Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

She left him an hour later. The darkness enveloped him, leaving him with nothing but a memory. Her scent was upon him, and Callum closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall.

Today. He was going to speak with the Duc and make his way out of the prison. He didn’t doubt that Marguerite’s father would leave him down here to rot, if he could.

The sound of the guards returning interrupted his plans. A man’s voice broke through the silence, and a chained figure fell upon the ground, only a few feet away. In the darkness, it was hard to tell who it was, but Callum spied the tell-tale marks of a whiplash.

“That you, MacKinloch?” Sileas demanded. The older man’s hands were chained together, but he managed to come closer.

Callum said nothing, letting the man believe that he still lacked the ability to speak. The older man slumped against the wall beside him, his head resting between his knees. “Hope ye said a prayer last night. For today’s the day we die.”

He stared at Sileas, waiting for the man to continue.

“I gave them names. Told them you were with us.” A grimace twisted his mouth. “We’ll be hanged for it.”

He didn’t doubt that the Duc would hold him accountable, regardless that he’d done nothing wrong—if for no other reason that he’d dared to love Marguerite.

Throughout the next hour, he barely heard another word the old man said, for his mind was turning over ways to escape. At this moment, his hands were unbound, and only the guards stood between him and freedom. He had to seize the one chance he had.

Within the stone walls, there were no weapons. No stones, no blades—nothing at all. Stealth and surprise were the only advantages.

The old man began mumbling prayers again, and it was clear that he’d already given up. Callum stood, moving toward the stairs. At the top, the two guards blocked his way.

“I want . . . to speak with the Duc,” he demanded, frustrated with himself when his voice was still hoarse and the words stalled when he spoke.

The first guard seemed startled to realize that he could make any sounds at all. But he shrugged, answering, “You will be taken before him at noon this day.”

“Why?”

The guard said nothing, and Callum suspected that Sileas’s claim, that they would be put to death, had truth in it. “Who else?”

The guard named a few of the men who had gone on the raid, finishing with, “The old man, yourself, and Iagar Campbell.” His expression turned grim. “You can’t escape it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

But Marguerite had sworn she would not go through with the marriage if he was harmed. Therefore, it was unlikely she would be present to witness his death. Her father would invent an excuse.

“He wants you gone, MacKinloch. Because of the Lady.”

Callum didn’t doubt it. Guy de Montpierre wouldn’t hesitate to punish him for touching Marguerite. Most men would be frightened to think of dying within a few hours. But he’d faced his own death so many times, it didn’t distract him from his purpose. He would find a way out, at a moment when they least expected it.

He took a step backwards, as if he were returning, but stumbled forward, bumping against the guard.

He muttered an apology, falling back into the shadows. And as he retreated, he slipped the dagger he’d stolen beneath his tunic. The weapon would serve him well when it was needed.

The afternoon sun rose high, spreading its light across fleecy clouds. Marguerite saw the prisoners gathered below, the same men whose names she had given to her father. Justice would be done for the murders.

A light knock sounded upon her door, and when she called out for the visitor to enter, she saw the Earl of Penrith standing. His expression appeared strained. “You should come below, Marguerite.”

“I have no wish to watch men being hanged. Even if it was for murder.”

“What of your lover? Will you not let him look upon your face for the last time before he dies?”

His words startled her into numbness. “Callum is there? But my father—”

“One of the guards whom I sent away that night, told the Duc that you spent hours together.” The earl’s gaze lowered to her waist. “Could he have gotten you with child?”

Her cheeks burned with shame. “I don’t know.” She still couldn’t grasp the earl’s willingness to accept a bastard as his own, if by some mercy she had conceived a new life.

“If you want him to live, his time grows short.” The earl waited, and Marguerite gripped her skirts, hurrying outside her chamber.

She raced down the stairs and out of the Hall, down another flight of stone stairs before she reached the area where the men were being held. As Penrith had predicted, Callum was with the others. He stood behind them, his arms bound behind his back. A row of seven nooses hung from a scaffold, one for each man. Her father stood near the front, watching as the charges were read.

