Tempted by the Highland Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  Instead, this felt wrong.

  He held an arrow fitted to the bowstring, watching for any sign of prisoners being freed. When none came, he wondered what had gone awry and decided he should go in to help.

  Callum kept his arrow taut, ready to defend himself. His eyes blurred against the brightness of the torches when he first entered the fortress.

  After his eyes adjusted, he stared in disbelief at the bodies littering the ground. There were no prisoners here at all. Only English soldiers who had been murdered.

  Callum saw Iagar raise a dirk and fury rose up inside of him. He opened his mouth, a roar rising in his throat for them to stop and lay down their weapons. But it came out as nothing but a breath of air. His mind was raging, the words trapped. He couldn’t voice a single command.

  The slaughter sickened him. Aye, he’d been taken prisoner as a child by men like these, growing up in chains. But not all of the soldiers deserved to die. The fury within him transformed into revulsion.

  Iagar and the others began looting the bodies and Callum retreated into the darkness. These men were nothing but murderers and thieves.

  His hand gripped the bow in a fight to control his anger. If he could have found his way back to the castle alone, he’d have gone immediately.

  ‘MacKinloch,’ he heard Sileas call out, ‘aren’t you going to join us?’ The man stood with his back against a wooden wall, while he held a sword from one of the fallen men.

  His answer was to release one of the black-feathered arrows, embedding it in the wood behind Sileas’s head.

  Sileas raised the sword, his temper blazing. ‘What was that for, ye son of a cur?’

  But Callum fitted another arrow to his bow, aiming directly at the old man’s heart.

  Because you deserve to die for what you’ve done.

  Iagar stepped beside him. ‘Put down the bow, MacKinloch.’

  Callum spun and aimed the weapon at the man he’d believed was an ally. He’d been wrong. They’d come here to loot and to kill, not to save men’s lives.

  Backing away slowly, he let them know that he wanted nothing to do with them. Especially because, as Sileas had predicted, he could tell no one what had happened here.

  * * *

  The following day, Marguerite found Callum swimming in the loch, north of the forest. The sky held streaks of rose and lavender and she sat upon a large stone, watching him. His body tore through the water in long strokes, at a punishing pace. His shoulders flexed and she waited for him to finish, hoping to share the gift she’d brought. Around her neck, she wore the pendant he’d given her. She touched the cool glass, feeling suddenly nervous around him.

  The last time she’d been with Callum, he’d asked her to leave everything behind to be together. She wanted to, but despite her attempts to speak with the Earl of Penrith in private again, her father wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps he’d sensed what she was trying to do. Before she could voice a protest, the betrothal agreement had been finalised, signed and witnessed.

  You’re weak-willed and cowardly, she berated herself. You don’t deserve your freedom, if you aren’t able to speak for yourself.

  Worry rooted inside her that she couldn’t break free at all. Yes, she could have refused to sign the document. But the Duc would demand to know why and somehow the truth would come out. He would seek retribution against the MacKinlochs if she admitted she’d become Callum’s lover. It was a dangerous game she’d begun, one she feared was impossible to win.

  When at last Callum ceased his swimming, he stood up in the water. His dark eyes caught hers and she saw the trouble brewing within him. He looked angry, like a man returning from battle.

  Emerging from the water, he didn’t seem to care as he walked to her unclothed, the water rolling down his skin in droplets. His black hair hung past his shoulders, wet and pushed back from his face.

  Like a sleek predator, he watched her. Silently reminding her of the way he’d run his hands over her skin, awakening feelings she didn’t understand. Seeing him in the morning light, she wanted to touch where the sun gleamed over his muscles, illuminating flesh.

  ‘I—I brought you something,’ she murmured, averting her gaze from his body. But as she bent to retrieve the pouch, his powerful legs were so close she could reach out and touch him.

  Her lungs constricted with nervousness. When she stood up, his manhood had grown thick and heavy, aroused by the sight of her. Marguerite shivered, remembering the heat of his body moving over hers.

  Keeping her eyes averted, she held out the pouch. ‘It’s a quill and a bit of parchment. I thought you might like to try writing upon it.’

  ‘Marguerite,’ he said. In his voice, she heard the unspoken questions. He took the pouch and tossed it back on the hillside, dragging her close. His arms closed around her, gripping her in a tight embrace. Against her hips, she felt the hard length of his arousal and the answering rush of desire within herself.

  His mouth moved to her lips, taking her in a kiss that insisted she belonged in his arms. He was ruthless, demanding a response that pushed away all of her fears, reminding her of why she needed him. Why she had to sever the betrothal and face her father’s wrath.

  When his hands moved to the laces upon her gown, he stared at her in an unspoken question.

  ‘I can’t,’ she whispered. Not now. She didn’t deserve affection or pleasure, when she’d failed to fight the betrothal. The lies she’d told her father and the earl were encircling her, strangling her hold upon honour.

