‘You are so young, Lady Marguerite,’ the earl chided. ‘These are not noblemen, as you are accustomed to,’ he explained, making her feel like a small child. ‘They are ignorant Scots who dared to rise up against the King. They should be grateful that I’ve given them the chance to atone for their sins.’
Sins? She forced herself to stare at her hands, wondering what he was talking about. Although some of the men were, no doubt, rebellious toward the English, the prisoner was only a year or so older than herself. From the look of him, he’d been imprisoned for years.
A shiver crossed over her skin, for the look in the man’s eyes had been deliberate. She didn’t doubt that he could kill his master without a trace of regret.
‘Do not punish the prisoner for my ignorance, my lord,’ she murmured. ‘I saw him bleeding and meant only to tend his wounds.’
The earl took her hand in his. ‘Lady Marguerite, Callum MacKinloch dared to touch you. And that I cannot forgive.’
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, sh
e 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.
But thus far they’d behaved honourably. Their leader hadn’t been pleased with the idea of bringing her with them, but he’d agreed to protect her, at a risk to his own people. It was the only hope she had left.
The fighting between the freed prisoners and Cairnross’s men continued in the distance, as the men led her away. Flames consumed the garrison, filling the air with smoke. ‘I’m glad to see it destroyed,’ she murmured. The earl deserved to lose his stronghold after everything he’d done.
‘How long were you there?’ Bram asked, as he climbed up behind her, urging the horse faster.
‘Just over a sennight. But the prisoners…’ She shuddered at the memory of all those who had suffered. Most had been freed this night, except those who had died fighting.
‘Did you ever see a man called Callum MacKinloch?’ Bram asked. ‘Younger than me, one of our brothers?’
She glanced back at him and realised she’d been right about the strong resemblance. It made her feel better about leaving with them, though she couldn’t say why. ‘He was sent away a few days ago,’ she admitted. ‘Oui, I saw him.’
‘Where?’
She shook her head, keeping her gaze fixed forward. ‘To the South. That’s all I know.’
‘But he was alive and unharmed?’
‘Alive, yes.’ At least, that’s what she wanted to believe. Her hands dug into the folds of her gown as she prayed it was still true. ‘Will you try to find him?’ she whispered, as they took her deeper into
the hills.
‘He’s our brother. We’ll bring him home,’ Bram vowed.
The intensity of the promise gave her hope that he would keep his word. She didn’t understand why she felt the need to ensure that Callum was safe. She’d only met him the one night. There was nothing at all between them, not even friendship. But when he’d brought her hand to his cheek, it was as if an invisible bond had drawn her to him. He’d dared to touch her, and though she couldn’t say why he’d evoked these feelings, it was as if he’d been searching for her all his life.
As if he’d been waiting for her to come.
Deep inside, she wished she could see him again—if only to convince herself that she hadn’t imagined the interest in his eyes.
Chapter Two
Callum refused to remain a prisoner. After seven years of misery, waiting on his brother to make the decisions about how and when to escape, damned if he’d wait another day. Even if he died in the effort, he’d be no man’s slave.
Each day, he defied the soldiers, fighting to escape Lord Harkirk’s fortress. The baron was no better than Cairnross, for he killed men each day as an example to others. Callum didn’t doubt that he would one day be the next victim, his head mounted upon a pike.
Strangely, his rebellion appeared to entertain the soldiers. Each time he attempted to run away, they collected wagers from one another, depending on how far he’d managed to go. And once they captured him again, they took turns punishing him. Sometimes they withheld food, or other times he felt the pain of the lash upon his shoulders.
But everything had changed when he’d stolen a bow several nights ago. They’d whipped him afterwards, taking it back until one soldier had decided to test Callum’s skills. A guard stood behind him, holding a dagger to his throat while the others set up a wooden shield as a target.
‘Do you know how to shoot, MacKinloch?’ the guard had taunted, pricking him with the blade. ‘Show us what you can do. Hit the shield and you won’t feel the lash upon your shoulders any more this night. If you miss, you’ll have another dozen strokes.’
MacKinloch 03 - Tempted by the Highland Warrior Page 2