Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

It took them over an hour to reach the garrison. Callum wondered how any of them knew where they were going, but the older man Sileas guided them there until they reached the river where they extinguished their torches. The wooden fortress was small, with perhaps a dozen guards. Barely more than an outpost, the fortress was no threat to anyone.

Uneasiness crawled through Callum’s stomach, making him wonder why these men had chosen such a small target. And whether there were any prisoners there at all.

He’d stopped Iagar, pointing to his scarred wrists and then to the fortress.

“If there are any prisoners there, we’ll free them. I promise you.” Iagar gripped his shoulder and added, “Stay here. We’ll need you to guard our backs.”

Callum slowed his pace, taking his position behind them.

“Let none of the English soldiers escape,” the older man warned. “Otherwise, they’ll bring reinforcements.”

Callum gave a nod, but inwardly, he didn’t like this. He doubted if there could be more than one or two prisoners, not in an outpost this small. But he had a greater range by staying outside the fortress with his weapon. He fitted an arrow to the bowstring while Iagar, Sileas, and two other men crawled on their stomachs toward the gates.

The shadows shielded his presence as he waited. After several minutes passed, he heard the battle cries of the men as they charged forward with dirks and spears. One of the guards shouted, only to be cut off in the middle of a word.

It was part of any raid, he knew. Even so, it didn’t diminish the sense of unrest building within him. He’d expected a fortress the size of Cairnross, where they would infiltrate the walls and break the prisoners free, as best they could.

Instead, this felt wrong.

He held an arrow fitted to the bowstring, watching for any sign of prisoners being freed. When none came, he wondered what had gone awry and whether he should go in to help.

Callum kept his arrow taut within the bowstring, ready to defend himself. His eyes blurred against the brightness of the torches when he first entered the fortress.

When his eyes adjusted, he stared in disbelief at the bodies littering the ground. There were no prisoners here at all. Only English soldiers who had been murdered.

Callum saw Iagar raise a dirk, and a roar of fury rose up inside of him. He opened his mouth, a cry rising in his throat for them to stop and lay down their weapons. But it came out as nothing but a breath of air. His mind was raging, the words trapped. He couldn’t voice a single command.

The slaughter sickened him. Aye, he’d been taken prisoner as a child by men like these, growing up in chains. But not all of the soldiers deserved to die. The fury within him transformed into revulsion.

Iagar and the others began looting the bodies, and Callum retreated into the darkness. These men were nothing but murderers and thieves.

His hand gripped the bow in a fight to control his anger. If he could have found his way back to the castle alone, he’d have gone immediately.

“MacKinloch,” he heard Sileas call out. “Aren’t you going to join us?” The man stood with his back against a wooden wall, while he held a sword from one of the fallen men.

His answer was to release one of the black-feathered arrows, embedding it in the wood behind Sileas’s head.

Sileas reached for a weapon, his temper blazing. “What was that for, ye son of a cur?”

But Callum fitted another arrow to his bow, aiming directly at the old man’s heart.

Because you deserve to die for what you’ve done.

Iagar stepped beside him. “Put down the bow, MacKinloch.”

Callum spun and aimed the weapon at the man he’d believed was an ally. He’d been wrong. They’d come here to loot and to kill. Not to save men’s lives.

Backing away slowly, he let them know that he wanted nothing to do with them. Especially because, as Sileas had predicted, he could tell no one what had happened here.

The following day, Marguerite found Callum swimming in the loch, north of the forest. The sky held streaks of rose and lavender, and she sat upon a large stone, watching him. His body tore through the water in long strokes, at a punishing pace. His shoulders flexed, and she waited for him to finish, hoping to share the gift she’d brought. Around her neck, she wore the pendant he’d given her, and she touched the cool glass, feeling suddenly nervous around him.

The last time she’d been with Callum, he’d asked her to leave everything behind to be together. She wanted to, but despite her attempts to speak with the Earl of Penrith in private, her father wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps he’d sensed what she was trying to do. Before she could voice a protest, the betrothal agreement had been finalized, signed, and witnessed.

You’re weak-willed and cowardly, she berated herself. You don’t deserve your freedom, if you aren’t able to speak for yourself.

