Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

When she returned from her ride with the earl, Marguerite was startled to see her aunt speaking to Xavier, the captain of her father’s guard. The two soldiers who had been her escorts, Thomas and John, were bound with rope.

After she gave her horse over to the stable master, Marguerite hurried forward. Her aunt had a gloating expression upon her face, one she didn’t understand.

“Why are these men being detained?” she asked Beatrice. “They are my guards, are they not?”

“They stole from you, Lady Marguerite,” Xavier answered. “They took pearls from you and tried to use them for their own compensation.”

“Thievery is not tolerated here,” her aunt added. “They will each lose a hand for what they’ve done.”

“It was not thievery,” Marguerite said, stepping between them. “The pearls were a gift to them and to the men you punished. As compensation for what they’ve had to endure.” She drew herself up to face her aunt, adding, “Surely you cannot punish these men for what was freely given.”

“Take them below,” her aunt ordered Xavier. “My niece and I will discuss this.”

The false look of benevolence on Beatrice’s face repulsed Marguerite. She darted forward and seized the blade from Xavier’s waist. With a few slices through the rope, she freed the men and ordered them to go. Turning to Beatrice, she commanded, “You will not take them prisoner.”

“You overstep yourself.”

“No.” With the knife still in her palm, she advanced upon her aunt, feeling the sudden rush of danger in her veins. “I have had my fill of you attempting to take my mother’s place. This is my home, and you are nothing more than my father’s putain.”

Beatrice’s eyes gleamed with rage. “I will not tolerate such insults from you, Marguerite.” With a hand, she dismissed Xavier. Only when she was certain the men were safe, did Marguerite lower her knife.

“I told you not to make an enemy of me, Marguerite,” her aunt said calmly. “You lied to the Duc about our . . . conflict.”

“I spoke the truth. You tried to starve me in my own home. And you punished innocent men.” The anger rose up, nearly blinding her with its intensity. “And now you think to punish more of them?”

A thin smile spread over Beatrice’s face. “I am not without mercy. If you say that you gave jewels to these men, so be it. But your father will not be pleased to learn that you granted favors to his men.”

She didn’t miss the implication in the matron’s words. “I granted no favors. Only compensation for their trouble.”

“You mean bribes, so they would let you meet your lover in the forest,” Beatrice corrected. “Xavier told me about him. One of the MacKinlochs, isn’t he?” She took a step forward, grasping her skirts as she climbed the stairs leading into the Hall. “I saw him near the stables just now.”

The rush of fear swept through her at first, leaving Marguerite speechless. She masked her emotions, keeping her tone firm. “You will not threaten him.”

“I don’t have to,” Beatrice said. “Xavier is taking him to your father now, for questioning. I would suggest that you be careful about what you say. He was carrying a quiver filled with black-feathered arrows, just like the one they found at the garrison.”

As her aunt slipped inside the Hall, Marguerite turned back and saw Callum surrounded by soldiers. He made no move to fight them off but went into their custody without argument.

God above, she didn’t know how to save him without implicating them both.

Guy de Montpierre stared at the Scot standing before him. It was the mute who had taken shelter in the stables. One of the soldiers had taken a quiver from him, and held up a black-feathered arrow.

“Is that yours?” the Duc asked.

The Scot gave a single nod, his face shielded without emotion or fear. Eyeing his guards, Guy motioned for them to draw in closer, to prevent the archer from making an escape. He suspected this man had something to do with the attack on the garrison, but why would he have returned to the stables? Already he’d heard of several other Scots who had disappeared, and he’d sent men after them. But this man’s behavior spoke of a man who possessed great courage or else a man who was the greatest fool. Curious, he gestured for the man to sit. “Can you speak at all?”

The man gave no answer but opened a pouch at his waist and held out a piece of parchment. Intrigued, the Duc allowed him to sit. Few men could write, and he wondered if a priest had taught him.

The Scot struggled to grip the pen, but he wrote only two words. The first was MacKinloch. The second was Marguerite.

At the sight of his daughter’s name, a cold fury took command of his temper. If this man was a MacKinloch, then he had lived with Marguerite during the time she’d taken sanctuary with them. His suspicions darkened, and he was beginning to see a pattern in his daughter’s behavior. The thought of her having anything to do with this Scot enraged him. If he’d harmed her in any way, Guy wouldn’t hesitate to give him a traitor’s death.

