MacKinloch 03 - Tempted by the Highland Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  Only in his mind could he lower her gown, baring her skin…cupping her breasts in his palm while he kissed her. His pulse quickened as he remembered the sight of the puckered nipples when he’d taken her swimming a few days ago. The white linen chemise had clung to her curves, revealing her naked beauty to him.

  He imagined kissing those breasts, touching her everywhere. The way a husband would.

  The knife of reality slashed through his dreams. Another man would share her bed, filling her with children. Giving Marguerite the life he couldn’t.

  Unless he convinced her to leave everything behind. He had no idea if she would ever consider it.

  Callum sat up, adjusting his cloak so she could continue to sleep with it. He covered her and reached for his bow and quiver. The need to hunt came over him, to pour his frustration into physical exertion.

  He moved quietly through the forest, searching for game. As he crept among the trees, he thought of what to do now. No one knew he was here, save Marguerite. He could take her back to Glen Arrin if she wanted to go.

  But then, why would she? He could give her nothing. A life with him made her little better than an outlaw. She didn’t deserve to live that way, hiding from her family. The sobering reality made him question what to do.

  The wilder side of him wanted to ignore the consequences and steal her. She’d come with him this far, hadn’t she?

  But if he spent his nights with her, he wouldn’t last long. The scent of her skin, the softness of her body pressed against him, had ignited his lust until he’d had to walk away. If she stayed, he would claim her as a lover would, learning her body, filling her with himself.

  He clenched his bow, trying to calm the rising storm of lust. When he heard footsteps behind him, he spun, an arrow fitted to the bowstring.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ Marguerite murmured and he lowered the bow. A lock of her hair hung over one shoulder, tendrils of gold framing her face. Her blue eyes captivated him, but he held his ground. ‘Are you all right?’

  He gave a single nod. She looked as if she wanted to say so many things to him and didn’t know how to begin. But worst of all, he saw the defeat in her eyes.

  Without allowing her to speak, he shouldered his bow and closed the distance. He took her face between his hands and kissed her, reminding her of the night they’d shared together. Her lips were soft, yielding to him as he tried to convince her without words to spend the rest of her nights with him.

  But she lowered her head at last, confessing, ‘I didn’t sleep well. I kept worrying about what will happen when we’re caught together.’

  Not if. When, she’d said. As if she were already giving up.

  ‘I have to go back, or too many people will be hurt.’

  He’d suspected she would say this, but neither did he want her to return to a place where she was held prisoner. Words of argument were locked away inside of him and though he tried to move his mouth, nothing came forth.

  Marguerite reached up to touch his cheek. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have come with you last night.’

  His answer was to kiss her again, pulling her close as if he could absorb her into his own skin. Her mouth was open with shock, but he wouldn’t release her, demanding that she respond.

  There were no words to tell her what he felt, but damned if he’d let her walk away. He kissed her roughly, demanding her response.

  No man will ever touch you like this. No one will ever make you feel the way I do.

  Her mouth met his with her own desperation, kissing him back while she held him for balance. Callum backed her against a tree, moving his knee between her legs until she was seated upon him. ‘What are you—oh,’ she breathed, as he shifted his weight against her. Her head leaned back and he kissed her again, his tongue moving inside as he rocked her core.

  A shudder broke over her and when he pulled back, he saw the dawning pleasure in her eyes. He’d meant only to balance her, but the secret response of her body reacting to the pressure of his thigh fascinated him. He trailed his hands down her back to rest upon her hips. Marguerite opened her eyes and the vivid blue entranced him.

  Her breathing quickened and she began to press herself against his thigh, colour rising in her cheeks as he bent to kiss her throat. The flush of her arousal only heightened his own need and he drew her higher, pulling her leg around his waist. Instinct commanded his mind, though he knew he was taking things too far.

  He didn’t care. Since he had no words to wield as weapons, he had no qualms about using his touch instead. He wanted to seduce her, to bring her such pleasure she would never think of leaving him.

  But then she began to move against him, of her own accord. ‘I’ve never felt this way before,’ she breathed, pulling him into another kiss. ‘I want you in a way I don’t understand.’

  Her body trembled against him, her thighs tightening. He reached to lift her higher, wrapping her legs around his waist. Fiery and passionate, Marguerite continued the stroking rhythm, lifting her hips against his erection. He pressed her back against one of the trees as her breathing quickened.

  Control fled him and he supported her weight with one arm, moving the other beneath her skirts. He needed to touch her, craved it beyond all else. His hand cupped her bare bottom beneath her skirts, and she shifted her hold around his waist.

  ‘Callum,’ she murmured, but her voice wasn’t a protest. It was a demand.

  Maddening lust gave him the courage to bring his hand between her thighs and when he touched her damp curls, she gave a throaty moan.

  ‘Dieu,’ she whispered. With her plea, he touched the wetness, exploring her intimate skin as if to mark her as his. She trembled, her lips swollen from his kiss, but he saw the pleasure breaking forth as her breath grew hitched.

  He stroked her slowly, not wanting to hurt her, but she behaved as if he were torturing her. Not knowing whether he should pull his hand away, he held still. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘More.’

