His mouth and tongue suckled hard, drawing a deep response inside her. Marguerite reached for his shaft, curling her fingers around his length. His breathing quickened and he lifted his mouth from her breast, watching her as she explored his manhood. He covered her hand, showing her how to move against him in a rhythm.
If it was possible, he grew larger in her hand, and she saw the fierce pleasure transforming his face. Abruptly, he pulled away from her and she felt the cool breeze of the wind upon her skin. His mouth moved down to her thighs, above the sand, tasting and teasing her. With his fingers, he touched the intimate slit between her legs. She trembled when he slid a finger inside her, lazily stroking the wetness.
His mouth was moving everywhere, over her thighs, making her feel so vulnerable. She was arching, trembling as the need for him overtook her. He sat up, guiding her to straddle him. With his mouth, he kissed her hard, rubbing her against his heavy, thick shaft.
Marguerite reached down to the blunt head of him and moved it against her slick opening. She wanted to feel him deep inside, to be taken and conquered by this man.
His face was taut with need, his hands gripping her hips as she lowered herself. It was too tight to take him and she let him rest only a fraction inside of her. But when he lifted her up, lowering her again, he moved deeper.
She understood, then, what she had to do. Slowly, she raised her hips and sheathed him a little further. She found a slow rhythm and her body seemed to adjust to his size, stretching and growing wetter with each penetration.
But then his hands curled beneath her bottom, forcing her to increase her pace. Though he didn’t pull her down, she found herself growing more excited, her body straining for more. Her breathing came in rapid gasps as she moved upon him, the thrusting length of him filling her up.
And though she felt tight as he invaded, he dulled it when he sat up and took her breast into his mouth. With his tongue, he tasted her nipple, holding still as she grew accustomed to him buried within her. Gently, she raised up again, experimenting with the sensation as his tongue gloried against her breasts.
He gripped her lower back, his hand moving between their joining. She felt his fingers caressing the sensitive flesh above her entrance and a ripple of shock flooded through her. A moan escaped her and he pulled his hand away.
‘No, don’t stop,’ she whispered. He returned his fingers to her hooded flesh, and she showed him where to touch, until she was shaking from the way he rubbed her. He was thick and hard inside of her, but he remained motionless.
The double pressure of his manhood and the movement of his fingers made her raise her hips back, seeking the rush she wanted.
‘It feels good,’ she admitted, and Callum never relented, keeping up the rhythmic pressure of his hand until she bucked against him, thrusting in counterpoint to his tantalising strokes.
The heat built up inside her, a shimmering crest of pleasure, until she shattered against his hand, clenching him deep inside. He grabbed her hips and thrust hard, forcing her to ride him, the intensity of her climax convulsing her again and again.
He laid her back on to the cloak, still moving in slow penetrations, and she lifted her knees to take him deeper. He was merciless, demanding that she give every part of herself to him. And when he plunged against her, taking his own release, he groaned and continued to drive deeply inside her while she clung to him, lost in her own storm.
When he rested against her, upon her skin, she heard a single whispered word, ‘Marguerite.’
* * *
‘You spoke,’ she breathed. ‘Callum…you said my name.’
He wasn’t aware of anything, only the immense satisfaction of his body joined with hers. Had he said anything at all? He tried to make his mouth move, to let out her name again…but nothing happened. Again, he struggled to bring out the words, but the invisible wall prevented him.
‘You spoke. I know you did.’ Her bare arms came around his neck, holding him in a tight embrace. A smile came over her and she drew her hands up to clasp his hair. ‘I want to hear it again.’
He struggled to form the word, but the longer she watched him, the more awkward he felt. If what she said was true, he’d spoken without thinking. Without trying.
He withdrew from her body, angry at himself for being unable to fulfil such a simple request. Picking up her chemise, he started to bring it to her, when he spied the sail of a ship approaching on the horizon. From the speed of the wind, it would be here within half an hour, and the occupants might see him and Marguerite before then.