Worry rooted inside her that she couldn’t break free at all. Yes, she could have refused to sign the document. But the Duc would demand to know why, and somehow the truth would come out. He would seek retribution against the MacKinlochs if she admitted she’d become Callum’s lover. It was a dangerous game she’d begun, one she feared was impossible to win.

When at last Callum ceased his swimming, he stood up in the water. His dark eyes caught hers, and she saw the trouble brewing within him. He looked angry, like a man returning from battle.

Emerging from the water, he didn’t seem to care as he walked to her unclothed, the water rolling down his skin in droplets. His black hair hung past his shoulders, wet and pushed back from his face.

Like a sleek predator, he watched her. It was a silent reminder of the way he’d run his hands over her skin, awakening feelings she didn’t understand. Seeing him in the morning light, the sun gleamed over his muscles, illuminating flesh she wanted to touch.

“I-I brought you something,” she murmured, averting her gaze from his body. But as she bent to retrieve the pouch, his powerful legs were so close she could reach out and touch him.

Her lungs constricted, and when she stood up, she saw that his manhood had grown thick and heavy, aroused by the sight of her. Marguerite shivered, remembering the heat of his body moving over hers.

Keeping her eyes averted, she held out the pouch. “It’s a quill, ink, and a bit of parchment. I thought you might like to try writing on it.”

“Marguerite,” he said. In his voice, she heard the unspoken questions. He took the pouch and tossed it back on the hillside, dragging her close. His arms closed around her, gripping her in a tight embrace. Against her hips, she felt the hard length of his arousal and the answering rush of desire within herself.

His mouth moved to her lips, taking her in a kiss that reminded her that she belonged in his arms. He was ruthless, demanding a response that pushed away all of her fears, reminding her of why she needed him. Why she had to sever the betrothal and face her father’s wrath.

When his hands moved to the laces upon her gown, he stared at her in an unspoken question.

“I can’t,” she whispered. Not now. She didn’t deserve affection or pleasure, when she’d failed to fight the betrothal. The lies she’d told her father and the earl were encircling her, strangling her hold upon honor.

Callum took her face between his hands, staring into her eyes. She saw the dark possession and a hidden frustration within them. He touched his forehead to hers. In his eyes, she saw the future she wanted, the man she desired.

“I will find a way to free myself,” she vowed. “And when I have, I will come back with you. I swear it.”

Her hands moved to thread through his dark hair, stroking the back of his head. She touched him, crossing her arms around his neck, letting her hands slide down his naked back.

His lips pressed a light kiss against her jawbone. It sent a shiver through her, reminding her of the time when he’d kissed her in other secret places

As he got dressed, Marguerite couldn’t escape the thought that something else was bothering him, but he had no words to tell her. There was tension in the way he held himself and a sense of trouble.

She retrieved the pouch and offered it to him. “Do you want me to teach you more words?” She held it out, showing him the quill and ink.

He eyed them but shook his head. Darkness shadowed his mood, and she couldn’t guess whether she was the cause of it.

“Would you rather I hadn’t come?” she asked. “If you’ve no wish to learn more writing, I won’t force it upon you.” She set them down upon the ground, wondering if she’d misunderstood him.

He was fighting against himself, struggling for the words. His mouth moved, but no other sounds came out. The frustration built up higher until he seized a stone and threw it hard into the water, where it splashed and sank.

“Callum, tell me what it is.”

It was the wrong choice of words. He spun on her, his rage filling him up. She realized that he’d been trying to speak but was unable to bring out the words. In his stance, she felt him tremble with anger and frustration.

It hurt to see him like this, and she tried to console him in an embrace. “It’s all right.” As soon as she touched him, she realized that pity was a mistake. He didn’t want her sympathy. She raised up on her tiptoes and brought her mouth to his, hoping the kiss would ease him.

Callum kissed her back, the dark heat of his mouth seeking absolution. When his tongue threaded with hers, she clung hard, tasting his anger, and meeting it with her own guilt. There was a wildness to him, like a man trying to consume her. She shuddered beneath the onslaught and heat, offering herself in solace.

His hands moved to the ties of her gown, and she knew if she remained silent, he would take her again. He would lay her back upon the grass, filling her up and giving her unspeakable pleasure.

