Through a haze of tears, she sat, wondering if she could plead with Cairnross for their lives. Was it possible that he might spare them, on her behalf?
No. She’d fled with the MacKinlochs, betraying their betrothal. Though the earl might still want her for his wife, she didn’t trust him to free the others. Especially Callum.
She stood, resting her hand against a tree, her heart sick with terror. Because of her, Cairnross had come. If she’d remained behind, none of these men would have died.
Marguerite took a step towards Callum, but before she could emerge from the trees, she saw Bram explode in fury. His claymore flashed as he brought down man after man and Alex stood at his back to defend him.
They fought for their lives and in the midst of the battle, Callum seized a quiver of arrows from a dead archer. As he released the arrows, one after the other, he moved into the forest, moving straight towards her.
Marguerite didn’t move, not understanding why he was leaving his brothers behind. When he reached her side, he pulled her veil free and dropped it, pulling her to higher ground. She suddenly realised that the white colour had made her visible from below. And she was still in range of their arrows, where she’d been standing.
‘You can’t leave them behind,’ she pleaded, looking back at Bram, Alex and Nairna. ‘They need you.’
Callum’s face hardened and he climbed atop a large boulder, drawing back his bow. He released another stream of arrows toward the enemy, bringing down one man after another.
Shame reddened her cheeks when Marguerite realised she’d accused him of cowardice. That wasn’t it at all. He’d been moving into a position where he could better defend them.
‘I misunderstood,’ she apologised. ‘I’m sorry for what I said.’ By leaving his brothers and hiding within the trees, he’d gained a more strategic position, fighting where the enemy couldn’t see him.
Callum pointed to the top of the ridge, in a wordless order for her to join the other women. She understood, but hesitated, not wanting to leave him behind. ‘Thank you for protecting me,’ she whispered.
He lowered his bow for a moment. His brown eyes held a steady reassurance, as if he would never allow anyone to harm her. The look on his face was of a man prepared to die.
Marguerite reached down to the fallen veil and brought it to him, binding it slowly around his left forearm. ‘Take this,’ she said. ‘It will protect your arm from the bowstring.’
It was all she could give him. Callum remained motionless while she tied it off, then he covered her hand with his. The warmth of his palm reassured her, and he squeezed her hand in silent farewell. She didn’t know what would happen to either of them now, but she squeezed it back.
The rumble of horsemen approaching caught Marguerite’s attention. She saw two armies of men and, at the sight of the tall man leading the group, her heart soared. The Duc D’Avignois had come at last.
She started to move downhill, but Callum caught her by the arm. ‘It’s my father,’ she explained. ‘I have to see him.’ If she could reach the Duc in time, she might convince him to save the MacKinlochs.
She started to pull free, when something made her stop and turn around. Callum held his bow over one shoulder, his gaze shielded. He gave her a signal to leave, that he wouldn’t stop her. But she realised the truth of what was happening.
The moment she reached her father’s side, everything would return to the way it had been. She would be safe with her family, and likely she wouldn’t see Callum again.
Regret pulled at her, even though she’d known the moments between them were never going to last. They would fade into bittersweet memories.
‘I’ll never forget you,’ she whispered, touching his cheek in farewell.
* * *
Callum drew his bow as soon as Marguerite left the trees, intending to shoot any man who came near her. Two of her father’s guards escorted her to safety and she spoke to them, gesturing toward the MacKinlochs as if to intervene.
He kept low, crouching with his bow as he watched the men. Harkirk was still alive, but the body of Cairnross lay upon the ground, slaughtered by his brother Bram.
He should have been relieved that Marguerite would never marry the earl. Instead, angry resentment filled him up, that Bram had wrought justice instead of himself. He’d wanted to be the one to set her free.
More, he wanted to take the earl’s place as Marguerite’s husband. He touched the veil she’d bound around his arm as a makeshift guard and the softness reminded him of her.
I’ll never forget you.
He didn’t believe that. As soon as she returned to France, her father would arrange another marriage to a nobleman. She would wed the man, bear him children and forge a different life for herself. One that didn’t include him.
Callum watched as they brought a horse for her. He saw his brothers negotiating a truce while Harkirk’s men withdrew and Nairna spoke to the Duc. And just as he’d expected, Lady Marguerite rode away with her father. The evening sunset glinted upon her hair like a fading band of gold.
And he knew he would never see her again.
Chapter Four
Summer—1306
The blue ribbon was so faded it had turned to grey, the edges frayed with time.
‘You’re hurting by being apart from Marguerite, aren’t you?’ his brother’s wife Laren had said to him, only months ago. ‘Surely, she would find it romantic if you were to steal her away, taking her back with you.’