Marguerite fled to the Duc’s side, and her father gripped her wrist. “The captain of my guard, Xavier, warned me that you had met with the Scot. Is it true that you spent last night with him?”

She couldn’t answer. There were no words that would make him understand. Instead, she bolstered her courage and said, “Execute him, and I will not marry Penrith.”

“I am your father,” he whispered harshly. “All your life, I’ve provided you with everything. And this is how you repay me? By giving yourself to a man who has nothing at all? Who will never give you the life I’ve intended for you?”

“It is my life,” she whispered. “And he would walk through hellfire if I asked it of him. Don’t you know he could have left at any time? He stayed for me.”

“Then your face will be the last he sees when he dies.”

Her blood froze within her veins, her body numb at the thought of Callum joining the other men who swung, already dead. “Don’t do this. He was innocent that night. He tried to stop the others.”

“Marguerite.” Her father’s voice held weariness. “Do you truly believe this is about the murders at the garrison?”

It was about her daring to love a man who was not of the same wealth or class. About her surrendering her virtue for love, instead of duty.

“If you kill him, I will never speak to you again,” she warned. “You will have no part in my life.”

She started to walk toward Callum, while they led the next man toward the gallows. Though he remained still, she saw his eyes searching. He glanced at the row of archers standing a short distance behind him, and then his gaze fell upon her.

Her heart sank, and she drank in the details of his strong face and long dark hair. She didn’t care what she had to do, but she refused to stand and watch him die.

It will be all right, his eyes seemed to say. She couldn’t understand how, for he was surrounded on all sides. Even the Duc stood near the gallows, to witness the executions.

But then, without warning, one of the prisoners broke free of his ropes. Marguerite saw the man rushing toward her father, and horror filled her when she saw the flash of his knife.

The blade glinted as he raised it high to stab the Duc. Her father flinched, holding him back with all his strength.

A moment later, an arrow shot across the inner bailey, embedding into the prisoner’s back. A second followed, and he dropped where he stood.

The entire courtyard grew still, and she saw the bow that Callum had seized from a nearby archer. Somehow, he’d broken free of his own bindings and saved her father’s life.

The Duc stared at him, but there was no gratefulness in his eyes. Instead, he appeared furious that Callum had been the one to rescue him. He crossed the space between them, stepping past the body of his would-be assassin.

Their eyes locked, and Marguerite hurried toward them. Something made her stop, however, when she saw the rage in her father’s eyes.

“I don’t know what role you played in that attack,” he began, “but others say you should be hanged for it.”

“I killed . . . no one,” Callum said. “Too late to stop them.”

The Duc eyed him with a hard stare before he turned his gaze back upon her with an unspoken accusation. Marguerite felt the intensity of his frustration and hatred toward the man she loved.

“So you can speak,” he remarked. “I wonder what else you’ve lied about.”

Callum gave no reply, and Marguerite held her own silence. Both of them realized that one wrong word would mean his death.

Instead, she moved to her father and took his hand. Kneeling down, she lifted his hand to her forehead in a silent plea. Let him live, she prayed.

Guy’s fingers rested upon her veiled hair, and she could feel the trembling anger he held back. “Take him north, into the mountains,” her father ordered, “and leave him there.”

Shock flooded through her, and she stood, reaching for his hand. But the Duc withdrew it, moving away from her without casting her a single glance. His soldiers moved in to surround Callum, who made no attempt to escape their custody.

“I’ll grant you your life, as compensation for mine,” the Duc acceded, “but do not show your face to me again. Or my daughter.”

The statement was like an arrow through her heart, shredding apart her hope. Marguerite never took her eyes from Callum, though they blurred with tears. The soldiers dragged him away, and he fixed his gaze upon her.

Remember, you are mine.

I won’t forget you, she swore, in her own silence. My heart is yours.

And when he’d gone, she sank to her knees, feeling utterly lost.

