inside of him.
When his fingers passed down her cheeks, there was wetness from her tears.

‘I don’t want you here any more.’

In the heated darkness between him, he knew it was a lie. She
was trying to drive him away, in order to protect him. Didn’t she know that he
would do anything for her?

A sliver of frustration irritated his pride, for he didn’t
intend to hide. If she wanted to be with him, he could take her away right now.
But she was faltering. He could see it in her divided loyalty, her uncertainty
of whether she could turn her back on her family, seeking a life with him.
Leaving her made it too easy for her to forget what there was between them.

Callum ignored her soft struggle to move away and held her
captive. Against his hands, he felt the harsh beating of her pulse. He moved his
mouth to kiss the trembling vein and her hands came up to hold his head.

Aye, she was lying to him. He sensed it in the way her hands
dug into him, pulling him closer. He nipped at her throat, moving up to her
chin, then capturing her mouth.

There was desperation in her answering kiss, but she didn’t try
to free herself. She kissed him back, her mouth meeting his as he took
possession. Never would he stand aside and let another man take what belonged to
him. He wouldn’t cower before a duke or hide in the shadows out of fear.

Like a brand, he kissed her hard, provoking the heat that had
always been between them. He slid his hands between them, just to the underside
of her breasts. And when he grazed the hardened tips, reminding her of the way
he’d pleasured her, she gasped against his mouth.

Don’t ever deny what’s between
us.

Abruptly, he released her and walked away. He wasn’t leaving,
not after all they’d endured.

* * *

A heaviness clenched Marguerite’s heart when he left.
The vast emptiness inside was all-consuming, for he’d thrown down a gauntlet of
his own, challenging her to fight. She made herself to walk back to the Hall,
forcing back the tears.

Even though she wanted him desperately, she understood the
challenge that lay ahead. Until she’d convinced her father to end the betrothal
with Lord Penrith, there was no hope of being with Callum.

Guy de Montpierre would be furious if she refused the marriage.
He’d given her a life of privilege and she recognised his God-given right to
choose her husband. To deny it and rebel against him made her ungrateful and
selfish.

The good-girl daughter cringed at the thought of asking him,
while the woman who had spent the night in Callum’s arms wanted nothing more
than to spend all of her days with him. No matter what happened.

She might fail…but she had to gather her courage and try.

Chapter Eight

‘M
acKinloch?’ came a whisper from the back
of the Hall. ‘Come with me.’

Callum spied Iagar Campbell beckoning to him. He rose,
following the man outside. It was late at night and most of the castle
inhabitants were asleep. The darkness made it difficult to follow Campbell to
the stables, for the torches were sparser in this area. Though he didn’t know if
anyone else was there, he supposed it was safe enough to hear what the man had
to say.

They stopped, just inside the doorway. Iagar loosened his
tunic, revealing reddened marks around his throat. Then he lifted his wrists,
revealing the scars that could only have been formed by manacles. ‘I was freed a
few years ago,’ he admitted. ‘But I remember what they did to you at
Cairnross.’

Callum studied the reddened marks. Though it was possible that
Campbell had been chained alongside him, he didn’t recognise the man. Whether or
not it was true, he waited for the man to continue.

‘I remember you as a boy,’ Iagar said, leaning against one of
the stalls. ‘Your brother took punishments for you.’ His expression turned angry
and his fingers dug against the wood of the stall. ‘It shouldn’t have happened.
Not to any of us.’ Anger and bitterness laced Iagar’s voice and Callum suspected
that the man had lost someone close to him.

‘But now we’re fighting back against the English.’ Iagar’s eyes
gleamed with ambition. ‘We’re forming our own group of men to reclaim the lands
stolen from us. To put an end to the suffering of our kinsmen.’

Callum folded his arms across his chest, understanding that
they wanted him to be a part of their rebellion. Although he recognised their
purpose, he had no desire to be involved.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything, MacKinloch?’

Callum unsheathed the dagger at his waist and touched his mouth
with it, implying that his tongue had been cut out.

Iagar paled, his face tightening. ‘Then you, of all men, have a
reason to want vengeance.’

Callum kept a veiled expression on his face. He was here for
Marguerite, not to start another fight with the English.

Iagar offered, ‘Come and join us. We have a small hut outside
the castle grounds and we could use another Scot. Another man we can trust.’

He started to shake his head, but Iagar urged, ‘Take some time
to make your decision.’ He eyed the scars upon Callum’s wrists. ‘There are other
prisoners left, not far from here. I think you remember what it was like, living
in English captivity. We’re going to free the rest of them. No matter what the
cost.’

* * *

Over the next few days, Marguerite sensed Callum’s
presence everywhere she turned. At meals, he served her food. In the morning,
she saw him standing outside her window, leading horses out for the hunters. And
today, when she walked through the garden, she had seen her name written in the
earth beside the herbs she tended. It was as if he’d countered her declaration
with a defiance of his own.