Callum tossed the chemise to Marguerite and heaped sand upon the fire, extinguishing it. He donned his own clothing, but she looked worried at the sudden change of his mood. ‘I don’t understand. What’s wrong?’
He pointed out at the approaching ship and her expression paled. ‘That could be my father.’ Fumbling with the linen chemise, she hurried to dress herself. Callum helped her with the cote and surcoat, handing her the veil to cover her wet hair. Marguerite had barely put her shoes on before he pulled her into a run to the waiting horses. He gathered the reins of her mare, helping her to mount.
She started to wait on him, but he slapped the horse’s flanks, urging the animal to go on. There was no time to delay. He could shadow her from a distance, but she had to return to the castle quickly.
If it was the Duc arriving, she needed to be safely back in her chamber before anyone discovered her gone. He didn’t know if she’d succeed, for there was so little time.
Callum urged his horse into a gallop, keeping several paces behind her. As he rode, he thought of the husband the Duc was planning to bring back for Marguerite. A cold rage drowned out reason, replacing it with jealousy. If he’d had an estate and a title, he could gain Marguerite’s hand in marriage. He could be the one to claim her as his wife, the way he’d taken her body just now.
Making love to her had been the most priceless gift she could have given him. The idea of her sharing that experience with someone else, of letting another man take her, was akin to driving a spear through his chest.
He couldn’t let her go. All he could do was pray she would make the decision to walk away from this life and leave with him.
* * *
Marguerite gave her horse over to Jean when she reached the stables. Her guards eyed her mussed hair and dishevelled clothing, but said nothing. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks and she felt as if everyone knew what she had been doing.
When Callum rode in behind her, he disappeared into the stables, presumably to care for the horses. She didn’t know what he’d thought of her actions but inside, her body was still trembling from the fierce reaction he’d evoked.
Lady Beatrice glared at her, but Marguerite passed by the woman and spoke not a word. She went straight to her chamber and ordered a bath. Though she’d believed that her father would travel on land, the ship she’d seen was large enough to carry his entourage and horses. It was entirely possible that they had returned early, especially travelling by sea instead of on horseback.
As her maids helped her to bathe and dress during the next hour, she thought of how Callum had spoken his first word in so many years. Of all the words he could have said, he’d chosen her name.
Her heart softened at the memory, for there was no other man she could imagine sharing her life with. Yet, she was deeply afraid of defying her father. Never in a thousand years would the Duc understand why she would want to cast off the wealth she was surrounded by, in order to wed a Scottish warrior.
Callum was the man who made her blood race, who’d given her a forbidden taste of passion. The man she loved.
Marguerite touched the glass pendant and held it as she finished bathing. Her maids said nothing as they helped her don a clean blue gown and surcoat. Around her hips, she wore a slender golden girdle set with sapphires. They braided her wet hair and hid it beneath a veil.
Outside, she heard the commotion and the sound of horses approaching.
‘The Du
c!’ one of the soldiers shouted, and a cheer resounded among the men as they gathered to greet him.
So. He’d returned early. Marguerite forced herself to go below stairs, her heart pounding. She feared that he would recognise the guilt in her face, or worse, that someone might tell him where she’d gone.
With each step, her skin grew colder, until she stood at the entrance to greet him. Callum emerged from the stables and when the men arrived, he took their horses. Not once did he look at her, his face devoid of any expression. It was to protect both of them, she knew, but it bothered her more than it should.
Her stomach plummeted when her father approached, though she forced a smile upon her face. The Duc rode alongside another man, whose height equalled his own. The man, whom she suspected was the Earl of Penrith, had fair hair like her own and he offered her a slight smile of welcome. He was impeccably dressed in a midnight-blue silk doublet, with dun-colored chausses and a dark cape. A jewelled sword hung at his side and Marguerite idly wondered if he knew how to use it.
Her father had chosen a man whom most women would consider handsome and strong. She ought to be well pleased, but all she wanted to do right now was weep.
