Tempted by the Highland Warrior (2 page)

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.