Beatrice’s suggestion, that she had been meeting a man in secret, suddenly held a grain of truth. Mon Dieu, the Scot must be the reason for Marguerite’s reluctance to wed.

“What does my daughter have to do with this?” Guy demanded. It was an effort to keep from killing the man right now.

MacKinloch set down the quill, giving no answer at all.

“Send for Marguerite,” the Duc ordered. In the minutes before her arrival, he glared at the Scot. If you’ve hurt her in any way, you answer to me.

But there was only the quiet stare of defiance in the man’s eyes.

When at last Marguerite appeared in the Hall, she touched her hand to her heart in fear. So. She did know the MacKinloch clansman.

“You lied to me,” the Duc said coolly. “You said you didn’t know this man. But he claims he’s a MacKinloch.”

Marguerite’s face blanched, but she nodded. Embarrassment flooded her face, but she admitted, “Callum MacKinloch is his name. His brother Alex is the clan chief.”

“Why did he come here?” the Duc demanded. "And why did you lie?" It wasn’t at all in Marguerite’s nature to tell an untruth, and from the way she avoided looking at the man, his suspicions magnified.

“I don’t know why.”

“Marguerite,” he warned, crossing the room to stand before her. “Tell me what you know of this man.”

Fear made her cheeks whiten, but she said, “I saved his life when he was Cairnross’s prisoner. He protected all of us in the battle, before you came with your men. That’s all.”

“Is it?” He didn’t believe her. Likely she was trying to protect the man. “Did you teach him to write?”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she confessed the truth. “Yes.”

To do so meant that she’d spent time with MacKinloch. The thought made him want to flay the Scot alive. Guy’s hands curled into fists at his side, and at that moment, the Earl of Penrith moved into the Hall. His eyes moved to Marguerite, and she sent him a silent plea.

MacKinloch’s gaze moved upon both of them, and Guy didn’t miss his possessive stare. This Scot somehow believed he could force his way into Marguerite’s life.

Guy didn’t care what lies had been spoken or what had happened in the past. He wouldn’t allow any man to threaten his daughter’s future. Especially not a common Scot who couldn’t even speak.

Lord Penrith came forward, interrupting. “This morn, Lady Marguerite and I came to an understanding about our betrothal.”

There was reassurance in the man’s gaze. When he turned to his daughter, Guy saw the wrenching pain in her blue eyes. To her credit, she did not deny the earl’s claim. Penrith came to stand beside her, taking her hand in his. Whatever had transpired in the past would not be held against Marguerite. The alliance was not in danger, and when Guy eyed his daughter, she gave a silent nod.

The Duc turned back to the Scot, wanting to know more about the murdered Englishmen. “You were there on the night the garrison was attacked, weren’t you?”

Callum gave a nod.

“He witnessed the raid,” Marguerite interrupted. “The arrow you found was his, when he tried to stop the men.”

No doubt she was trying to protect the Scot. Before he could say anything else, Marguerite continued, “I warned him not to stay here, that you might blame him for it.”

And so he would, if the man were guilty. In his daughter’s voice, he heard the shaking fear, and he intended to use it to his advantage. To MacKinloch, he asked, “Why were you there that night?”

The man wrote a few words on the parchment and held it up.

“He thought there were prisoners being held at the outpost,” Marguerite said, deciphering the handwriting. “He wanted to free them.”

“And why should I believe that you were innocent of wrongdoing?”

MacKinloch said nothing, setting the quill down. His hard stare challenged the Duc, almost daring him to take him prisoner.

“He came to you, instead of fleeing like the others,” Marguerite interrupted again. “And when he gives you the names, you should punish those responsible for the murders.”

“I have no reason to give my trust,” he countered. “But I will question MacKinloch further.”

She came forward and took his arm. “I know what that means.” In her blue eyes, he saw the terror, and it only confirmed his belief that Marguerite held feelings for the Scot. “No torture,” she pleaded. “I beg of you, let him go.”

Guy gave no response, his gaze fixed upon MacKinloch. There was no trace of fear on the man’s face, only acceptance.

“I will use whatever means are necessary to find the truth,” he replied, removing Marguerite’s hand from his arm.

“Please,” she whispered.

