* * *
At nightfall, he moved to the outer edges of the trees, studying the castle and its defences. A moat encircled the structure and thick stone walls stood taller than the height of a man. Two square towers stood on each side with both gates were heavily guarded. He listened and heard the sound of…was it music?
Callum hadn’t heard music in so long, the sound seemed to wend its way through the forest, drawing him closer. He kept low to the ground, hiding within the darkness, until he reached a place in the wall with a crevice small enough to see through. Inside the castle, men and women celebrated with tankards of ale, laughing amid the lilting song. Callum rested his cheek against the cool stone, taking in the sight.
It had been years since he’d had anything at all to celebrate. Watching the people with their smiling faces made him yearn to be a part of it.
Especially when he spied the familiar figure he’d been searching for the past few weeks.
Marguerite’s long golden hair was veiled, but it spun out as she whirled in a dance with the others. Callum saw the men watching her and a possessive air came over him.
Seeing her again after so many months was like a balm to his broken spirits. He needed to go inside, to satisfy the need that had tormented him since the last time he’d watched her walk away.
Fate intervened when a group of men and women approached the drawbridge. Callum moved from his hiding place by the wall and drew his hood over his head. Disguised among the villagers, he entered the gates.
Marguerite danced with the other women, but her movements held less energy, as though she didn’t want to be there. He drank in the sight of her, memorising her beautiful face and the way she moved.
The music shifted again, to a softer, more plaintive tone. Marguerite stepped away from the dancing, her face flushed. As the others gathered around the musicians, she leaned back against the wall.
Callum never took his eyes from her as he moved through the crowd, keeping out of the torchlights. And when he was an arm’s length from her, the sweetness of her scent pressed a dark aching through his chest. If he could stand in her shadow for the rest of his life, it would be enough.
She turned toward him, her eyes narrowed. He saw the moment she realised she wasn’t alone. Though he could have lowered his hood, revealing himself, he spied the Duc watching over her.
She clutched her waist, taking a step back towards the people. His opportunity was disappearing and Callum could say nothing to stop her. But he needed to tell her that he was here.
When the sound of laughter resonated from the crowd, Marguerite’s attention flickered for a moment. It was all he needed.
As he left the castle, he pressed a single, frayed ribbon into the palm of her hand.
* * *
He was here. He’d come back to see her.
All night long, Marguerite had held on to the ribbon, like a faded memory. She didn’t know why Callum had travelled to Duncraig, but the unexpected surge of anticipation broke through her disconsolate mood.
Ever since she’d left Glen Arrin, she’d been unable to forget Callum MacKinloch. The fierce, silent Scot had invaded her dreams, leaving her with memories of his kiss. At night, she imagined his mouth moving down her jaw, down to her throat. She remembered the hardened lines of his body, the taut warm skin that had invited her to touch.
‘Marguerite.’ Her father interrupted her idle thoughts the next morning, setting his silver cup upon the table beside her. ‘I am leaving for England on the morrow. I’ll be escorting the Earl of Penrith here for your wedding.’
She nodded her head, trying not to betray the disappointment inside. Even so, her father noticed her unhappiness. ‘I know these past few months have been difficult for you. But be assured, this will be a better marriage for you, ma petite,’ he continued. ‘The earl has estates here, as well as in England and Ireland. He is favoured by the English king, and I have it in good faith that he is a nobleman worthy of being your husband. You should be well pleased with him.’
But what if I’m not pleased? she wanted to ask. What if he’s as terrible as Lord Cairnross? Although she’d known her father would arrange another match, the shadow of restlessness haunted her.
Months ago, the idea of questioning her father’s orders had never occurred to her. As the head of the family, it was the Duc’s responsibility to choose her husband, selecting a nobleman who would best provide for her. None of her personal desires mattered. Yet now it seemed that the invisible bands of obedience stretched over her, strangling her into submission.
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘A fortnight or so.’ He reached out and took her hand. His heavy gold ring pressed against her fingers as he squeezed his reassurance. ‘There are plenty of my men to keep you safe. And soon enough, you’ll live in England as lady of your own castle.’ He sent her a warm smile, believing that was all she’d ever wanted.
He had no reason to think otherwise. Only months ago, she’d wanted to rule over her own demesne, with a strong husband at her side. She had planned to be his obedient wife, creating a comfortable home for him and bearing children.
But everything had changed since she’d spent time with the MacKinlochs. Despite the danger and the terrifying battle, she’d shattered the glass of her protected life. Another woman lived inside her skin, someone with courage. A woman who had seized her own escape from Cairnross.
When her father had brought her to Duncraig, she’d expected to resume her old life, like a familiar shadow. Instead, the past haunted her, making her dream of a silent warrior who had torn apart her defences, awakening her.
And now he’d come back.
