Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

The sound of dogs barking drew closer to their position within the forest. Callum fitted an arrow to his bow and stood before her.

“They’re going to find us, if I stay here any longer,” Marguerite said. Although he knew she was right, it didn’t mean he was going to step aside and let them lock her away again. He’d been imprisoned and tortured before, and he’d endure it in a moment if it meant protecting her.

But she turned to him, forcing him to lower the bow. “I need to face them myself.” Her voice came out with a tremble, and he shook his head.

“If they see you, you would bear the punishment for my rebellion.” She gave him a broken smile, adding, “The only way I’ll ever be free is if I speak to my father.” Her hand moved to touch his cheek. “Stay back, Callum. Let me try to fight for what I want.”

Though he understood her desire, he had no intention of letting her face them alone. How could he hide away like a coward, letting her bear the brunt of their anger?

“They won’t hurt me,” she told him. “And if they deny me food again, I’ll speak to the servants. Surely they would help me, if it meant gaining a reward from my father.”

She moved in, winding her arms around his neck. Though her hair was tangled, her face still held the satisfied flush of fulfillment he’d given her. He wasn’t about to let her go alone.

He might be able to watch over her without her knowledge. He could infiltrate the castle, guarding her as best he could, until she gained her father’s permission to come back with him.

It will never happen, his mind taunted. The Duc will never accept a broken man such as you.

He dulled the voice of reason and gripped Marguerite in a fierce embrace. When he pulled back, he saw the tears glimmering in her eyes, though she tried to send him a reassuring smile.

“I’ll be all right.”

He didn’t believe it, even as he gestured for her to walk toward them.

But first, she stood on her tiptoes to give him a last kiss. It was the softest touch, like a farewell. And when she turned away from him, a sense of foreboding intruded. As if their shared dreams would never happen, no matter how hard they fought.

Callum climbed a large oak nearby and hid himself within the branches, watching as she walked toward the sound of the dogs. She moved with her head held high, offering no excuses for her actions. And when the riders caught up to her at last, they seized her, lifting her atop one of the horses before they stole her away from him.

“I should have you beaten for your disobedience,” Lady Beatrice said coolly. “Never have I seen such behavior from you. I can promise you, your father will hear of this.”

Marguerite held her shoulders back, holding her silence. She had decided not to answer any of their questions, nor to make excuses for what she’d done. Like Callum, she intended to lock away her words.

“You’ve caused everyone a great deal of trouble,” her aunt continued. She took Marguerite by the wrist, squeezing so tightly a bruise would form. “I can’t understand why you would go off into the forest alone. Unless you went with someone.” She pulled Marguerite toward the stairs, forcing her to return to her chamber.

When they reached the door, Beatrice stopped. “The guards outside your room confessed that they saw a man who took you. A Scot, they believe.” Her aunt’s gaze grew cunning. “Or am I wrong?”

“And where would I have found such a man?” Marguerite countered, unable to hold her silence any longer. “I know none of the nearby clans.” She stared up at her aunt. “Perhaps I was the one to free myself. The men would be too ashamed to admit they were bested by a woman.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

No, but she refused to endanger Callum by letting anyone believe he was involved in her escape. So far as she knew, only the guards had encountered him, and the lie might work. It was all she had.

“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say.” She walked into her room and sat down before the fire, warming her hands.

Her aunt closed the door behind her. Beatrice’s mood seemed to discolor the air with rage. She took deep breaths, as if to control her temper. “You spent two days away from the castle. You, who can hardly dress yourself, much less take care of a household. Your father entrusted Duncraig Castle to me, and he gave strict instructions about keeping you here.”

“Imprisoning me, you mean.” Marguerite stood up and faced her aunt. “I’m not as helpless as you think I am.”

“You’ve never done anything except wield a needle and smile prettily at your father. He indulged you in anything you wanted, after your mother died.”