The Duc let her draw her own conclusions. Often, the very threat of torture was enough to break a man. Especially one who had endured it before.

He signaled for his men to take Callum MacKinloch into custody. “Escort him below. I will have words with him later.”

His daughter looked stricken, but she gave no argument. Only after MacKinloch was gone, did she turn to him. “I have given you nothing but obedience, my entire life. I’ve agreed to marry a man of your choosing and asked nothing for myself in return.”

In her voice, he heard the fear and unshed tears. “Father, I ask only that you let him return to Glen Arrin.”

“Did he touch you?”

She lowered her head, and shook it in denial. But he saw the guilt and embarrassment on her face. Another lie.

By God, he was going to tear the Scot apart.

“Your Grace—” The earl moved forward between them and took Marguerite’s hand. “Whatever happened in the past will remain there. I am well aware of your daughter’s feelings, and I believe we will have a stronger start to our marriage if it begins with forgiveness.”

Guy studied Lord Penrith, wondering if he spoke the truth. There was no trace of anger upon the man’s face, and it did seem that he didn’t hold Marguerite at fault.

A fraction of the tension eased from his shoulders. “What say you, Marguerite?”

Her face held misery, her mouth downcast. But she nodded her agreement. “I will go through with the marriage.” She stared back at him, her face pale. “But if I find out you have harmed Callum in any way, I will not marry the earl or any other man.”

Her threat caught him off-guard. “You’ve no right to issue warnings to me, Daughter. You should be grateful for the earl’s benevolence.”

“It is a vow that will be broken if you dare to hurt him.”

She meant it. Though her voice remained quiet and calm, he heard the sincerity in her tone. It seemed his daughter had grown a spine, after all.

A dull regret spread through him, that it had come to this. Guy couldn’t understand what Marguerite could possibly see in the Scot. The man was so poor, he had nothing at all to give her. No doubt he was using her heart, trying to better himself by attracting her attention.

His daughter was far too gentle and soft-hearted for her own good. And he’d move the moon from the sky to keep her safe.

“I vow that I will not harm him,” he said. But then, there were ways of assuring that MacKinloch would never see Marguerite again. Ways that ordinary men wouldn’t survive, and Guy didn’t have to lay a hand upon him.

The broken relief in her face bothered him, and she insisted, “As long as he is safe and alive, I will keep my word.”

But she didn’t look at the earl, as if there was no hope of affection between them. Guy gave a nod, vowing to put an end to whatever was between her and the Scot.

Her acquiescence was the only reason he kept MacKinloch alive.

Two days later

“You’re pacing,” the earl remarked.

Marguerite stopped and realized he was right. They were inside the solarium, and Lady Beatrice was sewing in the corner. She sent a look toward the matron, and Lord Penrith guessed what she wanted. He spoke quietly to the older woman, and soon enough, they were alone.

Marguerite felt the walls closing in on her. Callum was being held in the storage chamber below ground, guarded night and day. “They won’t let me see him,” she admitted. “I fear my father may not have kept his word.” It felt strange confessing this to the man who wanted to wed her.

The earl crossed the room and took her hands. His palms were warm, his face concerned. “Thus far, he has not touched him.”

Marguerite studied him and remarked, “Would you release me from this marriage, if I asked it of you again?”

He went quiet for a time, his hands still holding hers. “No, Lady Marguerite. I intend to wed you, just as we agreed.”

“Why?” She stared at the earl, unable to understand him.

“As I told you before, I need an heir and a wife. The Duc has offered a generous dowry for you, one that will help me to rebuild my estates.”

“Any other woman could do that for you.”

“No.”

She let go of his hands, holding herself around the waist. “I am sorry, but I cannot give Callum up. I belong with him.”

“We will marry in a few days, and I will bring you back to England,” Lord Penrith said. “There you will be Lady of my estates and govern them in my absence. The rest of my household will see a husband and wife who are good friends. But I will not share your bed.”

She paled. “Why? If you seek an heir, then—”

His face took on a derisive smile. “My tastes do not run toward women.”

Understanding dawned within her. It explained why he had not once tried to kiss her or seek her affections. The earl wanted her friendship, but nothing else.

“You see, then, why I do not mind if you keep a lover, so long as you are discreet. No one need know of it.”