  Callum took her face between his hands, staring into her eyes. She saw the dark possession and a hidden frustration within them. He touched his forehead to hers. In his eyes, she saw the future she wanted, the man she desired.

  ‘I will find a way to free myself,’ she vowed. ‘And when I have, I will come back with you. I swear it.’

  Her hands moved to thread through his dark hair, stroking the back of his head. She touched him, crossing her arms around his neck, letting her hands slide down his naked back.

  His lips pressed a light kiss against her jawbone. It sent a shiver through her, reminding her of the time when he’d kissed her in other secret places.

  As he got dressed, Marguerite couldn’t escape the thought that something else was bothering him, but he had no words to tell her. There was tension in the way he held himself and a sense of trouble.

  She retrieved the pouch and offered it to him. ‘Do you want me to teach you more words?’ Inside the pouch, she showed him her gift of parchment and a quill, as well as a container of ink.

  He eyed them, but did not accept the pouch. Darkness shadowed his mood and she couldn’t guess whether or not she was the cause of it.

  ‘Would you rather I hadn’t come?’ she asked. ‘If you’ve no wish to learn more writing, I won’t force it upon you.’ She set them down on the ground, wondering if she’d misunderstood him.

  He was fighting against himself, struggling for the words. His mouth moved, but no other sounds came out. The frustration built up higher until he seized a stone and threw it hard into the water, where it splashed and sank.

  ‘Callum, tell me what it is.’

  It was the wrong choice of words. He spun on her, his rage filling him up. She realised that he’d been trying to speak. In his stance, she felt him tremble with anger and frustration.

  It hurt to see him like this and she tried to console him in an embrace. ‘It’s all right.’ As soon as she touched him, she re
alised that pity was a mistake. He didn’t want her sympathy. She raised up on her tiptoes and brought her mouth to his, hoping the kiss would ease him.

  Callum kissed her back, the dark heat of his mouth seeking absolution. When his tongue threaded with hers, she clung hard, tasting his anger, meeting it with her own guilt. There was a wildness to him, like a man trying to consume her. She shuddered beneath the onslaught and heat, offering herself in solace.

  His hands moved to the ties of her gown and she knew if she remained silent, he would take her again. He would lay her back upon the grass, filling her up and giving her unspeakable pleasure.

  Callum bared the nape of her neck and shoulder, causing shivers with the warmth of his mouth. His hands came up to touch her breasts and her nipples hardened against the silk. She struggled to maintain her composure, but the sweet torment made her hesitate. More than anything, she wanted to be with him again.

  You don’t deserve it. Not until you’ve broken free of the earl.

  Though it hurt to push him away, Marguerite reached back and caught his hands, drawing them down to his side. ‘Last night, I signed the betrothal agreement.’

  The look of betrayal on Callum’s face made her feel like she’d turned away from him. ‘I’m going to talk with both of them today,’ she said. ‘I promise you.’

  But within his brown eyes, she saw the doubt. He didn’t believe her.

  * * *

  There were no words Callum could say. He’d believed that she would refuse the betrothal and free herself. But it didn’t seem that she had the will within her to stand up to them.

  He saw her step back, watching him. Though he tried to keep his face expressionless, she saw through the surface to the frustration beneath.

  ‘I blame myself for being too afraid.’ Her voice was anguished and she turned away from him. ‘But if I make a false move and reveal my feelings, my father will hunt you down and kill you. I can’t risk that.’

  Though he wanted to move forward and touch her shoulders, he forced himself to remain in place. Each day here was another moment in purgatory. Heaven lay just within his reach…but until she broke the ties, he could do nothing.

  ‘You’re angry with me, I know.’ Still she didn’t turn around to face him, keeping her gaze downcast.

  ‘Not…’ with you.

  He stared at her hollowed shoulders, the broken posture.

  ‘I wish I could have done something to stop the betrothal from happening,’ she admitted. ‘But I was powerless.’

  Aye, he understood that feeling. Her words conjured up the harsh memories of last night and the dead soldiers. Innocent men had been slain and he’d done nothing to stop it from happening. He’d ignored the premonitions he should have heeded. Instead he had believed Iagar’s false words.

  It had resulted in murder. The bleakness crept over him once again, strangling him with the wish that he could go back and change it.

  ‘You must know that I don’t truly want this marriage to Penrith,’ Marguerite said, risking a glance back at him. ‘But no one hears what I’m trying to say.’

  He knew exactly what that felt like. From deep inside, he summoned the words, tearing them free.

  ‘Fight, Marguerite.’

  Fight for us. If you can’t tell the Duc what you want, then there’s no hope.

  But the rest was too difficult, too far beyond him. He took a breath and tried again.

  ‘You…’

  She waited to hear him speak, her blue eyes filled with regret. In his mind, a thousand words sprang forth, words he wanted to say. Words she needed to hear.

  You are the only woman I’ve ever wanted. You kept me alive when I wanted to die. Without you, I was less than a man. But neither of us can continue this way.

  He could see that she felt as trapped as he did.