She knew little of Callum MacKinloch, nor could she guess what he thought of her. Yet the need to see him again overwhelmed her, filling her mind with impossible thoughts.
‘We’ll hunt this morning,’ her father said. A warm smile crinkled the edges of his eyes. ‘I want a little more time with my youngest daughter before she leaves me as a wedded woman.’ He summoned a servant and ordered their horses to be readied. ‘While I’m away, you are not to leave these grounds. Is that understood?’
You are not to think for yourself or make any decisions that contradict mine, she thought bitterly. But she gave the expected response, ‘Oui, mon père.’
‘You will also spend your time sewing or in prayer,’ he added. ‘Do not trouble yourself with the needs of the household. I have appointed Lady Beatrice to oversee the servants and to guide you in my absence.’
Marguerite suppressed a groan. Though outwardly kind, her mother’s sister Beatrice had a thin air of superiority that didn’t sit well with her. The next fortnight would, no doubt, be an exercise in patience.
‘Obey her, Marguerite,’ he insisted.
In spite of her nineteen years, he still treated her as if she were only seven years old. Marguerite veiled her frustration and rose from the table, ignoring the rest of her food. At his enquiring look, she gave the expected response, ‘If that is your will, Papa.’
Approval settled into his expression and he dismissed her with a hand. ‘Go now, and we’ll ride out together in an hour.’
* * *
She found her father waiting for her near the stables. He sent her a welcoming smile while she mounted her horse. ‘The others are not yet ready to join us on the hunt. If you’re willing, we’ll go out for a short ride together.’
It meant that he wanted to speak with her in p
rivate, she guessed. With a nod, she followed him outside the gates.
Within her bodice, she’d tucked the frail ribbon Callum had given her last eve. Her skin tightened with the desire to see him again. Why had he come back? Knowing that he was here had opened up the Pandora’s box of her forbidden wishes. Marguerite stared at the trees around them, wondering if he was nearby.
The Duc led her along the perimeter of the forest, toward the open fields. When she drew her mare alongside his, he suggested, ‘Shall we race? I’ll grant you a small lead.’
She suspected that he intended to let her win, as he’d done when she was a young girl. Though she returned his smile, she guessed that he had other news to impart that she would not like.
‘I don’t need an advantage,’ she countered, adjusting her skirts. ‘I can win without it.’
The challenge brought a smile to her father’s face. ‘What shall we wager? A length of silk or a golden chain with a jewel to match your eyes? Perhaps a fur-lined cloak to keep you warm in winter?’
She shook her head. There was no need for luxuries, not when he’d granted all of that in the past. ‘A favour to be granted at a time of my choosing.’ With the reins in her hand, she added, ‘What do you want, if you win?’
His face softened. ‘A visit, from time to time. Your sisters hardly ever come to see me any more.’ For a fleeting moment, she spied the loneliness in his expression. He’d lost her mother years ago and had not remarried, though she was not naïve enough to believe he’d been without female companionship in that time.
‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘Say the word and we’ll ride.’
‘To the edge of the shore,’ he said, pointing to the coastline in the distance. The Duc lifted his hand, eyeing her to ensure she was ready. Then, when he lowered his palm, they both rode hard across the countryside. Marguerite leaned into the wind, watching as her father kept his horse in check, giving her the lead. Though he loved to ride as much as she, he’d always been indulgent, wanting her to win.
Just as he’d given her everything she’d ever desired, whether it was a silk gown or a purse filled with gold. She’d adored him as a young girl, believing that it was her purpose in life to comply with his every dictate. But the past few months had unsettled her, regarding the decisions he’d made. No longer was he the benevolent ruler whom she obeyed without question.
Suddenly she felt the urge to defy his intentions again. At the last moment, just before she won the race, Marguerite pulled her horse to a hard stop, letting her father ride past.
The Duc turned the horse and sent her a surprised look. ‘You cheated.’
‘Oui, I did.’ She sent a mischievous smile, adding, ‘Don’t deny you were about to do the same.’
He shrugged and came to join at her side. ‘A father is allowed to grant favours to a beloved daughter, is he not?’
She reached out and took his hand. ‘I suppose I’ll have to come and visit you in France, after I wed.’
‘I’ll hold you to that vow.’ But in his face she could see the shadow of concern.
‘What is it you haven’t told me?’ Marguerite asked him. ‘You’re hiding something.’
He let out a sigh and guided her back toward the castle to join the others. ‘Nothing of any import, I suppose. The Earl of Penrith is a good friend of the king’s. I am certain he will grant every wish you could have.’ But his smile lacked sincerity, setting her mood on edge.
She followed her father back to join the hunting party awaiting them, her mind distracted. What wasn’t he telling her? As they rode out into the forest in search of game, she fought the anxiety that edged her spirits.
