Chapter Six

Chapter Six

A day passed and there was no sign of Marguerite. Callum explored every inch of the forest, wondering if she’d remained absent by choice or necessity. He watched over the castle gates, but as the morning went on, there no sign of her.

When the second day passed and she didn’t come, his suspicions went on alert. If she hadn’t come, then there was a reason.

Idly, he reached down and picked up a twig from the ground, trying to hold it in his hand like a quill. He’d spent most of the night practicing, trying to memorize the patterns of lines and curves that formed her name.

He needed her to show him more. Two years had passed without him being able to speak, and he was impatient to learn a way of communicating. Although none of his brothers could read, they could learn.

This was a way of breaking through the cursed silence. If he could tell Marguerite what he wanted . . . if he could somehow convey it in written words, it might bridge the distance between them.

It also gave him a reason to seek her out. A reason to be with her, each day. She held the power to break through his silence. The power to give him back his voice.

In his mind, he conjured up the soft lines of her face and her vivid blue eyes. He couldn’t explain what drew him to her side, binding him in invisible chains. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her if she asked it of him.

He watched the castle for the next few hours as afternoon evolved into twilight. The urge to see her, to know that she was all right, could not be denied. In her father’s absence, there was no way to know what prevented her from leaving.

They watch me, she’d warned. Was that why she hadn’t come?

In his mind, he considered a hundred different ways to get inside the castle, but most involved the risk of discovery. He didn’t know how large the Duc’s retinue was, or whether they would notice him. On the first night when he’d slipped inside the grounds, there had been a large crowd to hide among. Tonight, he would be exposed.

But then his luck changed.

When he spied a man driving a cart filled with casks of wine, Callum moved swiftly from the trees. He caught the edge of the vehicle and pulled himself inside, hiding among the barrels under a covered part of the cart. The merchant greeted the soldiers at the gate and received permission to enter the castle.

Callum remained hidden as the cart drove toward the kitchens. When the cart began to slow, he seized his chance and dropped to the ground, darting into the shadows of a nearby shelter. As men took casks and brought them within the kitchen, he waited for the right moment and joined them, hoisting a small barrel over one shoulder to keep his face hidden.

The men were stacking the casks in the cellar, and after they left, he secured a hiding place behind them. Time was his ally now, and gradually the hours passed until he guessed the others were sleeping.

He ascended the stairs and made his way toward the Hall. Inside, the trestle tables were pushed against the wall, and men were sleeping upon the floor. Callum found a bit of leftover bread and meat on one of the tables and hid it within his tunic for later.

Inch by inch, he kept his back to the wall as he neared the staircase on the far side. He moved soundlessly past the others and trod quietly on the steps, listening for anything that would help him find Marguerite. She would be sleeping within her own chamber, away from the others.

In the darkness, he kept his back to the stone wall, searching for any threat. In his hand, he gripped a dirk.

Ahead, he spied two men guarding one of the chambers. He studied them, wondering if Marguerite was inside. The problem was how to get past the guards. Even if he did manage to distract them, there was no way to know if she was there.

But he had to try.

Her door flew open, and Marguerite sat up from her bed, stifling the urge to scream. Standing before her was Callum, while her guards lay unconscious upon the ground. They weren’t dead, thank God, for one of them moaned, clutching his head.

She threw back the coverlet and ran across the room into his arms. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to you. I’ve been locked in my room the past two days.” She held him tightly, breathing in his scent. Oddly enough, he smelled of bread. Her stomach roared with hunger, for Aunt Beatrice had given her nothing this day, except a bowl of pottage and sour wine. She’d continued her punishment beyond the first day, and the lack of food had made Marguerite dizzy.

Callum’s face hardened with anger, and his embrace tightened. When he eyed her attire, Marguerite realized she was still wearing only her chemise. She opened her trunk and chose a crimson cote, but Callum shook his head, pointing to a darker blue gown. He helped her to pull it on, and then took her by the hand, leading her out of her room.

Marguerite hesitated. Though she wanted to be free of her imprisonment, she was afraid of what would happen to the guards. Would Beatrice have them flogged, as she’d threatened? But then, it was clear that the guards had not willingly let her go. It might be an idle threat, nothing more. Either way, she wasn’t about to remain her aunt’s prisoner any longer.

Callum led her down the steps, into the darkened Hall. One of the dogs lifted his head and whimpered. Marguerite moved forward, touching the animal’s head so he would know her scent and fall silent. The dog licked her wrist and started to follow, but she pressed him back, whispering for him to stay.