Callum bared the nape of her neck and shoulder, causing shivers with the warmth of his mouth. His hands came up to touch her breasts, and her nipples hardened against the silk. She struggled to maintain her composure, but the sweet torment made her hesitate. More than anything, she wanted to be with him again.

You don’t deserve it. Not until you’ve broken free of the earl.

Though it hurt to push him away, Marguerite reached back and caught his hands, drawing them down to his side. “Last night, I signed the betrothal agreement.”

The look of betrayal on Callum’s face made her feel like she’d turned away from him. “I’m going to talk with both of them today,” she said. “I promise you.”

But within his brown eyes, she saw the doubt. He didn’t believe her.

There were no words Callum could say. He’d believed that she would refuse the betrothal and free herself. But it didn’t seem that Marguerite had the willpower to stand up to them.

He saw her step back, watching him. Though he tried to keep his face expressionless, she seemed to sense the frustration beneath.

“I blame myself for being too afraid.” Her voice was anguished, and she turned away from him. “But if I make a wrong move and reveal my feelings, my father will hunt you down and kill you. Possibly your family. I can’t risk that.”

Though he wanted to move forward and touch her shoulders, he forced himself to remain in place. Each day here was another moment in purgatory. Heaven lay just within his reach . . . but until she broke the ties, he could do nothing.

“You’re angry with me, I know.” Still, she didn’t turn around to face him, keeping her gaze downcast.

“Not . . .” with you. He stared at her hollowed shoulders, the broken posture.

“I wish I could have done something to stop the betrothal from happening,” she admitted. “But I was powerless.”

Aye, he understood that feeling. Her words conjured up the harsh memories of last night and the dead soldiers. Innocent men had been slain, and he’d done nothing to stop it from happening. He’d ignored the premonitions he should have heeded, mistakenly believing Iagar’s false words.

And it had resulted in murder. The bleakness crept over him once again, strangling him with the wish that he could go back and change it.

“You must know that I don’t truly want this marriage to Penrith,” Marguerite said, risking a glance back at him. “But no one hears what I’m trying to say.”

He knew exactly what that felt like. From deep inside, he summoned the words, tearing them free.

“Fight, Marguerite.” Fight for us. If you can’t tell the Duc what you want, then there’s no hope.

But those words were too difficult, too far beyond him. He took a breath and tried again. “You . . .”

She waited to hear him speak, her blue eyes filled with regret. In his mind, a thousand words sprang forth, words he wanted to speak. Words she needed to hear.

You are the only woman I’ve ever wanted. You kept me alive when I wanted to die. Without you, I was less than a man. But neither of us can continue this way.

He could see that she felt as trapped as he did.

“I what?” she asked, hoping for the words.

But his mouth moved without sound, his throat refusing to relinquish the words. He tried again, and the inability to communicate made him fight even harder.

In the end, he stared hard at her, unable to voice more than a single word. “Choose.”

“Your Grace, the messenger you sent to the English garrison returned a moment ago. He claims there was an attack last night. No survivors are left.”

“They’re going to blame us for the massacre,” the Duc said, pacing across the floor. He sent a dark look toward Xavier, the captain of his guards. “We’re the closest to the outpost.”

“My men were all accounted for last night,” Xavier answered. “Whoever did this was not one of ours.”

Guy’s face turned grim, and he ordered, “Assemble a group of soldiers, and find out who it was. It falls to us to mete out justice. Or else the King Edward will see to it.”

The Duc sat, reaching for a cup of wine. His hand curled around the silver while inwardly, he tensed. Though he held estates in Scotland, passed down from his Norman ancestors, his position here was untenable. He’d hoped to secure a strong marriage for Marguerite with the Earl of Cairnross. But his daughter had run off to live with a Scottish clan, for reasons he couldn’t fathom.

Oui, Cairnross had proved to have a cruel streak. But powerful men did what was necessary to maintain order.

From across the room, he saw Marguerite standing at the doorway, her face pale. She’d overheard his words, no doubt.

“What will you do?” she asked, moving closer. Xavier, the captain of the guard, exchanged a look with him, as if to ask permission. Guy inclined his head.

“We will find the murderers and execute them for their crimes,” Xavier admitted.

Her lips tightened into a line, and she pointed at his hand. “What is that you’re holding?”

The Duc hadn’t noticed the arrow until now. He sent his captain a questioning look, and Xavier held up the shaft. “We found this embedded in the wall.”