  ‘I what?’ she asked, hoping for more.

  But his mouth moved without sound, his throat refusing to relinquish the words. He tried again and the inability to communicate made him fight even harder.

  In the end, he stared hard at her, unable to voice more than a single word. ‘Choose.’

  * * *

  ‘Monsieur le Duc, the messenger you sent to the English garrison returned a moment ago. He claims there was an attack last night. No survivors are left.’

  ‘They’re going to blame us for the massacre,’ the Duc said, pacing across the floor. He sent a dark look toward Xavier, the captain of his guards. ‘We’re the closest to the outpost.’

  ‘My men were all accounted for last night,’ Xavier answered. ‘Whoever did this was not one of ours.’

  Guy’s face turned grim and he ordered, ‘Assemble a group of soldiers, and find out who it was. It falls to us to mete out justice. Or else the English King Edward will see to it.’

  The Duc sat, reaching for a cup of wine. His hand curled around the silver, while inwardly he tensed. Though he held estates in Scotland, passed down from his Norman ancestors, his position here was untenable. He’d hoped to secure a strong marriage for Marguerite with the Earl of Cairnross. But his daughter had run off to live with a Scottish clan, for reasons he couldn’t fathom.

  Oui, Cairnross had proved to have a cruel streak. But most powerful men did what was necessary to maintain order.

  From across the room, he saw Marguerite standing at the doorway, her face pale. She’d overheard his words, no doubt.

  ‘What will you do?’ she asked, moving closer. Xavier, the Captain of the Guard, exchanged a look with him, as if to ask permission. Guy inclined his head.

  ‘We will find the murderers and execute them for their crimes,’ Xavier admitted.

  Her lips tightened into a line and she pointed at his hand. ‘What is that you’re holding?’

  The Duc hadn’t noticed the arrow until now. He sent his captain a questioning look and Xavier held up the shaft. ‘We found this embedded in the wall.’

  ‘Black feathers,’ the Duc noted. ‘Interesting.’ Few men used arrows with distinctive feathered tips. He tried to think of whether any of his archers used arrows like those, but he couldn’t quite imagine it.

  Marguerite’s face whitened. She murmured excuses to leave, and her behaviour struck him as unusual.

  His eyes narrowed upon the doorway and he turned to Xavier. ‘She knows something. Follow her.’

  * * *

  ‘What have you done?’ Marguerite demanded. It was nightfall before she’d been able to slip away from the castle. Over and over, she’d worried about the arrow, terrified of what it meant. Her throat ached with unshed tears, and her hands clenched as she tried to keep her hysteria under control.

  Callum studied her, his eyes questioning. She went on, ‘Nearly a dozen men were murdered last night at the English garrison. They found one of your arrows there.’

  His expression didn’t move a single muscle. Like a wall of granite, he revealed nothing at all.

  Shaken by it, she whispered, ‘Were you there that night?’

  He inclined his head in a nod and her heart plummeted. She stared at him in disbelief. ‘And did you kill those men?’

  He shook his head. Though she wanted to believe him, her pulse clamoured within her chest. ‘Why would you go with them? There was no reason for it.’ Knowing he couldn’t answer, she unleashed her anger. ‘Don’t you know that they’ll find out? My father plans to execute any man who was there last night.’

  Her tears broke free, in spite o
f her resolve not to cry. ‘Do you think I want to see you hanged, your head cut off like a traitor?’

  Callum caught her hands and his mouth tightened with his own anger. She tore her hands free, the tears running freely down her face. The fury and fear gripped so hard within her, she was shaking.

  ‘What happened that night?’ she murmured.

  Callum crouched on one knee, brushing the pine needles away to reveal the dirt beneath. After thinking for a moment, he wrote: Prisuners.

  Marguerite shook her head, not understanding. ‘But there weren’t any prisoners there. It was just a small outpost.’ Taking the twig from him, she adjusted the word he’d misspelled.

  He shrugged and wrote again: Not my kil.

  ‘Then why did they find one of your arrows there?’

  I was angry.

  ‘Who was responsible for it? Were my father’s men involved?’ She stared at the dirt, waiting for his answers.

  Scots.

  A hundred more questions crowded inside her, but she stopped asking. There was no point to it.

  She wanted to rest her cheek against his chest, holding fast to the man who held her heart. But if she dared to defy her father now, the Duc might accuse Callum of leading the attack upon the garrison. And he would die for it.

  He came to stand before her. Although she couldn’t look him in the eye, she felt the quiet intensity of his presence. She continued to let out the tears, wishing he could somehow talk to her.

  But there were no words at all. Only the quiet stare of a man whose silence would be viewed as guilt.

  ‘You can’t defend yourself,’ she whispered, finally meeting his gaze. ‘They’ll take you prisoner and I can’t do anything to stop them. Not if you can’t speak.’

  And though he had spoken on a few occasions, it seemed he had little control over the words. Whatever had caused him to lose his voice was still holding him captive.