Do not betray yourself, she warned. Behave like a duke’s daughter.
Guy de Montpierre strode forward, the man at his side. ‘Marguerite, I would like to introduce you to Peter Warrington, the Earl of Penrith.’
She curtsied to Lord Penrith and he sent her a kind smile. Taking her hand, he brushed a kiss upon the back of her palm. ‘I am well pleased with this betrothal, my lady.’
He released her hand, and her insides felt as if they’d been turned into stone. Even standing before this man felt like a betrayal to Callum. She couldn’t find the words to speak a simple greeting, so she nodded and stepped back.
‘We will draw up the necessary documents this evening and have them signed and witnessed on the morrow,’ her father claimed. To her, he directed, ‘Arrange for a meal and good wine for us.’
Marguerite murmured her agreement, wanting to leave them both. Her mind was caught up in turmoil, and as she departed, she saw Beatrice moving closer to the Duc. Though her father gave no greeting, Marguerite noticed the subtle interest in his eyes. It was quite possible that Beatrice could influence him and she had no doubt that her aunt would fill his ears with stories of her misbehaviour.
But he could not punish her in front of the earl, thankfully.
While Marguerite gave the orders for their meal, she noticed Lord Penrith standing at the entrance, watching her. After she spoke to the servants, Marguerite cast him a look, wondering if the earl was the sort of man who would understand her wishes.
She felt nervous beneath his gaze, not knowing what to say to him. He crossed the Hall and when he reached her side, he asked, ‘We have a little time before the meal is prepared. Perhaps you might wish to show me the grounds until the food is ready?’
Though she nodded her agreement, leading him from the Hall, she didn’t want to spend any time with this man, nor lead him to believe that they could have a successful marriage.
The earl started walking within the inner bailey and offered her his arm. Marguerite took it and he said, ‘You appear frightened of me. There’s no need.’
‘We’ve only just met,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t know you at all.’
He stopped walking and regarded her. ‘Your father told me many stories of your beauty and your virtue. I thought he was exaggerating, as all fathers do. But it seems, in this instance, he was right.’
Not about my virtue, Marguerite thought. As if in response to her thoughts, she saw Callum leading another horse into the stables. The look on his face was emotionless, as if he didn’t care whether she was there or not. It dug into her feelings, making her wonder if he knew that she had no choice. The invisible web of captivity was closing in on her and she didn’t know how to unravel it.
‘It has been a difficult year,’ Marguerite confessed to the earl. ‘The last man I was betrothed to turned out to be a liar and a murderer.’
‘Cairnross was a powerful man,’ Lord Penrith said. ‘But anyone could see that he was cruel.’
‘And you are not?’ she prodded.
He sent her a chagrined smile. ‘I am a man of many complexities. But I am not cruel. And I have every intention of treating my wife with the greatest respect.’ Though his tone was light, she sensed something else behind his claim.
Raising her eyes to his, she saw friendliness there, but nothing more. He did not look upon her with a lustful eye, nor as a man bent upon possessing her. She let out a slow breath. Even so, she would withhold judgement until she knew this man better.
As they continued walking throughout the grounds, she was intensely aware of Callum. Though he ought to understand that she had to be courteous to her father’s guest, she could feel the silent accusation. And she sensed his jealousy, burning into her with a darkness that chafed her heart.
It was wrong, letting the earl believe that she could possibly be his wife. Dishonourable to stand at his side and let the lies of omission make her into a woman she wasn’t. When they reached the garden, she stopped walking.
‘Lord Penrith,’ she murmured. ‘I wish to be honest with you.’ She reached for the edges of her courage, hoping he would understand.
‘Have I done something to offend you?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing.
‘No.’ She searched for the right words, to make him understand. ‘But you have journeyed a great distance on my behalf and I do not believe I would make a good wife for you.’
He stopped walking. ‘And why is that? I have been here only a few minutes.’ His gaze narrowed upon her and, before she could speak, he predicted, ‘Or do you have feelings for someone else?’