They left him with nothing but the clothes on his back. No food, no water. No shelter. It was the Duc’s way of offering a death sentence without laying a hand upon him.

He’d been blindfolded throughout the journey, giving him no means of knowing where he was. Callum could only estimate how far they’d brought him, praying that he would find some familiar landscape or a clan nearby.

The land was a bright green, with mountains rising all around him. In this part of Scotland, trees were less common, and with no horse, he had to walk mile after mile with no way to guide him.

Worst of all, he suspected that Marguerite must have gone through with the marriage. Her father had spared his life, leaving her with little choice. Enough time had passed that she was likely the earl’s wife now.

Like a slow torture, it dug into his skin, the thought of another man taking his place.

He stumbled to his knees beside a stream, drinking the cold water while he tried to exorcise the image from his mind. Aye, they’d let him live. And though he knew enough to survive off the land, every taste of food was bitter in his mouth. The damned helpless feeling was driving him into madness. He didn’t know where he was or how to find Marguerite again.

And if he did reveal himself, the Duc would kill him where he stood.

You never deserved Marguerite, the voice inside him warned. She was never yours.

But for every day, of the rest of his life, he would remember the pain in her eyes when they’d taken him away. She’d loved him, just as he loved her. She’d come to him in the darkness, bringing him into the light.

Callum climbed one of the hills, grasping at the long grasses for balance. With every step, his lungs burned, his body fighting the weakness from hunger and lack of sleep. Doggedly, he continued on, until he reached the apex.

From all around, he could see the land, rising and falling in a sea of green. Tiny rivulets of water creased the hills, waterfalls that carved silver ridges into the surface.

The temptation pulled at him, to simply lie here and let go. He would never have Marguerite, no matter how hard he fought for her. Even when he’d asked her to leave everything behind, she hadn’t come. And her father would never allow her that freedom.

Her life was too deeply woven into a world of nobility, one he’d never belong to. But in those brief, stolen moments, she’d given him a taste of heaven. He’d loved her with every breath, every part of his soul.

Upon the ridge, he watched the sun rise higher, spilling over the land in rays of gold. The immensity of his isolation filled him with the vision of years spent without her.

Sometimes he wondered if death would have been a gift, to be with her until the last breath passed from his body. But he didn’t want to give up on her or let go of that dream. She’d wanted him as much as he wanted her.

And if he found his way back to Glen Arrin and made a life without her, it was an act of cowardice. She was meant to be his, regardless of whether anyone else believed it.

No longer would he wait for her to make a decision or try to extricate herself from the tangled web of obligations. This time, he wouldn’t ask. He would simply take her with him and damn the consequences. She was worth dying for.

From his vantage point, he studied the landscape, searching for anything that would help him gain his bearings. His eyes narrowed upon a small traveling group moving on horseback through the hills.

He began his descent, moving toward them at a brisk walk, and then a light run when he reached the bottom of the hill. He would find his way back to her, no matter how long it took.

The taste of the wine was bitter, and Marguerite choked upon it. Her aunt Beatrice stared at her, a nod of satisfaction on her face.

A horrifying suspicion was confirmed, when she tasted something that shouldn’t have been in the wine.

“What have you done?” she demanded, casting the goblet aside. Wine sloshed upon the ground, and she couldn’t know how much she’d drunk. Had her aunt poisoned her?

She saw the faint nod from her father and the look they exchanged between them.

“It will start within the hour,” Beatrice said, gesturing for a servant to remove the fallen cup.

“What will start?” Marguerite touched her mouth, the aftertaste of the herbal brew making her wonder what they were talking about.

“Come,” her father said, rising from his seat at the dais. The earl sat at her left, looking mystified at what was happening. To her betrothed husband, the Duc said simply, “It is naught to concern you, Penrith.”

Marguerite felt the fear sliding deeper inside, as her father took her hand and led her above stairs. Behind her, Aunt Beatrice followed. He led her into her chamber, and dismissed the maid who was inside, mending a gown.

