Tempted by the Highland Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘He will be gone for the next fortnight,’ she continued, turning her back to him. ‘To bring back the man who will be my husband.’

  Her confession fired up Callum’s jealousy, darkening his mood. He’d come here to fight for her, to show her another fate if she wanted it. He wasn’t about to stand aside and let her wed someone else. Not if he could convince her otherwise.

  She drew her hair over one shoulder, baring her throat to him. ‘Will you help me take this gown off?’

  His answer was to rest his hands upon her skin, letting her feel the warmth of him. Slowly he unlaced the saffron surcoat and helped her lift it away. The gown beneath it was tightly fitted to her arms. He rested his hands upon her shoulders, awaiting permission. Goose flesh rose upon her nape and she murmured, ‘May I borrow your blade?’

  Confused, he stepped back and handed it to her. Marguerite took the knife and used it to tear out the stitches that held her sleeves in place. ‘I didn’t bring scissors, as I sometimes do. But now we can remove it.’

  When he hesitated, she raised her arms. ‘Go on,’ she whispered. ‘But leave my chemise.’

  He knelt at her feet, gathering the hem of the gown. As he raised it high, his hands grazed her waist and over the curve of her breasts. The linen chemise was soft, barely covering her flesh, and he gritted his teeth against the urges rising within him. When she was free of the garment, he couldn’t stop the urge to touch her. While his hands encircled her waist, resting below her breasts, he brought his mouth to the silver chain resting upon her nape. His lips edged the chain, and he drew it out with his fingers, moving the pendant beneath the chemise to nestle against her bare breasts.

  A sigh escaped Marguerite and it was all he could do not to drag her to him, stripping away the last barrier between them. His mind tormented him with visions of claiming her, using his mouth and tongue to awaken her passion.

  She turned to face him, her body shielded by the linen. With her palms upon his chest, his heartbeat quickened. ‘Teach me to swim, Callum.’

  * * *

  She was playing a dangerous game. Marguerite saw the emotions race across Callum’s face and worried that she’d gone too far. Perhaps he’d brought her here to enjoy time together in a beautiful place and she had dared to reveal more of herself by shedding the outer gowns. Her bare arms attracted his notice, although her chemise covered her body.

  He took her hand and led her into the water. It was cold, but not unbearably so. With every step, the water grew deeper. Past her calves, to her thighs, and finally her waist. Her chemise moved within the water and though Callum continued to walk at her side, she could feel the strain in his demeanour.

  He looked like a man who was fighting against himself but the darkness in his eyes tempted her instead of making her fear him. Already he’d given her a glimpse of the physical heat that was hers for the taking. His kiss had been savage, unrelenting. And he tempted her in a way that no man ever had.

  Her hands grew wet, but he didn’t let go. And once the water covered her breasts, she gasped at the sudden drop in temperature.

  ‘This is far enough.’ She crossed her arms over her chest, for her breasts puckered within her chemise. Against the thin linen, she worried he might see too much.

  You could have refused to swim, she reminded herself. This was your doing.

  Callum drew her to face him and she saw the water lapping his muscled chest. The fierce desire to touch this man, to be consumed by him, was rising within her. No longer did it seem that they were worlds apart. There was only this moment between them and the unnamed feelings.

  He reached down and picked her up, cradling her in his arms. His hands rested against the back of her knees and a violent shiver came over her. When he laid her back in the water, she was barely aware of him straightening her limbs. His dark eyes held her captive as his hands rested beneath her spine.

  She was floating on the water, not understanding how. Her chemise was soaked and clung to her body. No doubt he could see the darker nipples beneath the linen and he made no effort to hide his gaze. His eyes passed over her, like a man who couldn’t stop himself. He adjusted his grip to hold her with one arm, while the other traced the curve of her cheek, moving down her throat. The contrast between the heat of his hands and the freezing water held her locked in place.

  Every part of her wanted him to go further, to move his hands over her aching breasts, to touch her where no man ever had.

  The ripples of water held her suspended and she fought the urge to hold on to Callum’s arms. Slowly, he moved to stand behind her, until he dropped his hands away. She was floating with nothing to hold her above the water. Panic filled her and she tried to sit up, flailing in the water until he caught her, guiding her torso back to the surface. Once again, he straightened her body, adjusting her position until her hands were outstretched, her legs straight.

  He held the back of her head, standing behind her once more. His arms rested beneath her shoulders and she was intensely aware of his moulded strength. He was an archer, a man who could command the bow and send an arrow flying with one pull on the taut string. Those same strong arms held her gently but with the quiet reassurance of a powerful stature.

  Marguerite lifted her eyes to his. From her position, he appeared upside down. His steady gaze reminded her that he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her. I’ll keep you safe, his eyes seemed to say.

  She watched him, wanting more than his hands upon the back of her head. ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered.