She closed her eyes, admitting, “Callum would never agree to it. His family and home are in Scotland.” She took a breath and faced him. “There must be another way.”

The earl took her hand again. “Your father has made his wishes clear, and so have I. If you wed me, you can have all that you want, Marguerite. Or if you refuse, your lover will face the accusation of murder.”

Bitterness slashed through her at the thought. She knew how angry Callum would be if she wed the earl. But she could see no other way of saving his life.

“What does my father intend to do?”

“After our marriage, he will send the Scot back to his clan. In the meantime, he will hold him for questioning.”

She closed her eyes, distrust washing over her. “Will you send word to the MacKinlochs in Glen Arrin? His brothers might be able to help.”

“I can, yes.”

She heard the unspoken words, If you go through with our marriage. Though she didn’t know if she could make that promise, she was grateful for the earl’s assistance.

“I need to see Callum,” she pleaded. “I need to know that he hasn’t been harmed.”

The earl drew closer, his hand moving to her nape. “I can arrange it.” The look in his eyes haunted her, and she didn’t understand it. “You could be with him this very night, if you so desire.” A shiver washed over her as his thumb edged her jaw. “Remember, Marguerite. I need a child from you.”

Dark bloodstains marred the stones, and chains rested upon the floor. Callum reached for one of the manacles, and his lungs tightened. Though the soldiers had not chained him, he might as well be a prisoner here. He paced across the small space, well aware of the man guarding him.

The Duc hadn’t come. Nor had anyone questioned him. He’d let Callum remain in the darkness, knowing that the waiting would only bring him closer to the madness captivity could bring.

Every hour, every moment that passed in darkness, made him lose track of the days and nights. There were no other prisoners here, and the isolation brought him back to the darker times he’d endured.

Callum retreated to the far wall, sitting down against the stone. How many times had he felt the lash upon his shoulders, the taunts of the soldiers? He’d been broken apart so often, it was a wonder he was still standing.

He closed his eyes, the past welling up inside him. The air within the space was cool and musty, like the night he’d nearly died. They’d separated him from Bram and brought him directly to Lord Cairnross.

Callum clenched the iron manacle, the weight heavy within his palms. That night, they’d stripped him of his tunic, using rope to bind him to a post. He’d stood with his back to Cairnross, and the men laid the sharp blade of a sword against his throat.

“You are so young, boy,” Cairnross had said. “Barely eight and ten, aren’t you? You’ve grown up in chains. And your brother has caused us more trouble. Tonight it ends.”

His teeth clamped together as he stared down at the dirt. Don’t speak, he warned himself. But when the lash struck him, he bit hard until he tasted blood in his mouth.

“Your brother will pay for his mistakes with your life,” Cairnross said. “The moment you cry out in pain, my men will slit your throat. Or you’ll be beaten to death. The choice is yours.”

Horror filled him at Cairnross’s declaration. Callum fought to free himself from the post, but the ropes abraded his wrists so tightly his skin burned. The lash struck, again and again, and he bit his lip so hard, the pain mirrored that of his back. The sword blade rested between his throat and the post, and fear consumed him.

He didn’t want to die. He’d never had the chance to live, or escape the chains that bound him in darkness. His body trembled beneath the onslaught of the lash, his knees weakening.

“Cry out, damn you!” Cairnross shouted.

He refused to give the man satisfaction. Deep within his mind, Callum found a place of silence. A place of strength where no one could touch him. Aye, he might die this night. Likely would. But he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of making him scream. He locked away the sounds, his knees folding. He expected the sword to bite into his throat, but it didn’t. The soldier kept it pressed to his throat but didn’t break the skin.

As the minutes passed into an hour, the blows slowed down. From deep inside, he fought against the punishing lash, reaching for the place of peace within himself, a place where there was no pain.

And still, he made no sound.

The soldier holding the blade began murmuring a prayer in Latin. Callum didn’t understand the words, but he recognized the offering of mercy.

Would this be the moment when the sword ended his life? No longer could he stand up. His body slumped against the ropes, his back raw and bleeding. Cairnross had already left, granting him a small victory, for Callum hadn’t voiced a single sound.

“Leave him,” the soldier holding the sword ordered. “He’ll be dead, soon enough.”

Instead, Bram had found him. His brother had cradled his broken body, openly weeping as he’d tended Callum’s wounds. He’d kept vigil and prayed over the next few nights when a fever had struck hard, leaving him to fight for his life.