“Black feathers,” the Duc noted. “Interesting.” Few men used arrows with distinctive feathered tips. He tried to think of whether any of his archers used arrows like those, but he couldn’t quite imagine it.

Marguerite’s face whitened. She murmured excuses to leave, and her behavior struck him as unusual.

His eyes narrowed upon the doorway and he turned to Xavier. “She knows something. Follow her.”

“What have you done?” Marguerite demanded. It was nightfall before she’d been able to slip away from the castle. Over and over, she’d worried about the arrow, terrified of what it meant. Her throat ached with unshed tears, and her hands clenched as she tried to keep her hysteria under control.

Callum studied her, his eyes questioning. She went on, “Nearly a dozen men were murdered last night at the English garrison. They found one of your arrows there.”

His expression didn’t move a single muscle. Like a wall of granite, he revealed nothing at all.

Shaken by it, she whispered, “Were you there that night?”

He inclined his head in a nod, and her heart plummeted. She stared at him in disbelief. “And did you kill those men?”

He shook his head. Though she wanted to believe him, her pulse clamored within her chest. “Why would you go with them? There was no reason for it.” Knowing he couldn’t answer, she unleashed her anger. “Don’t you know that they’ll find out? My father plans to execute any man who was there last night.”

Her tears broke free, in spite of her resolve not to cry. “Do you think I want to see you hanged, your head cut off like a traitor?”

Callum caught her hands, and his mouth tightened with his own anger. She tore her hands free, the tears running freely down her face. The fury and fear gripped so hard within her, she was shaking. “What happened that night?"

Callum crouched on one knee, brushing the pine needles away to reveal the dirt beneath. After thinking for a moment, he wrote: Prisuners.

Marguerite shook her head, not understanding. “But there weren’t any prisoners there. It was just a small outpost.” Taking the twig from him, she adjusted the word he’d misspelled.

He shrugged and wrote again: Not my kil.

“Then why did they find one of your arrows there?”

Angry.

“Who was responsible for it? Were my father’s men involved?” She stared at the dirt, waiting for his answers.

Scots.

A hundred more questions crowded inside her, but she stopped asking. There was no point to it.

She wanted to rest her cheek against his chest, holding fast to the man who held her heart. But if she dared to defy her father now, the Duc might accuse Callum of leading the attack upon the garrison. And he would die for it.

He came to stand before her. Although she couldn’t look him in the eye, she felt the quiet intensity of his presence. She continued to let out the tears, wishing he could somehow talk to her.

But there were no words at all. Only the quiet stare of a man whose silence would be viewed as guilt.

“You can’t defend yourself,” she whispered, finally meeting his gaze. “They’ll take you prisoner, and I can’t do anything to stop them. Not if you can’t speak.”

And though he had spoken on a few occasions, it seemed he had little control over the words. Whatever had caused him to lose his voice was still holding him captive.

“You should leave now,” she ordered, feeling broken at the thought. “Go back to Glen Arrin before they find you.”

He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. She couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t try to save himself. Didn’t he realize what he would face?

A faint noise caught her attention, and she froze, as if someone were watching them. Whether or not it was an animal, she needed to return.

Marguerite reached for his hands, her pulse racing. “I know you don’t want to leave, but you must.” She stared into his deep brown eyes. “You saved my life in the battle. Now let me save yours.”

He threaded his hands into her hair, but his expression was inscrutable. “No.”

“Why? Would you rather die?” She gripped his head, the anger blazing through her. “Do you think I’ll stand aside and let that happen?”

“If . . . leave, you . . . wed him.” His brown eyes were nearly black with his own shielded frustration, and she pressed herself closer, trying to use any means possible to convince him.

“I would wed Satan himself if it kept you alive.” She raised her mouth to his, needing to show him without words, what he meant to her. Their lips mingled and in the strength of his arms, she felt whole. She wanted Callum to stay, to help him break through the wall of his silence. He was starving for words, and he needed her help. But there was no choice. He had to leave or face his death.

Callum kissed her hard, his arms holding her close as if he could capture her spirit. As he slid his tongue against her mouth, she opened to him, her hips molded against his. Every last thought in her mind disappeared when his tongue slid against hers, reminding her of the way he’d made love to her. His body went rigid, his hands moving over her bottom, bringing her closer.