I’m not leaving.

She knelt down and touched the dirt where he’d printed her
name. Seeing his awkward handwriting reminded her of when she’d taught him the
letters. Guilt pressed against her conscience, for she’d not been able to give
him any more words to communicate. It felt as if someone were tearing her in
half. Her heart was with Callum and her mind here. And she didn’t know how to
respond to the way he was fighting for her. Until her father returned, she could
do nothing.

Sweeping the dirt clean, she began writing his name in the
space. He might not recognise it, but he would understand that she’d answered
his silent message.

‘What are you doing, Marguerite?’ came her aunt’s voice from
behind her.

She dropped to her knees, hiding the words beneath her skirts.
Reaching out to pull a weed from the herb garden, she answered, ‘I believe it’s
obvious enough.’

‘You should be sewing your bridegroom’s wedding tunic,’
Beatrice chided. ‘He will come in a few days, and you’ve barely finished any of
it.’

Because I don’t want to marry him. Because
I have to find a way to reason with my father.

She held her silence and a moment later, her aunt gripped her
by the arm, jerking her up. ‘Answer me when I speak to you, or I’ll have you
locked in your room again.’

Marguerite’s anger blazed. She pried her arm free from her
aunt’s grasp and felt the rush of indignation filling her up inside. ‘Try it
again and see what the others think of you. Already they despise you for what
you did to those soldiers.’ Though she hadn’t seen either of the men, it
dismayed her to think of how they’d suffered after her escape.

‘It was
your
fault,’ Beatrice
corrected. ‘Had you stayed in your room and obeyed me, it never would have
happened.’

Marguerite was so stunned by her aunt’s self-righteous
attitude, she could make no reply. There was no sign of remorse upon Beatrice’s
face.

‘It would not be wise to make an enemy of me, Marguerite,’ she
said quietly. ‘I’ll expect to see you in your chamber within the hour.’

She stared at the woman, her shoulders squared. Beatrice turned
and left her there, and Marguerite wondered exactly how much damage the woman
had done in the Duc’s absence. She’d been so concerned with Callum, not once had
she paid heed to the castle inhabitants.

Behind her, two guards shadowed her, as if she were about to
run away again.

‘Come.’ She beckoned to them. They were different from the
first two men who had guarded her, but she suspected they would have the answers
she needed. ‘I would like to know what happened to the two men who guarded me in
my room.’

The taller guard was bearded, his brown hair cropped short.
‘They were whipped, my lady.’

‘Did they survive?’

The second man nodded. ‘Barely. Thomas has been abed since it
happened. He was too old to receive fifty lashes. John took twenty more of them,
on his behalf.’

Marguerite shuddered at the thought. She took a breath and
asked, ‘Do they blame me for it?’

The bearded guard shook his head. ‘They know it was the fault
of that
peau de vache.
’

Marguerite knew she ought to chastise him for comparing
Beatrice to a cow, but she let the insult go. ‘I would like to see the guards
who were injured, if I may.’

‘She will not allow it,’ the first man protested.

‘Do you not believe those men deserve compensation for what
they have suffered?’ She fingered the pearls upon her bodice, as if to remind
them of her wealth.

They exchanged a wary glance and she pressed further. ‘My
father would never allow food to be denied me, nor innocent men be punished.
Beatrice has stepped beyond her authority and I intend to see it stopped.’ She
held out her palm. ‘Give me your knife.’

The bearded guard obeyed and Marguerite cut off four pearls
from her bodice. Giving two to each of them, she added, ‘Your loyalty belongs to
me. Not to her.’

The two men were listening now and she continued, ‘In front of
my aunt, you may accompany me at all times. But when she is gone…’ she cut off
two more pearls and handed one to each ‘…allow me my freedom to go or stay as it
pleases me.’

The guarded bowed his head in obedience. ‘
Oui
, my lady. And if you so desire, we can take you to the two
wounded guards so that you may speak to them.’

She nodded her agreement and began walking back towards the
tower, with the guards following behind. When she crossed by the stables, she
saw Callum against the far wall, holding the reins of her father’s destrier. She
sensed him watching her, though he kept his head averted. His silent rebellion
unnerved her, for she remembered the strength of his arms and the conquering
touch of his mouth upon hers.

As she moved past him, her body grew sensitive, remembering how
he’d awakened her with his touch.

And something within her snapped. What good was it to push away
the man she wanted, behaving like a coward? She had precious time before the
others arrived. Was it not better to steal whatever moments she could?

As she followed the guards to go and tend to the wounded
soldiers, her mind raced with ideas on how to seize what she wanted.

* * *

At dawn, Callum heard Marguerite enter the stables. She
ordered the stable master, ‘Prepare my horse. I am going riding this morn.’