The woods blurred in a golden haze of sunlight filtering through the trees. Though she continued with the others, her mind was distracted and not at all interested in the hunt.
‘A boar!’ one of the men shouted, pointing toward the forest. The riders quickened their pace and Marguerite held back, letting her father take the lead. Although she didn’t doubt that the hunters would prevail, she wasn’t about to get in the way of a boar. The aggressive beasts had vicious tusks and more than a few men had been gored by them.
Along with her father, a dozen men and women rode past, while Marguerite remained on the outskirts. The others were so intent, no one seemed to notice her absence.
Then she heard a scuffling sound. Marguerite turned her horse around, only to see a second boar racing towards her.
Mon Dieu. She urged the horse faster, trying to get away from the animal. No one else noticed and she turned her mare deeper into the woods, trying to escape. Her horse reared up and she struggled to hold her seat.
Arrows sliced through the air, embedding within the boar. Marguerite stared at them, her heart racing when she saw the black feathers. Then, suddenly, someone dropped from the tree behind her, landing on her horse. The man’s arms came around her, and he forced the horse into a gallop, leading her away from the others. The instinct to scream died down in her throat, for she knew, without a doubt, the identity of the hooded silent man.
When the woods grew so thick her horse could no longer make it through, he dismounted and lifted her down. Beneath the shadowed hood, she saw the dark eyes of the man she’d dreamed of over the past few months.
‘Callum,’ she whispered, unable to believe it was he.
He said nothing, but took her hand, guiding her through the woods for what seemed like a mile. Marguerite didn’t care that the others might miss her presence. She could think of nothing but the man who was with her now.
When at last he stopped, she spied the remains of a camp site and the ashes of a fire. Before Callum could stoop to rekindle it, Marguerite threw her arms around him. He gripped her hard, his face buried in her hair. She melted against the planes of his body, unable to believe he was here at last.
‘It’s been so long,’ she breathed. ‘Are you well? How is your family?’
His eyes stared into hers, but gave no reply. She understood, then, that his speech had not returned.
But he had his own way of speaking, in a manner that captivated her.
Callum removed her veil, sliding his hands into her hair. She caught her breath as he moved his palms down to her shoulders, resting them upon her hips. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver of longing through her.
‘Why have you come?’ she whispered.
He didn’t have to answer for her to know. Despite the months that had been lost between them, it was as if nothing had changed. She touched his smooth cheek, marvelling at the difference in him. No longer did he have the starving look about him; his face had filled out. There was no doubting the strength in his arms or the quiet assurance he exuded. He’d kept his hair long and the dark strands grew past his shoulders, like the wild Scot that he was.
The stirrings of interest caught at her, forbidden thoughts of the time they’d spent together months ago. She remembered his mouth upon hers and the shocking desires he’d evoked.
Feeling suddenly shy, she stepped back and he took a moment to rebuild the fire. Though she couldn’t stay with him for too long, she would steal whatever moments she could.
When the fire burned brighter, she sat down on a fallen log and told him of the months they’d travelled from northern Scotland down to the Southwest.
‘My father has arranged a new marriage,’ she admitted. ‘I’m to wed the Earl of Penrith.’
She needed him to know it, to be fully honest with him about the way her
life had shifted in the past few months. At her confession, Callum’s expression tensed. He picked up a dry piece of wood and tossed it on the fire. Marguerite didn’t know what else to say, but she offered, ‘I’m glad you came. I—I thought of you often.’
His silence only intensified the awkwardness between them. Without a voice, he could tell her nothing of the past or what he was thinking now.
She tried to think of something else, but could only ask, ‘Has your back healed?’
Callum sent her a curious look, but set down his quiver beside the bow and removed his tunic.
When he turned his back, she saw that the scars still held a red tint, but they had fully healed. She reached out to touch the skin and he flinched.
‘Did I hurt you?’
He shook his head, lifting her hand to touch him again. The warm skin was rough from the scarred gouges, but the lines of suffering had only strengthened him. When she traced his flesh with her fingertips, he leaned into the touch, as if her palms were healing him.
She moved her fingers over his shoulders, down to his ribs. A sudden deep laugh escaped him, as if he were ticklish. Shocked, Marguerite murmured, ‘I didn’t know you could make any sounds at all.’ It made her wonder if he would one day speak again. And if he did, what he would say.
Callum took her hand and brought it to his throat, his eyes watching her. The intimate touch of her fingers upon his skin made her feel awkward and she sensed that he wanted something from her.
Abruptly, his expression grew stoic and he put his tunic on again, reaching into a pouch of his belongings. He retrieved a silver chain holding a pendant of sapphire-coloured glass. Marguerite held it in her palm, captivated by the shifting colours in the blue necklace. He lifted it over her neck and the pendant settled upon her bosom.
Tempted by the Highland Warrior Page 7