Romantic? Callum didn’t know where she’d come up with that idea, but he had nothing to offer a duke’s daughter. The Duc would murder him where he stood. To prove his point, he nodded to Laren and drew a line across his throat.
‘Aye, her father might kill you.’ She smiled and ventured, ‘But you’d die a happy man.’
Without warning, a laugh broke forth from him. The unexpected sound shocked him and he touched his throat in disbelief.
‘You’ll speak again,’ Laren predicted. ‘And I think you’ll have a stronger reason to, if you find her.’
* * *
The past few months had been frustrating, for he’d not regained his speech, regardless of the time he’d had to heal and train. He’d done everything he could, but the harder he tried, the more the words remained trapped within him. Worse, the other clan members avoided him, treating him as if he were somehow malformed.
And so he was. Aye, he’d been tortured and brought to the brink of death time and again, but by now the nightmares should have stopped. Instead, they’d grown worse, until he could hardly bring himself to close his eyes at night.
His mind was splintering apart and the more he fought the memories, the greater his anger festered inside. He hated his life and the way he lacked purpose. Captivity had ruled his days for so long, he didn’t know what to do with his freedom or how he would ever adapt to a life with no way to speak.
With every day that passed, he isolated himself more from his family, for he couldn’t communicate with them. The anger seethed inside him, the frustration dominating every second of the day.
Nairna took it upon herself to confront him. Cool-headed and firm, she’d taken him aside. ‘Vengeance hasn’t given you peace, has it?’
He stared back at her and she reached for an arrow from his quiver. ‘You’ve fought at our side over the past few months. You helped save Laren’s daughter when she was taken. But I see the anger in you. It’s growing stronger every day.’
Pity filled up her green eyes and she softened her voice. ‘You miss Marguerite, don’t you?’
The words were like a spear thrust into his heart. Marguerite was the one person who had never treated him as if he were weak-minded or less than whole. In her eyes, he had been the warrior he wanted to be.
But she’d returned to the life she had known before him. The life she deserved.
‘Marguerite worried about you all the time you were held captive,’ Nairna continued, never ceasing her assault. ‘If you’re too blind
to see the way she felt about you, and you won’t fight to win her heart, then you deserve to lose her.’
She handed him the arrow and ordered, ‘Either go after her or stop sulking.’ A smile warmed her expression, a blend of sisterly love and her own frustration.
She was right. He’d stood back and let Marguerite go, without raising a single protest. It was the mark of a coward, and God knew he wasn’t that.
But how would he ever convince a duke’s daughter to come away with him? It was like trying to bring down the moon.
Laren’s earlier suggestion, that he steal her away, resonated as a definite possibility. But would Marguerite want to leave her family and the vast wealth she had known all her life? He couldn’t imagine it.
Yet, Nairna’s suggestion gave him a purpose. He could stop pacing around Glen Arrin, feeling caged by his lack of speech. No matter how impossible a task, the thought of seeing Marguerite again eased the anger within him.
And so he’d begun the quest.
* * *
Callum shielded his eyes from the sunlight, staring down at the forest below. It stretched for miles, curling around Duncraig Castle, which lay tucked within the hills.
He’d never travelled to this part of Scotland before, but he’d heard from other clansmen that these lands belonged to the Duc D’Avignois, inherited from Norman ancestors. Tall square towers stood atop the hill, the imposing battlements ridged with machicolations.
At the sight of the duke’s holdings, a cold emptiness cast its shadow over him. He didn’t belong here and the fist of doubt squeezed at his courage.
It had taken weeks of sending Dougal to ask questions of the neighbouring clans, but thankfully it wasn’t too difficult to track a French duke with over a hundred retainers.
Callum led his horse Goliath down into the woods, planning to set up his camp within the forest where no one would find him. Thus far, he had no idea how long he would stay. It depended on whether or not Marguerite was here and if she wanted to see him.
The darker part of his soul wanted to abduct her now, taking her away from her father’s wealth and claiming her as his own. As tempting as it was, he owed her the right to choose. The time they’d spent apart might have changed everything.
Callum studied the pathway, skirting the main stretch so as to avoid the castle inhabitants. The trees were thicker now, making it more difficult for the horse to get through. As the shadows lengthened and sunlight gleamed from the west, he found a small stream to water the horse and set up camp for the night.
Uneasiness gnawed upon him as he delayed going to see her. His presence might not be welcome here. It might be best to spend a day watching over her, observing the castle to ensure that she was safe and happy. Besides, even if he did approach her, he couldn’t speak or give any explanation for his presence. She wouldn’t understand, that for the past few months, she’d haunted his mind, tormenting him with memories.
* * *
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.’
MacKinloch 03 - Tempted by the Highland Warrior Page 6