‘But, Lady Marguerite, what will your aunt say?’ Jean
protested. ‘I thought your orders were not to leave the castle grounds while
your father was away.’

Marguerite smiled. ‘The guards are outside my bedroom door.
According to them, I am still inside sewing.’ She nodded towards Callum. ‘I will
take one of your men with me, as an escort. That one will do.’

That one
? Callum sent her a
sidelong glance, wondering what she was up to. She was behaving as if she’d
never seen him before and his suspicions deepened.

Marguerite didn’t spare him a glance, but when the stable
master began to argue again, she pressed something into his hand. ‘I’ve been
held prisoner for days now. If I am gone for a few hours, no one will know. And
you will be rewarded for your silence.’

The stable master inclined his head. ‘As you say, my lady.’

Callum finished saddling Marguerite’s horse and his own mount,
leading both outside the stables. He assisted Marguerite on to the animal and
she rode forth from the gates with him behind her. He let her take the lead, but
instead of going through the forest, she rode west, towards the sea. He hadn’t
realised they were so close, within only a few miles.

Marguerite stopped to let the horses drink, before continuing
towards the coast. Not once did she speak to him and he couldn’t guess at her
reasons for bringing him here. She clearly did not want anyone to eavesdrop on
their conversation.

When she drew her horse to a stop, he saw the grey waters of
the sea and dark clouds hovering above. Seagulls circled the rocks, while the
hill descended into a large stretch of sand. Marguerite dismounted and let the
horse graze while she walked downhill. He followed, but as she continued her
slow strides across the beach he caught her hand.

Why
? he asked in silence.

She reached within her bodice and withdrew the silver chain and
glass pendant. ‘You never left. Even when I asked you to.’

In answer, he touched her chin, cupping her soft cheek. Golden
hair rested upon her throat and she reached up to remove her veil, tossing it on
the sand. ‘I don’t know what will happen when my father returns. It frightens
me, what he will do if he finds out about us.’

Her hands reached to cover his and she continued, ‘But I have a
few days left with you. I don’t want to lose them before I have to.’

The words fired up a hope he hadn’t dared to feel. He captured
her palm with his and led her down towards the sea. Marguerite leaned her head
against his shoulder as they walked and he drew her closer.

Beneath her calm demeanour, he sensed the unrest simmering.
Tension lined her face, mingled with defiance. She’d brought him here for a
reason, but for what, he couldn’t guess.

She let go of his hand when they reached the shoreline.
Driftwood and shells lined the sand, along with a fallen log. He followed
Marguerite there and she leaned down to pick up a stick.

‘I promised to teach you more words,’ she said, offering him
the stick.

But he didn’t take it. Instead, he reached out to touch her
chin, wishing he could read her thoughts. Something was making her anxious, but
she wouldn’t reveal it to him.

‘If you want, I’ll try to teach you more writing,’ she blurted
out, her words rushed. ‘Or perhaps you could give me another lesson in
swimming?’

There was an edge to her voice, a nervousness about her
demeanour. Though she might believe swimming was a way to spend time together,
it wasn’t a good idea. The moment he saw her slender body, wet from the waves,
he’d want to touch her again. And God help him, if he did, he didn’t think he
could stop.

The summer air was cool and he motioned for her to wait a
moment. He built a fire for them and when it was burning bright, he picked up
the stick again and sat beside her.

‘Show me the letters you remember,’ she said.

He wrote out the alphabet that he’d spent countless hours
memorising. Some of the shapes still eluded him, but his hand was growing
steadier with the practise.

She bent to help him with the letter S, her hand upon his. When
she leaned so close, her delicate scent ensnared him. He wanted to lay her back
in the sand naked, touching her body until he learned what made her sob with
pleasure.

The stick nearly snapped in his hand and he forced himself to
concentrate.

‘You’ve learned so fast,’ she remarked, kneeling beside him.
‘It took me years to do as much as you have.’

He took the stick and wrote her name, then his own.

‘You saw it,’ she murmured. ‘I wrote it for you in the garden,
hoping you would find it.’

At her timid smile, he set down the stick and faced her. Her
hands moved up to touch his shoulders and she rested her cheek against his in a
light embrace. ‘I’m sorry for what I said a few days ago. I was afraid that if
you stayed, you would be in danger.’

He’d known that, but hearing her say it made him hold her
closer. Words stumbled in his throat, yet he couldn’t get them out.

But now he had another way. Pulling back from her, he picked up
the stick and thought for a moment. He struggled to remember the shapes of the
letters and the spelling.

Finally, he wrote in the sand:
Mine.

Her expression softened with emotion. ‘Yes. I am yours. For as
long as I can be.’

It wasn’t the promise he wanted. He wanted her for always.