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.
‘Furthermore, you will not eat for the next day. Your hunger will serve to remind you of your duty.’
It was too much. Marguerite stood up and confronted the woman. ‘What gives you the right to deny me food? My father will hear of this, if you dare.’
‘He may not agree with my methods but by then, it will be too late, won’t it?’ With a dark smile, her aunt departed.
Marguerite ran to the door and opened it, only to find two men armed with spears. They barred her path and she saw that one of the soldiers was an older man. He wouldn’t survive fifty lashes.
With great reluctance, she closed the door again. And wondered how she would ever get out.
Chapter Six
A day had passed and there was no sign of Marguerite. Callum had explored every inch of the forest, wond
ering if she’d remained absent by choice or by necessity. He watched over the castle gates, but as the morning went on, there no sign of her.
When the second day had passed and she didn’t come, his suspicions went on alert. If she hadn’t come, then there was a reason.
Idly, he reached down and picked up a twig from the ground, trying to hold it in his hand like a quill. He’d spent most of the night practising, trying to memorise the patterns of lines and curves that formed her name.
He needed her to show him more. He had not been able to speak for almost two years, and he was impatient to find a way of communicating. Although none of his brothers could read, they could learn.
This was a way of breaking through the cursed silence. If he could tell Marguerite what he wanted…if he could somehow convey it in written words, it might bridge the distance between them.
It also gave him a reason to seek her out. A reason to be with her each day. She held the power to break through his silence. The power to give him back his voice.
In his mind, he conjured up the soft lines of her face and her vivid blue eyes. He couldn’t explain what drew him to her side, binding him in invisible chains. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her if she asked it of him.
He watched the castle for the next few hours, as afternoon evolved into twilight. The urge to see her, to know that she was all right, could not be denied. In her father’s absence, there was no way to know what prevented her from leaving.
They watch me, she’d warned. Was that why she hadn’t come?
In his mind, he considered a hundred different ways to get inside the castle, but most involved the risk of discovery. He didn’t know how large the Duc’s retinue was or whether they would notice him. On the first night when he’d slipped inside the grounds, there had been a large crowd to hide among. Tonight, he would be exposed.
But then his luck changed.
He spied a man driving a cart filled with casks of wine. Callum moved swiftly from the trees and caught the edge of the cart, swinging his feet underneath. He used his strength to pull himself out of view beneath the cart, as the wheels rolled forward. The merchant greeted the soldiers at the gate and received permission to enter the castle.
Callum gripped the underside of the platform as the cart drove towards the kitchens. It was a strain to hold himself beneath it, but at last the merchant stopped the cart. When he began unloading the wine, Callum seized his chance, dropping to the ground. As men took casks and brought them within the kitchen, he waited for the right moment and joined them, hoisting a small barrel over one shoulder to keep his face hidden.
The men were stacking the casks in the cellar and when they left, he secured a hiding place behind them. Time was his ally now.
* * *
Gradually the hours passed until Callum guessed the others were sleeping.
He ascended the stairs and made his way towards the Hall. Inside, the trestle tables were pushed against the wall and men were sleeping upon the floor. Callum found a bit of leftover bread and meat on one of the tables and hid it within his tunic for later.
Inch by inch, he kept his back to the wall as he neared the staircase on the far side. He moved soundlessly past the others and trod quietly on the steps, listening for anything that would help him find Marguerite. She would be sleeping within her own chamber, away from the others.
In the darkness, he kept his back to the stone wall, searching for any threat. In his hand, he gripped a dirk.
Ahead, he spied two men guarding one of the chambers. He studied them, wondering if Marguerite was inside. The problem was how to get past the guards. Even if he did manage to distract them, there was no way to know if she was there.
But he had to try.
* * *
Her door flew open and Marguerite sat up from her bed, stifling the urge to scream. Standing before her was Callum, while her guards lay unconscious upon the ground. They weren’t dead, thank God, for one of them moaned, clutching his head.
She threw back the coverlet and ran across the room into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to you. I have been locked in my room the past two days.’ She held him tightly, breathing in his scent. Oddly enough, he smelled of bread. Her stomach roared with hunger, for Aunt Beatrice had given her nothing this day, except a bowl of pottage and sour wine. She’d continued her punishment beyond the first day and the lack of food had made Marguerite dizzy.
Callum’s face hardened with anger, and his embrace tightened. When he eyed her attire, Marguerite realised she was still wearing only her chemise. She opened her trunk and chose a crimson cote, but Callum shook his head, pointing to a darker blue gown. He helped her to pull it on, then took her by the hand, leading her out of her room.