Marguerite surrendered to the instincts roaring inside, her swollen lips kissing him hard as his erection strained against her softness. She was trembling in his arms, wanting so much more than she could have. Her breath quickened in her lungs, and desire clouded the thoughts spinning in her mind.

“Marguerite,” he said, pulling back to look at her. In his dark eyes, she saw the man who held no fear at all for their future. He didn’t seem to care that she was betrothed to another.

In his eyes, she saw that he wanted no other woman but her. And though she wanted to fight to be with him, never would she let him die. Not when she could save him.

“Do you want your father to know?”

Marguerite turned around from the door to her chamber. In the hall stood the captain of her father’s guards, Xavier.

“What do you mean?” She turned to face the man. His thin face was smug, and she didn’t trust him at all.

“I followed you tonight. And I saw you with the Scot. The mute one who works in the stables.”

His knowing look made Marguerite’s heart catch. If he told the Duc, that she’d kissed Callum, there was no knowing the depths of her father’s fury. She stared at the captain, not wanting to reveal anything to him.

“What will you pay for my silence?” he prompted.

The threat reached down past her fear and squeezed the throat of her anger. Drawing upon it, she took a step toward him. “What would you pay to keep yourself alive?”

Ice hung from her voice as she withdrew her eating knife and pointed it towards him. “All I have to do is tell my father that you tried to hurt me. That you tried to force your attentions on me, and you’ll feel the lash upon your back. Perhaps worse.”

“It would be a lie.”

She forced a thin smile. “But he would believe me, not you. So if you dare to spread stories to my father, remember what I can do to you.”

He stared at her, his expression as hard as iron. She’d made an enemy this night, for no doubt he’d hoped she would line his pockets with silver. But she was not about to let him threaten her.

After he left, she couldn’t calm the beating of her heart. Though she tried to veil herself with the guise of serenity, inwardly she was drowning in fear for Callum. They would find him if he didn’t go.

She went inside her chamber and sat down while her maid tended her gown and hair. Her lips were still swollen from Callum’s kiss, her body on edge. Outside, it had begun to rain, and she worried about him dwelling among the trees.

She stared at her chamber and the small bed with soft sheets and warm coverings. All her life, she’d lived in the finest castles and houses, wearing expensive gowns and dining upon exotic foods. This was her life, and her father would never allow anything less.

But it was no longer what she wanted.

Marguerite dismissed her maid and went to stand at the small slit of a window, watching the darkness outside. If she were wed to Callum, she would never again live in a castle or wear gowns like this. There would be no maids or servants.

She’d enjoyed the time she’d spent with the MacKinlochs, but it had been so different. They fought to survive, instead of worrying about which husband would bring the greatest status. When she looked around at her life, it felt selfish and shallow.

She closed her eyes, resting up against the wall of her chamber. Her only hope was to speak with Penrith, to somehow convince him to let her go.

Her father never protested at all, when she asked to ride alone with the earl. Though Lord Penrith seemed amenable enough, she dreaded telling him the truth. She took the lead, bringing him away from the castle to the hill overlooking the sea.

At the sight of the blue waves smoothing the edges of sand, she thought of how Callum had taught her to swim and the morning she’d spent in his arms. Guilt flushed her cheeks, but she had to speak with the earl and make him understand why she couldn’t wed him.

Once they stopped the horses, the earl held the reins and regarded her. “You said before that you didn’t want this betrothal.”

She shook her head. “But not because of you.”

His blue eyes turned thoughtful, and he held out his hand to her, inviting her to walk. “Are you so certain it would not be a good marriage?”

“It would be wrong. And though my father will be furious with me, you deserve my honesty.” Her cheeks burned, but she forced herself to continue with the confession. “You deserve a virgin bride for your wedding bed.”

He said nothing for a long time, turning away from her while he thought. She expected anger or a biting response. Instead, he stared out at the sea.

“I have made many mistakes in my life,” Marguerite continued. “But it would be a greater mistake to let you believe that I would be a good wife. I cannot wed you.”

The earl’s expression turned thoughtful. “You know nothing about me, Lady Marguerite.”

She waited for him to continue, and he added, “I, too, know what it is to care for someone else. Someone unsuitable for marriage.”