But he’d survived it, at the cost of his voice.

The soft tread of footsteps drew him out of the vision. Marguerite came down the stairs, a determined look on her face.

He was hardly aware of her orders to the guards or why she was here now. The walls seemed to close in on him, heightening his discomfort. She’d been right. He shouldn’t have returned, and the intense need for freedom, was rising higher until it couldn’t be denied. But they wouldn’t let him go.

“I tried to come sooner,” she whispered. “I swear to you, I did.”

He didn’t ask how, but when her arms came around him, he closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. When she touched his back, he shuddered at the phantom pain from his memory.

“Are you all right? Did anyone harm you?”

“No,” he managed. He drew her into his lap, his back pressed against the wall. With her in his arms, she pushed away the shadows, bringing him back to the present.

“You’re trembling,” she whispered. “Let me warm you.” Her arms came around his neck, her body nestled as close as she could.

That she’d come this night, risking everything for him, was more than anyone had ever done.

You’re going to “. . . marry him, aren’t you?” The words were harsh in his throat, and he couldn’t quite voice the full sentence.

“You’re speaking,” she breathed, and he heard the surprise in her voice. “I’ve never heard you say so many words before.” She leaned in and kissed his mouth softly.

Only because of her. Marguerite had somehow reached inside him, unlocking the words. He didn’t question how or why, but he repeated the question. “Are you . . . ” going to wed him?

She seemed to sense what he was trying to say. “I’ll do whatever I must to save your life.”

Frustration boiled within him, that she would sacrifice herself. “Don’t,” he commanded against her mouth. He kissed her hard, taking her face within his hands. “You’re mine, Marguerite. Always were.”

“If I refuse, my father will hurt you,” she whispered. “I couldn’t live with myself if I caused that.” Her hands moved down to his back, and Callum cast a look at the door.

“Do they . . . know . . . ” The last few words caught, and he forced himself to slow down. One word at a time.

“. . . know you’re . . . here?” he repeated. He could imagine the Duc’s reaction if he learned Marguerite was with him at this moment.

She shook her head. “It’s the middle of the night, and nearly everyone is asleep. Lord Penrith—” A blush colored her cheeks at the mention of the earl. “He-he gave me the chance to say farewell to you.”

Farewell? As if she’d already made her decision to stay with him? His anger intensified toward the earl, and not for a moment did he trust that Penrith would want Marguerite left alone with a prisoner.

Callum tamped down the resentment and forced himself to respond. “Did he?”

She reached out to his face and changed the course of their conversation. “Who were the other men who killed the English soldiers that night?”

Though he named the others, he had little interest in what happened to them. It was the Duc’s task to seek justice. Even so, Marguerite seemed to commit the names to memory. “I will tell my father.”

It would do no good at all. He took a breath and spoke. “. . . won’t believe you. My word . . . against theirs.”

Callum touched her cheek, watching as she leaned in to his palm. Regardless of whether or not the Duc found the true guilty men, he didn’t doubt that the Duc would find some way of punishing him for the time he’d stolen with Marguerite.

He didn’t care. His life had been worthless enough, but she had been a precious gift. One he’d never deserved.

Marguerite toyed with the glass pendant he’d given her. “I’ll try to get you out. I need to bribe more of the guards.”

It was a fruitless effort, and he knew it. The only way he’d be allowed to leave was if the Duc agreed to it. For now, he wanted this moment with her.

“Stay,” he murmured against her throat. His mouth pressed against the pulse that thrummed beneath her skin. “As long . . . as you can.”

She shifted upon his lap, straddling him. He hardened instantly, remembering how he’d taken her that day on the sand. In the dim torchlight, her eyes were luminous, her body arousing him.

“Do you . . . remember?” he murmured.

“I remember when you were inside me.” Her face transformed, revealing her own needs. “It took my breath away.”

She moved against him, and he drew his hands beneath her skirts, touching her bare legs. Her mouth opened in shock as his hands drifted up her calves, to the backs of her knees. A shiver broke over her, and she drew her palms beneath his tunic.

“You’re the only man I want,” she confessed, touching his chest. “You’re the man I want to wake up with in the morning. Not someone else.”