  He dipped his fingers within her wetness and her legs squirmed. She was exquisite, her body so tight against his hand. Using a soft rhythm, he thrust his fingers within her and she ground her mouth against him.

  He now understood why men killed one another out of jealousy. The visceral need to mark her, to ensure that she wanted only him, was filling his veins in a primal way. He burned for her, wishing he could remove the barriers between them and be the man to claim her innocence.

  Abruptly, she convulsed against him, her body racked with violence. For a moment, he feared he’d hurt her, only to see a look of languid passion on her face.

  Slowly, he lowered her down. Marguerite pressed her face against his chest, her arms around his waist. His body was so rigid, the physical frustration hurt. But he merely stroked her hair, holding her.

  ‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ she murmured. ‘I should be ashamed of what I did, but I’m not.’ Her blue eyes held the fire of longing and she held his gaze. ‘I wanted more.’

  * * *

  Marguerite was shaken by the experience, though she tried to pull her thoughts together. Her body was liquid, her legs hardly able to walk. It was dangerous being around Callum, for he made her inhibitions vanish.

  She wanted him as her lover. She wanted to lie with him, to feel the intimacy of his body inside hers.

  But if she dared to reach for another future, her father wouldn’t hesitate to use his power against the MacKinloch Clan. She was his pawn, not permitted to have any say in her marriage. And with every moment she spent with Callum, the suffocating resentment rose higher.

  The Duc wasn’t the one who had to wed a stranger and welcome him into bed. He didn’t seem to care what Marguerite’s desires were. It was about strengthening his political ties, increasing the family wealth. Not about her wishes.

  The question was, did she dare to fight for what she wanted, knowing that it would likely fail? It was too late to stop her father from bringing back another potential husband. But perhaps there was a way to appe
al to him, to somehow make him see that there could be advantages to allying with a Scottish clan.

  Callum took her hand and led her back to the fire. He dropped down to one knee and picked up a twig. He drew in the dirt for a moment and when he stood, Marguerite saw her name written in the earth. Had he spent the past few days practising? She’d only written her name once for him. The letters weren’t perfect, but they were legible.

  ‘You learn quickly,’ she said, startled that he could have made such progress. She welcomed the distraction of teaching him more letters, for it kept her mind off the staggering pleasure he’d given her. Or their unknown future.

  Callum took her by the hand and led her to a log. There was unrest carved into his face, the tension of a man who had been denied his own release. The sting of shame made her wish she could do something for him.

  And when she saw his attempts at her name written within the dirt, she understood that he’d brought her here for another distraction.

  Marguerite sat down and studied the words. He must have written her name nearly fifty times. It touched her that he’d practised for so long.

  As he swept the dirt aside with a pine branch, he handed her the twig once more. She held it for a moment and said once more, ‘It’s not enough. Even if I teach you the letters, I don’t think you can—’

  Impatiently, he cut off her words, touching a finger to her lips. Then he guided her hand down to the dirt in front of them. There was determination in his eyes and a will to learn that she’d not seen before.

  This might be his only way to communicate. The only way to unlock the voice inside of him. She understood that, even if he didn’t know how difficult it would be.

  ‘I can try to teach you,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know if there is time enough for you to learn.’ It had taken her years to master writing and she doubted if her efforts would do anything at all for him.

  He pressed the twig into her hand, nodding for her to begin.

  * * *

  Callum drank in the knowledge faster than anyone she’d ever known. Marguerite had never seen anything like it. She’d written the alphabet and Callum had practised each shape, struggling with the curved letters. He’d worked as hard as he could, shaking out the stiffness in his fingers.

  She’d demonstrated each letter and sound, showing him how to write simple words. Throughout the lesson, his eyes were intent upon the ground. He struggled to string the words together, and although his spelling was disastrous, at least he was starting to understand how to put the sounds there.

  Mor, he wrote.

  She added an ‘e’ to correct him, and wrote as many words as she could think of, until her fingers were getting scratched from the branch she’d used.

  ‘You’re doing well,’ she complimented him. He’d written and rewritten the words at least a dozen times, practising them over and over, as if his life depended on it.

  And it might, if he stayed here too long.

  Her fingers were aching and she massaged them, sitting back against the log. ‘I think that’s enough for now,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘I have to return. They’ll be looking for me.’ The evening sun now rimmed the horizon in red and gold, and she couldn’t stay much longer.

  He bent down and laboured over the letters, until he stood back to let her see the word. No, he’d written.

  ‘I can’t stay and you know this,’ she said quietly. ‘They would accuse you of abducting me, no matter what I say to defend you.’

  He set down the stick, his dark eyes filled with frustration. But he had to understand the truth of her words. Already she had spent far too much time alone with him. If they were caught together, she didn’t doubt that they would take him prisoner. She couldn’t let that happen.

  ‘If I can come back to see you, I will,’ she said. ‘It may not be for some time, but…I’ll try.’ She sent him a half-hearted smile. ‘You have many letters to practise until then.’

  The likelihood was that her aunt would keep her locked away, unable to leave until the Duc returned. Marguerite would suffer punishment for what she’d done. But she held no regrets at all.