Slowly, she nodded her head. ‘You deserve a wife who could love you.’
A half-smile twisted his face. ‘I have little interest in love, Lady Marguerite. It matters not to me whether or not we have feelings towards one another. Many a strong marriage was built upon friendship.’
She didn’t know how to respond to that and now was not the time to admit that she’d given herself to another. The earl’s statement confused her, for she’d believed he would be angry or bothered by the fact that she cared for someone else. Instead, he didn’t appear to mind at all.
They finished their walk, but as Marguerite passed the stables, she couldn’t stop herself from looking back. Callum was no longer there.
When she reached the entrance to the keep, she saw the knowing eyes of her aunt Beatrice.
* * *
‘She’s a fine lass, isn’t she?’ Iagar remarked, later that night. Callum stood near the back of the Hall with the other men, eating a large piece of bread the cook had given him. He didn’t have to ask who Iagar was talking about, but ignored the statement.
‘You were gone with her for a while,’ Campbell continued, a leer upon his face. ‘Did the Lady Marguerite take a liking to you?’
He stood and gripped Iagar’s throat, shoving the man against the wall. Rage filled every part of him, that the man would suggest anything against her. Even if it was true.
Callum held Iagar just long enough to warn him, before dropping him to the ground. The man coughed, gripping his throat. There was a flash of anger on his face, but he quelled it.
‘You should put your strength to another use, MacKinloch. We’re leaving tomorrow night to raid a garrison south of here,’ Iagar told him. He kept his voice low, adding, ‘You could help us free the prisoners.’
Tension knotted inside Callum at the mention of captives. He didn’t want to be involved with the other men, to stir up trouble with the English. Yet, he remembered the restlessness he’d endured while in chains. The feeling that no one would come for him. That he would die, locked away from the world.
Upon the dais, he spied Marguerite sitting with her betrothed husband, the Earl of Penrith. Jealousy sank its claws into his mind. He didn’t like the man watching over her, fas
cinated by his bride.
The thought of the earl touching Marguerite sent off a blaze of fury inside him. Without realising it, he was gripping his knife. A primitive side of him wanted to abduct her from her father’s castle, to take her north where no one would ever find them.
She belonged with him. Only she had been able to unlock the years of silence, letting him speak again. And after the morning he’d spent in her arms, he wasn’t going to let her go.
His companion sensed his distraction and pressed further. ‘Join us at Sileas’s home, when the castle is abed. We’ll talk further.’
Iagar started to walk away, but he turned back. ‘You remember what it was like, MacKinloch. Hoping someone would free us. And season after season, we were in chains.’
The man’s words brought back the nightmare of those years. Callum sobered, remembering well enough what it was like to pray for help when none came. Each day of suffering was like a scar upon his mind.
But he refused to agree to Iagar’s request, for he was here for Marguerite. He stood against the back wall for hours, watching over her. And only when she retired for the night, climbing the stairs, did he finally retreat to the stables.
Chapter Ten
Tangled dreams warred within Callum’s mind. He was standing atop a stone tower, watching as his brother Alex fought to save his daughter’s life. Lord Harkirk had taken the young girl hostage, baiting them in an attempt to slaughter both Alex and Bram.
The bow felt awkward in his hands, though he’d never ceased practising. From this distance, he couldn’t strike Harkirk without the danger of harming the child.
His brothers fought below, while he held his arrow steady, waiting for an opportunity. In the eyes of Harkirk, he saw a man who revelled in torture and death.
Then he saw Lady Harkirk and the pain upon her face. She had been trapped in her marriage, just as he’d been chained and at her husband’s mercy. But she had been the one to save him, convincing Harkirk to accept the bribe and release him.
The brave courage in her face reminded him of Marguerite. Without hesitation, Callum released the arrow, watching it strike down the man who had been responsible for so much suffering. At last, Harkirk was dead.
MacKinloch 03 - Tempted by the Highland Warrior Page 13