Her heart beat faster, her veins thrumming with fear as she followed Callum outside. “We’ll be seen,” she murmured against his ear. “I don’t think there’s any way for us to get out.”

He didn’t seem concerned at all. Taking her hand, he walked past the first wall, and then motioned toward the soldiers. She didn’t understand what he meant, but all she could do was let him take the lead. He waited a moment while a few guards strode past the entrance. Marguerite held her breath, running with him toward the open gate.

He was simply planning walk out, wasn’t he? When she eyed the guards at the top of the gatehouse, she suddenly realized why. All of their attention rested upon the forest ahead, seeking potential invaders. They weren’t at all aware of what was happening behind them.

Callum wrapped one arm around her shoulders, leading her in front of him. He guided her to the side of the outer wall, and Marguerite pressed her shoulders against the stone, keeping tightly to the shadows. Callum inched his way all along the wall until they reached the far corner. Then he got down upon his stomach, crawling through the darkness toward the ditch.

This is madness, Marguerite thought, as she followed him. Her gown made it difficult to move, and she heard the sounds of insects buzzing around her face as she crept along the ground, following him. When Callum reached the ditch, he waded into the water, up to his thighs. Strong arms reached for her, lifting her over to the opposite side.

Marguerite continued crawling on her hands and knees until she reached the edge of the forest. Once they were inside, Callum led her deeper, making her walk within a stream, presumably so that dogs could not track her scent.

It was miserable, being wet, cold, and hungry. But she forced herself to follow. She walked until the exhaustion heightened her dizziness. Voices of doubt reminded her that this was a grave mistake. Aunt Beatrice would search for her, and when they found her, Callum would suffer.

You should go back while you can, her conscience ordered. But she was so weak from hunger and the despair of the past two days, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

When at last, they reached Callum’s sleeping space, he built a fire for her. She huddled close, trying to hide the tears of exhaustion and fear. He came up beside her, first removing one shoe, then the other. He dried her feet with his own tunic, and placed them across his lap, letting her warm them near the flames.

A thickness rose up in her throat, and she swallowed back the tears. Why had she left? It was foolish, dangerous, and such a mistake. So many people would be harmed by her desire to leave. What right did she have to disobey her family? Defiance would bring nothing except suffering.

The fire crackled in the evening stillness, the only sound to break the silence. Callum touched her bare feet and massaged the soreness, as if in silent apology for the nightmare of trying to escape the castle. The sensation of his hands on her was heart wrenching, for she was torn between the desire to touch him, and the worry of being caught.

When he offered her bread and meat from a fold of his cloak, she nearly attacked the food like a savage. She savored the soft bread and firm crust, so hungry was she. Callum eyed her strangely, and she admitted, “My aunt punished me for leaving the castle, by taking away my food. I’ve had little to eat, these past two days.”

His expression turned so fierce, she didn’t know what thoughts were raging inside him. He stood, searching through his bundle of supplies before bringing out a cloth-wrapped hunk of meat. Marguerite wanted to weep at the sight of it, but forced herself to eat slowly. He fed her until she could eat no more, and then she closed her eyes, drawing up her knees.

Callum arranged a sleeping place for her and gestured for her to come and lie down upon the blanket he’d set out. She stretched out, and he came up behind her, pulling her body against his. His body was warm, and she felt safe against him, as though he would do anything to take care of her. He drew his cloak around her, covering them both.

For now, she let herself fall into sleep, pushing back her fears of what would happen in the morning when her disappearance was discovered.

Having Marguerite in his arms was the sweetest torment Callum had ever endured and a gift he’d never expected. Her slender body rested against his, her tangled hair tucked beneath his chin.

There would be an uproar in the castle when they discovered her gone. Even now, they were likely searching for her. But when he’d learned that they’d locked her away, he’d lost sight of reason, needing to get her out. Had he known at the time that they were denying her food, he might have committed a more unthinkable crime.

How anyone could mistreat this woman was impossible to believe. In her sleep, she burrowed beneath his cloak, and her backside nestled against the arousal he’d tried to hold back. He wanted her with a fierce, instinctive need. But he couldn’t dishonor her by surrendering to the desires rising within.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have to go back or too many people will be hurt.”

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

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

His answer was to kiss her again, pulling her close as if he could absorb her into his own skin. Her mouth was open with shock, but she responded to him, kissing him back.

There were no words to tell her what he felt, but damned if he’d let her walk away. He kissed her roughly, showing her without words what he wanted to say. No man will ever touch you like this. No one will ever make you feel the way I do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mor, he wrote.

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

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

And it might, if he stayed here too long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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