  * * *

  Instead of bringing her back up to stand before him, Callum bent down to her lips. From the upside-down position, her mouth tantalised him, her cool lips surrendering. Whether she knew it or not, her plea fired the desires he’d tried to hold back. At the sight of her slender body, revealed to him through the thin white linen, it was a good thing he was standing in cold water. The curve and dusky tint of her breasts aroused him like hot oil upon fire.

  He kissed her gently, then slid his tongue across the opening of her mouth.

  Marguerite couldn’t stop her intake of breath, and when her mouth parted, he invaded her with his tongue. The sensation turned her soft in his arms, her hands reaching for him. He held her in the water, and the kiss became the prelude of every way he wanted to know her.

  Her tongue slid against his in a caress, and he took her deeper, letting the kiss turn hotter. He burned for her, body and soul. The water lapped against her skin the way he wanted to touch every inch of her. She reached up to his neck, holding on for balance while her eyes closed.

  I want to be on top of you, your skin beneath mine.

  His hands came under her knees, catching her before she could slide under. Against her breasts, the wet fabric of her chemise clung to her nipples, making them tight and hard. He imagined moving his mouth down to taste her, swirling his tongue on her until she moaned with need.

  She held on to him, turning in the water with her arms around his neck. The water was too deep for her to stand, so she moved her body against his, her cool skin pressing upon him. Instinct made him want to lift her hips, wrapping her slender legs around his waist until he could penetrate her in one stroke.

  She was watching him with sudden awareness, her mouth softening as she studied him. ‘Callum?’ she whispered. It was both a question and a plea.

  He couldn’t. Not now, not when she didn’t know what she asked of him.

  Instead, he stro
de back into shallow water, bringing her back until she stood waist-high in the depths. He broke from the kiss and dove away from her, his body slicing through the water in smooth strokes.

  The physical exertion was what he needed right now, the driving need to punish himself. She was innocent and didn’t understand what he wanted from her.

  His arms broke through the water, swimming hard as if to run away from the man he was.

  You’re unworthy, the voice taunted. She’s far too good for you.

  He swam endless laps, the water so cold it numbed him from inside. When at last he returned to her, Marguerite stood upon the shore, shivering. On her face, he saw worry.

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’ she called out.

  He strode through the water, heedless of the droplets rolling down him. No, this was his fault. His feet sank into the sand as he walked closer.

  She didn’t understand the effect she had upon him, but he wanted to reassure her that he’d regained his grip on sanity. When he stood before her, he reached out to a wet lock of her hair and smoothed it over one ear. He let his eyes speak for him, while his palm rested against her cheek.

  It’s not your fault. Never yours.

  She watched him, her blue eyes worried, but her hand reached up to cover his. ‘I know it’s cold,’ she murmured, ‘but will you take me back into the water? Just for a little while?’

  Callum eyed her and acquiesced, though he was freezing. He strode into the loch and led her with him. When Marguerite reached the deeper water, he moved her to her stomach. His arms balanced beneath her breasts and legs, lifting her to the top of the water.

  ‘Don’t let me fall,’ she warned.

  He shook his head and she tilted her head to look at him. The feeling of her slender body in his arms was a gift and he tightened his hold to reassure her.

  Never.

  Callum adjusted the position of her body, holding her with one arm while he showed her how to move her arms. Marguerite tried to swim as he had, but didn’t know how to kick her legs.

  He reached out to her thighs, opening them slightly as he guided one leg up and down in a fluttering motion. Her skin was cool and firm in his hands. But when he reached to guide her other leg, her face went down into the water. Instantly, he lifted her up and she coughed, holding him tight as she stood up.

  ‘I—I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I should have been moving my arms, but when my face went under, I was too frightened.’

  He smoothed back the hair that had escaped from her braid, his hands upon her cheeks. Don’t be afraid.

  Her answer was to cling to him, resting her cheek against his chest. He embraced her and the ache inside him spread deeper.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening between us,’ she whispered. ‘And I know I shouldn’t come to you when I’m betrothed to someone else. But I had to.’

  In her voice, he heard the traces of guilt, as if she knew she was betraying her family. He rested his forehead against hers, while both of them shivered.

  Nothing mattered any more. Not his clan, far away to the Northeast. Not the stranger she was supposed to marry. Only this moment.

  ‘Could you build a fire?’ she asked. He nodded and led her out of the water to sit upon the large boulder. He gathered wood to make a fire, steeling himself against the bitter wind. Marguerite was shivering hard, but he built up the tinder and struck flint until he had a small blaze going. Once he beckoned to her, she huddled as close to it as she dared.

  ‘Swimming was harder than I thought it would be,’ she admitted, resting her chin upon her knees. ‘But thank you for trying to teach me.’