“Then don’t,” he demanded. His hand moved higher, touching the curve of her hip, slipping between her thighs. He’ll never give you the same kind of pleasure I will.

Her eyes closed, a gasp escaping her mouth as he drew his knuckles against her soft mound. She bit her lip, and he heard the clenched moan within her throat.

“Don’t speak, Marguerite,” he whispered against her skin. “Not . . . a sound.”

Against his hand, she was wet, wanting him so badly. He tormented her with the lightest touch, shifting his fingers intimately against her. Her breasts ached for his touch, and she reached up, struggling to loosen the cote she wore. It was dangerous, being with him here while the rest of the castle slept. At any moment, someone could intrude upon them.

There was no time for slow, gentle lovemaking. No, this was a desperate need, to take him into her body and savor the last time together. After tonight, she would hold this memory in her heart.

Callum’s hands moved out from beneath her gown to touch her shoulders. Marguerite sensed his hesitation and the fear that they would be caught together.

“Please,” she whispered, moving her hands down to his trews. Against her palm, she felt his heavy arousal, and his breath inhaled sharply.

Silently, she touched him, exploring him through the rough wool. “Be with me now,” she begged.

His answer was to lower the gown, drawing it down one shoulder. Her arms were trapped in the tight sleeves, as he bared her breasts. Leaning down, he teased her nipple with his tongue. Tasting her, awakening the bloom of dark pleasure that he offered.

Against her hand, she felt his erection straining, growing harder. As he suckled her, she curled her fingers around him, rubbing against his shaft. He helped to free himself until she could feel the heat of his length against her wetness.

“No sound,” he whispered again, guiding her hips up. His thickness stretched at her entrance, but he entered her easily, as if he were made to be joined with her.

Her arms were pinned at her sides, and he lifted her a fraction higher, letting her slide upon him as he kissed her bare skin.

Marguerite fought to remain silent as he started to thrust with a gentle rhythm, now using his mouth to encircle her breasts, in a nibbling warmth that he brought up to her throat and down her shoulder. His hands lifted her bottom, and he was so hard, she ached as he sheathed himself within her. The torment of being unable to speak grew more intense, and he withdrew from her body, standing up.

She was about to protest, when suddenly, he lifted her, balancing her back against the wall. Her skirts hung down, but he bunched them at her waist, holding her tight as he eased back inside. She was feverishly hot, drowning with need for him.

Though his voice was rough and broken, he told her of the night he’d lost his voice, and the horror of the sword against his throat. Her arms tightened around him as he thrust inside, telling her of how he’d almost died.

Tears welled up, but she let him release all the words, all the horrors.

“I survived,” he said, still inside her as he lowered her to stand. He guided her hip around his, and drew his fingers back between her legs. “But you gave . . . a reason to fight. Reason to live.”

He kissed away her tears as his hands stroked and caressed her. With his body still sheathed within her, she felt as if she were being touched by both his hands and his manhood. The sensations were magnified, and she guided his hands where she wanted them. His eyes burned into hers as he touched her until she was trembling. She moved against him, feeling him penetrate as his hands urged her closer to the edge.

“I love you,” she told him, locking her gaze with his.

The words transformed him, and he stilled, their bodies joined together. His voice was hoarse, but every word was clear. “Love you . . . Marguerite.”

Her heart warmed to know it, and his hands moved in a caress while he entered her tenderly. He continued the deep penetration, and the rhythmic caresses of his hands sent her past the brink. She bit back a scream, and as she came apart, his mouth closed over her breast in a hot, wet suction.

“Love you,” he repeated, and his movement changed from gentle into a man starving for her. He quickened his pace, thrusting against her so hard, she came again, half-crying at the intensity of pleasure.

No longer did she care where they were or that they might be caught. She wanted him to feel the same release that she’d found, and she met him, her hips pushing in counterpoint to his. Gripping his hair, she wrapped her legs around his waist and he backed her against the wall again, his body moving in swift strokes. She saw the exertion on his face, welcomed the slick penetration of his manhood inside her, and he kept up the harsh pace.

“Don’t . . . wed him, Marguerite,” he commanded. “I’ll . . . find a way for us. I swear.”

But as he let out a groan and spilled his essence within her, she could only hold him. Tears filled up her eyes, for there seemed no possible means of being with this man.

And it broke her heart.