  Callum extended his hand, but instead of leading her back, he drew her palm to his waist. For a long moment, he cupped the back of her neck, keeping his forehead pressed to hers.

  ‘I don’t know what will happen to us,’ she whispered. ‘I wish—’ Her words broke away, for wishes were worth nothing at all. Instead, she closed her eyes, holding on to him. For now, she could only hold fast to the moments slipping away like water through her fingers.

  At her side, Callum took her hand and pressed it to his chest. The firm reassurance and strength only dug deeper into her heart.

  She suspected he would wait for the rest of his life, if she asked it of him. And it simply wasn’t fair.

  Chapter Seven

  The sound of dogs barking drew closer to their position within the forest. Callum fitted an arrow to his bow and stood before her.

  ‘They’re going to find us if I stay here any longer,’ Marguerite said. And though he knew she was right, it didn’t mean he was going to step aside and let them lock her away again. He’d been imprisoned and tortured before and he’d endure it in a moment if it meant protecting her.

  But she turned to him, forcing him to lower the bow. ‘I need to face them myself.’ Her voice came out with a tremble and he shook his head.

  ‘If they see you, you would bear the punishment for my rebellion.’ She gave him a broken smile, adding, ‘The only way I’ll ever be free is if I speak to my father.’ Her hand moved to touch his cheek. ‘Stay back, Callum. Let me try to fight for what I want.’

  Though he understood her desire, he had no intention of letting her face them alone. How could he hide away like a coward, letting her bear the brunt of their anger?

  ‘They won’t hurt me,’ she told him. ‘And if they deny me food again, I’ll speak to the servants. Surely they would help me, if it meant gaining a reward from my father.’

  She moved in, winding her arms around his neck. Though her hair was tangled, her face still held the satisfied flush of fulfilment he’d given her. He wasn’t about to let her go alone.

  He might be able to watch over her without her knowledge. He could infiltrate the castle, guarding her as best he could, until she gained her father’s permission to come back with him.

  It will never happen, his mind taunted. The Duc will never accept a broken man such as you.

  He dulled the voice of reason and gripped Marguerite in a fierce embrace. When he pulled back, he saw the tears glimmering in her eyes, though she tried to send him a reassuring smile.

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  He didn’t believe it, even as he gestured for her to walk towards them.

  But first she stood on her tiptoes to give him a last kiss. It was the softest touch, like a farewell. And when she turned away from him, a sense of foreboding intruded, as if their shared dreams would never happen, no matter how hard they fought.

  Callum climbed a large oak nearby and hid himself within the branches, watching as she walked towards the sound of the dogs. She moved with her head held high, offering no excuses for her actions. And when the riders caught up to her at last, they seized her, lifting her atop one of the horses before they stole her away from him.

  * * *

  ‘I should have you beaten for your disobedience,’ Lady Beatrice said coolly. ‘Never have I seen such behaviour from you. I can promise you, your father will hear of this.’

  Marguerite held her shoulders back, keeping her silence. She had decided not to answer any of their questions, nor make excuses for what she’d done. Like Callum, she intended to lock away her words.

  ‘You’ve caused everyone a great deal of trouble,’ her aunt continued. She took Marguerite by the wrist, squeezing so tightly that a bruise would form. ‘I can’t understand why you would go off into the forest. And I do not believe you were taken against your will.’ She pulled Marguer
ite towards the stairs, forcing her to return to her chamber.

  When they reached the door, Beatrice stopped. ‘The guards outside your room confessed that they saw a man who took you. A Scot, they believe.’ Her aunt’s gaze grew cunning. ‘Or am I wrong?’

  ‘And where would I have found such a man?’ Marguerite countered, unable to hold her silence any longer. ‘I know none of the nearby clans.’ She stared up at her aunt. ‘Perhaps I was the one to free myself. The men would be too ashamed to admit they were bested by a woman.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  No, but she refused to endanger Callum by letting anyone believe he was involved in her escape. So far as she knew, only the guards had encountered him and the lie might work. It was all she had.

  ‘I don’t expect you to believe anything I say.’ She walked into her room and sat down before the fire, warming her hands.

  Her aunt closed the door behind her. Beatrice’s mood seemed to discolour the air with rage. She took deep breaths, as if to control her temper. ‘You spent a night away from the castle. You, who can hardly dress yourself, much less take care of a household. Your father entrusted Duncraig Castle to me and he gave strict instructions about keeping you here.’

  ‘Imprisoning me, you mean.’ Marguerite stood up and faced her aunt. ‘I’m not as helpless as you think I am.’

  ‘You’ve never done anything except wield a needle and smile prettily at your father. He indulged you in anything you wanted, after your mother died.’

  ‘I was grieving—’

  ‘And so was I,’ Beatrice snapped. ‘She was my only sister.’ Her face twisted with frustration. ‘When my husband died, the Duc might have brought me into his household, but I will not stay in a barbaric country such as this. Soon enough, I’ll coax him back to France where I belong.’ Her aunt sent her a calculating smile. ‘I have your father’s favour, you know.’