  For a time, she simply sat with him and it didn’t matter that neither of them spoke. The quiet time together felt right. When she sent him a glance, she flushed, as if remembering the kiss they’d shared. She took her hair over one shoulder, wringing out the water, fingercombing it to dry.

  The motion caught his attention and the longing to keep her with him, to see her in intimate moments like these, was all-encompassing.

  His hands dug into the damp sand when she knelt, peeling the wet chemise away from her skin while trying to dry it.

  He picked up a fallen stick, intending to toss it into the fire, but he traced it through the dirt, still watching over her. Marguerite frowned, then she studied him with interest.

  ‘Do you know how to write?’

  The idea hadn’t occurred to him. He shook his head, but then, a sudden flash of inspiration gripped him. Though he couldn’t read or write, she could.

  And if she could teach him, it would give him a way to talk to her. The idea exploded within his mind with the fierce desire to make his thoughts known, to break free of his silent prison.

  Callum held out the stick to her, waiting in the hopes that he was right.

  His hand closed over hers and he guided the stick back down to the dirt. Marguerite knelt and he pointed to her, then to the ground.

  Teach me what you know.

  She began to write curved markings, eyeing him with uncertainty. ‘It’s my name,’ she said. ‘Marguerite.’

  Callum caught her hand and took the stick from her. Then he pressed her hand upon his and struggled to trace over the letters she’d printed. He couldn’t quite duplicate the lines, but it was close.

  ‘You want me to teach you how?’ she murmured.

  Yes. She couldn’t know how hungry he was for words, for a way to express the thoughts inside him. If she could teach him anything at all, it would be a gift beyond price.

  ‘Few men can read,’ she warned him. ‘And it takes many years to learn to write. It’s not just the letters.’

  He shook his head and forced her hand atop his. I need to learn. He struggled to write her name again, though one of the curving letters that dropped lower eluded him.

  ‘In which language?’

  An unexpected laugh broke forth from him. Though he supposed she was serious, he hardly cared at all. Any language was better than the endless silence. Callum pointed to her and then to himself.

  ‘Both?’

  He nodded and took the stick back. She adjusted his fingers to help him with the grip. ‘I can try. But it takes time. More time than we have.’

  He didn’t care how long it took. He would practise until his fingers bled, if he had to.

  But there was a shadow in her mood. ‘They watch me, Callum. I may not always be allowed to come and see you.’

  He drew her up to stand before him, cupping her face in his hands. She covered his fingers with her own, but didn’t pull back. Instead, she closed her eyes and he rested his forehead upon hers.

  ‘I’ll do what I can to help you,’ she promised.

  * * *

  ‘Where were you?’ Lady Beatrice demanded, when Marguerite returned to the castle. There was no answer she could give. Her hair was still wet, and she knew her gown was bedraggled and damp. Instead, she offered no explanation, walking through the Hall and up the winding stairs to her chamber.

  Inside her room, she found pieces of silk cut out and laid upon her bed. Seeing the physical reminder of her impending wedding made her stomach twist. She didn’t want to be given to a man like an offering. She didn’t want to lie meekly upon her wedding bed, letting a stranger take her virginity.

  ‘You left the castle,’ Beatrice accused, closing the door behind her. ‘Against your father’s orders.’

  Marguerite took a comb and struggled to free the tangles from her
hair, allowing her aunt grumble as much as she liked.

  ‘You seem to believe that you can do as you please,’ the matron remarked, lowering the bar across the door. ‘But you are greatly mistaken. While your father is away, he left me in command of this castle.’ Her eyes glittered with fury. ‘You have no right to defy me, Marguerite.’ A tight smile edged her aunt’s face. ‘And there will be a punishment for your behaviour.’

  The comb caught in a snarl of her hair, and Marguerite said quietly, ‘You cannot have me beaten. My father would never permit it.’

  ‘No,’ Beatrice acknowledged, ‘but there are other ways to gain your submission. The Duc has been entirely too yielding when it comes to discipline. You left the safety of Cairnross to go and live with the Scots.’ Disgust filled the woman’s face, as if Marguerite had dwelled amongst rats. ‘He should have punished you for that. But his heart was always too soft. You will not find the same leniency with me.’

  Marguerite rested her hands in her lap, meeting her aunt’s fury with a passive look. She’d never witnessed such a temper from her mother’s sister, and half-wondered if there was another reason for it.

  ‘Your door will be guarded,’ Beatrice informed her. ‘You will spend the rest of this day and all day tomorrow sewing. If you try to leave, your guards will receive fifty lashes.’

  ‘Why would you threaten innocent men for my actions?’ She couldn’t possibly understand why Beatrice would do such a thing.

  ‘Nothing at all will happen, so long as you remain in your chamber.’

  Marguerite stared at the matron and a chill faltered within her skin. She didn’t care about her own punishment, but she couldn’t let another man suffer on her behalf. It was clear that her aunt had guessed as much.