Marguerite hesitated. Though she wanted to be free of her imprisonment, she was afraid of what would happen to the guards. Would Beatrice have them flogged, as she’d threatened? But then it was clear that the guards had not willingly let her go. It might be an idle threat, nothing more. Either way, she wasn’t about to remain her aunt’s prisoner any longer.
Callum led her down the steps, into the darkened Hall. One of the dogs lifted his head and whimpered. Marguerite moved forward, touching the animal’s head so he would know her scent. The dog licked her wrist and started to follow, but she pressed him back, whispering for him to stay.
Her heart beat faster, her veins thrumming with fear as she followed Callum outside.
‘We’ll be seen,’ she murmured against his ear. ‘I don’t think there’s any way for us to get out.’
He didn’t seem concerned at all. Taking her hand, he walked past the first wall, then motioned toward the soldiers. She didn’t understand what he meant, but all she could do was let him take the lead. He waited a moment while a few guards strode past the entrance. Marguerite held her breath, running with him toward the open gate.
He was simply planning to walk out, wasn’t he? When she eyed the guards at the top of the gatehouse, she suddenly realised why. All of their attention rested upon the forest ahead, seeking potential invaders. They weren’t at all aware of what was happening behind them.
Callum wrapped one arm around her shoulders. He guided her to the side of the outer wall and Marguerite pressed her shoulders against the stone, keeping tightly to the shadows. Callum inched his way all along the wall until they reached the far corner. Then he got down upon his stomach, crawling through the darkness toward the ditch.
This is madness, Marguerite thought, as she followed him. Her long gown made it difficult to crawl and she heard the sounds of insects buzzing around her face as she crept along the ground, following him. When Callum reached the ditch, he waded into the water, up to his thighs. Strong arms reached for her, lifting her on to the opposite side.
Marguerite continued on her knees until she reached the edge of the forest. Once they were inside, Callum led her deeper, making her walk within a stream, presumably so that dogs could not track her scent.
It was miserable, being wet, cold, and hungry, but she forced herself to follow. She walked until the exhaustion heightened her dizziness. Voices of doubt reminded her that this was a grave mistake. Aunt Beatrice would search for her and when they found her, Callum would suffer.
You should go back, while you can, her conscience ordered. But she was so weak from hunger and the despair of the past two days, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
When at last they reached Callum’s sleeping space, he built a fire for her. She huddled close, trying to hide the tears of exhaustion and fear. He came up beside her, first removing one shoe, then the other. He dried her feet with his own tunic and placed them across his lap, letting her warm them near the flames.
A thickness rose up in her throat and she swallowed back the tears. Why had she left? It was foolish, dangerous, and such a mistake. So many people would be harmed by her desire to leave. What right did she have to disobey her family? Defiance would bring nothing except suffering.
The fire crackled in the evening stillness, the only sound to break the silence. Callum touched her bare feet and massaged the soreness, as if in silent apology for the nightmare of trying to escape the castle. The sensation of his hands on her was heart wrenching, for she was torn between the desire to touch him and the worry of being caught.
When he offered her bread and meat from a fold of his cloak, she nearly attacked him like a savage. She savoured the soft bread and firm crust, so hungry was she. Callum eyed her strangely and she admitted, ‘My aunt punished me for leaving the castle by taking away my food. I’ve had little to eat these past two days.’
His expression turned so fierce, she didn’t know what thoughts were raging inside him. He stood, searching through his bundle of supplies before bringing out a cloth-wrapped hunk of meat. Marguerite wanted to weep at the sight of it, but forced herself to eat slowly. He fed her until she could eat no more, and then she closed her eyes, drawing up her knees.
Callum arranged a sleeping place for her and gestured for her to come and lie down upon the blanket he’d set out. She stretched out and he came up behind her, pulling her body against his. His body was warm and she felt safe against him, as though he would do anything to take care of her. He drew his cloak around her, covering them both.
For now, she let herself fall into sleep, pushing back her fears of what would happen in the morning when her disappearance was discovered.
* * *
Having Marguerite in his arms was the sweetest torment Callum had ever endured and a gift he’d never expected. Her slender body rested against his, her tangled hair tucked under his chin.
There would be an uproar in the castle when they discovered her gone. Even now, they were likely searching for her. But when he’d learned that they’d locked her away, he’d lost sight of reason, needing to get her out. Had he known at the time that they were denying her food, he might have committed a more unthinkable crime.
How anyone could mistreat this woman was impossible to believe. In her sleep, she burrowed beneath his cloak and her backside nestled against the arousal he’d tried to hold back. He wanted her with a fierce, instinctive need, but he couldn’t dishonour her by surrendering to the desires rising within.
MacKinloch 03 - Tempted by the Highland Warrior Page 9