Once the door closed behind the maid, her father spoke. “Beatrice gave you a blend of herbs that will cast out any child you might have conceived with MacKinloch.”

Marguerite sank down upon her bed, her insides iced with terror. Though she didn’t believe there was any child, their actions went beyond imagining. The idea that they would kill any unborn babe horrified her. Her hands went to her middle, and though she felt no effects from the herbs yet, she saw the look of grim determination on her father’s face.

“Do you truly hate him that much?” she asked her father, while her aunt sat down in a chair.

“Oui,” he answered. “He will gain no part of your dowry, nor will I let him take advantage of you. There is nothing at all he can give, Marguerite.”

Except love. She was shattering apart inside, and her father would never understand the way she felt about Callum. When she looked into her father's face, she saw the blend of anger and worry. Once again, he was treating her like a little girl who had disobeyed him and had to be punished. In his eyes, she was incapable of making decisions for herself.

It bruised her heart to know that the father she’d loved all these years was more interested in his ambitions than his daughter’s happiness. The brutal reality crashed upon her as the first cramps seized within her womb.

She huddled upon her bed, the pain swallowing her whole. How na?ve she’d been to hope that, in time, he would come to accept her decision. He wouldn’t. Never would he believe that Callum MacKinloch was good enough for her. Choosing a life with the man she loved meant breaking away from her family forever.

Another pain struck, and she doubled over, feeling as if a part of her was being ripped away. Over the next few hours, she lay upon her bed in misery, staring at the wall while her body responded to the herbal poison.

But she didn’t cry. The hurt within her could not be released with tears. It went all the way into her heart, severing a little girl’s adoration for her father. It cauterized any sense of obedience or loyalty she had once given him.

No longer was he the man who had pulled her upon his knee, telling stories. No longer the man who had tucked her head beneath his chin, holding her close while she played with the gold ring upon his finger. Nor was he the man who’d sworn to keep her safe at all costs.

He had now become the man who had slashed apart her hopes, leaving her with nothing at all. And for that, she would never forgive him.

“Callum!” came the voice of his brother Bram.

Callum quickened his pace, startled to see his three brothers on horseback. An unexpected smile broke over his face at the sight of them. When they drew their horses to a stop, his brothers gripped him hard, all talking at once.

“We received word several days ago from Marguerite—”

“What are you doing here? And where’s your horse?”

”—that you needed our help.”

Callum raised his hands and regarded them. “Much has . . . happened. We’ll talk over food.”

The sound of his voice seemed to stun them into silence. Alex was the first to recover, and his smile was blinding. “Your voice is back. Thank God.”

Bram let out a rush of breath. He raked a hand through his dark hair and managed, “Aye. We’ve much to be thankful for.”

His youngest brother Dougal looked startled, but as he cared for the horses, he added, “What about Marguerite?”

“I’m going back . . . for her.” In broken words, Callum explained what had happened, and what his intentions were. Though sometimes his voice faltered, it was gaining strength. He gave them enough to make himself understood.

They made camp, and his brothers offered food and mead to satisfy his hunger and thirst. In their presence, he felt their quiet support. They’d come to help him, and it meant more than he could say.

Later that night, his brother Bram joined him while Alex and Dougal slept. They lay back on the grass, staring at the stars that dotted a darkened sky.

“It’s dangerous, what you’re about to do.”

Callum didn’t deny it. “You would do the same, were it Nairna.”

“I’d kill any man alive who tried to take her from me.”

“Then you know.” He reached into the pouch at his waist, fingering the frayed ribbon Marguerite had given back to him. “Her father will never let her go. But I can’t . . . let her marry the earl. Not now.”

“The Duc knows where we live. If you take her, he’ll only bring an army after her.”

Callum leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. “He wanted me to die here. If I stay hidden, he might believe it.”

“Is she worth the risk?” Bram asked.

“She gave me back my voice.” He didn’t mention that Marguerite had also given her innocence. The physical connection had gone deeper than he’d ever expected. When he’d joined with her, he’d found the other half of himself.

And he wasn’t about to live without her again.