When he looked back at her, she saw the echoing shadow in his eyes, but he masked it with a sardonic smile. “I see no reason why we cannot find another solution that would benefit us both.”

“What do you mean?”

“Keep your lover,” he suggested. “Have him join us in England, if that is your will. So long as you are discreet, I won’t stop you.”

Shock rendered her speechless. She had no idea how to respond to such an offer. “And what if I bore a child from him?”

The earl shrugged. “Then I will not have to share your bed.” The look in his eyes spoke of a man who didn’t want to perform his marital duty. “I made this betrothal because I need an heir for my lands. If you provide it for me, I care not who the father is.”

“I don’t understand.”

His face held a trace of bitterness. “A lady such as yourself wouldn’t. But I think we would do well together. I like your sense of honor. And you.”

Her gaze lowered to the ground. “Let me go, Lord Penrith. Please.”

“No,” was his answer. Though he spoke the word lightly, she sensed the steel beneath his tone. He was a man who possessed his own authority, one with a resolve to equal her own.

He softened his refusal by giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Consider my offer, Lady Marguerite. A respectable marriage, a strong alliance . . . and a blind eye toward your lover. It should be enough for you.”

Perhaps it should, but it wasn’t. She didn’t understand his nonchalant attitude toward infidelity. Most men would be furious to learn that their brides were no longer innocent. But the earl was unlike the other suitors she’d met.

Lord Penrith returned to the horses and waited to boost her back on to her saddle. He glanced back at her, and in his eyes she saw a man resolved to keeping this betrothal. Though she didn’t understand his reasons for making the marriage, something bothered her about his behavior. “I am sorry,” she told the earl, “but I must speak with my father. I cannot marry you.”

His face was like a block of marble, smooth and unyielding. “Ask, if that is your will, Lady Marguerite. But I have no intention of breaking our agreement.”

Callum spent most of the morning considering what to do. Marguerite’s insistence, that he return to Glen Arrin, weighed upon him. Though he understood that she didn’t want him implicated in the murder, if he left now, she would be lost to him.

She’d signed the betrothal agreement, and her father would coerce her into wedding the Earl of Penrith. He was convinced of it.

Aye, walking away now might save his life. But his life was nothing more than an empty shell without her. He wasn’t willing to let her fears dictate his actions. Why should he hide like an outlaw because her father held power? If he fled, it was as good as admitting guilt.

Callum slung his bow over his shoulders and journeyed the long walk to the castle, intending to return to the stables. At his waist, he carried the pouch of parchment, quill, and ink that Marguerite had given him. Though it might not be needed, at least he could write a few words to defend himself.

Before he reached the castle, he saw a gathering of men, just outside the gates. Among them, he spied Iagar.

“MacKinloch,” came the man’s voice. “We’re leaving Duncraig. You’ll come with us.”

Callum sent Iagar a stare and shook his head. Did the man think he was going to blindly obey strangers? Keeping a neutral expression on his face, he continued his walk when the man blocked his path.

“They’ve taken Sileas for questioning. He’s going to break if they torture him. And who do you think he’ll blame for all of it?” Iagar’s tone turned menacing. “I’m trying to save your ungrateful arse, MacKinloch. Come with us and save yourself.”

Callum kept walking, not even bothering to look at the man.

“You were with Lady Marguerite when you escorted her on her ride the other day.”

At those words, Callum stopped. Was the bastard threatening her? His hand clenched around his bow, and he fought to keep his expression shielded.

“She’s a bonny one, the lass is. What do you think her father will do to her after he learns she’s been with a Scot?” Iagar dropped his voice to a whisper. “Was she good? Should I have a taste of her, after you’re dead?”

Callum spun, his hands reaching for Iagar’s throat. But found instead, the point of a dirk at his throat. “You don’t have a choice in this, MacKinloch. If you stay, you die.”

Not if he could help it. Callum seized the man’s wrist and squeezed until Iagar released the weapon. The man’s face reddened as he struggled to free himself from his grasp. He stared hard, letting the man know he could crack the bone if he wanted to.

“Die, then, if that’s what you want.” He bent to pick up the dirk, and Callum never took his eyes off the man as Iagar retreated.

“But if you betray us, it’s your death. And hers.”