“I was grieving—”

“And so was I,” Beatrice snapped. “She was my only sister.” Her face twisted with frustration. “When my husband died, the Duc might have brought me into his household, but I won’t stay in a barbaric country such as this. Soon enough, I’ll coax him back to France where I belong.” Her aunt sent her a calculating smile. “I have your father’s favor, you know.”

From the insinuation in Beatrice’s voice, Marguerite suspected precisely what sort of favors the matron had granted the Duc. It sickened her to think of the pair of them together.

“He can’t wed you,” Marguerite argued. “It would be against the laws of the Church.”

“There are many ways he can provide for me.” Beatrice crossed her arms beneath her voluptuous bosom. “And believe me when I say that he will do anything I ask of him. You had best remain in your room for the next sennight if you want me to hide your secrets from him.”

“I have no secrets.”

“Liar.” Beatrice reached out and cupped her chin. “Even if it wasn’t in the past two days, you’ve been touched by a man. You might have taken a lover. What do you think your bridegroom will say if he finds out you are no longer a virgin?”

In spite of her efforts, Marguerite couldn’t stop the flush on her cheeks. She had allowed Callum to touch her in ways he shouldn’t have. She had given in to temptation, and the guilt weighed upon her.

“I am a virgin still,” she said quietly. But had she remained with Callum, she doubted if she could have kept her virtue. She wanted him more than any other man. And she didn’t know how to get out of her betrothal agreement to the Earl of Penrith.

“Get out of my chamber,” she ordered her aunt. “And cease treating me like a prisoner.”

“You will be guarded at all times,” Beatrice said. “Until your father returns.” She crossed the room and stood at the door. “And as for your former guards? They each received fifty lashes on your behalf, Marguerite.” Venom laced her tone and she finished by saying, “Remember who holds the power here.”

After her aunt had gone, Marguerite closed her eyes. Somehow, she had to find the courage to gain her own power.

Callum stood in the shadow of the trees, far below Duncraig Castle. Though Marguerite hadn’t wanted him to follow her, he wasn’t going to let her go alone. He would watch over her and somehow gain a means of protecting her within the castle.

You’re unworthy of her, the voice inside him mocked. There’s no place for you here.

He knew it, but he wasn’t going to dwell among the trees like an animal. He wasn’t going to abandon Marguerite, despite the danger to himself. Already he had endured the worst; he would do it again, if it meant keeping her safe.

The afternoon light skimmed over the hills, casting shadows over the castle walls. He cleared his mind of the doubts, steadying his resolve. From the size of the castle and the men he’d seen during his first encounter, it was a large household with many servants. Surely they would need another. And although he couldn’t speak, he could show the others that he was strong enough for any task. Sometimes actions held more weight than words.

His pace slowed as he neared the drawbridge. Inside the gates, he saw the soldiers guarding their post, and they locked their spears, barring his way.

At first, they spoke French, and he shook his head, not understanding their words.

“What do you want?” one demanded, in heavily accented English. They were eyeing his horse, for that made it apparent he wasn’t a beggar. Callum met their gaze evenly and held out empty hands. Then he touched his mouth, in an effort to make them understand.

They eyed him with no idea of what he meant. Frustrated, Callum dismounted from his horse. With effort, he tried to speak, but it felt as if his throat were blocked, the words trapped inside. Nothing came forth, not even a single sound. It was as if the harder he tried, the more his voice refused to cooperate.

“If you’ve nothing to say, then be gone,” the first soldier ordered.

Callum stared at the man. They believed he was witless, didn’t they? Good for nothing at all. His anger gained a foothold, rising higher. The idea of simply shoving the men aside sounded better than trying to make them guess what he wanted.

He gripped his horse’s bridle, and forced himself to calm down. There had to be another way. Callum lifted his eyes just beyond the guards and spied a man approaching. From the stranger’s appearance, he appeared to be a fellow Scot.

The man’s gaze narrowed as he drew nearer, just behind the guards. When he was within view, the stranger eyed Callum and turned back his sleeves. Upon his wrists were reddened scars like his own.

The man interrupted the guards and offered, “He means no harm, lads. It’s only my cousin, come from the north.”

Callum kept his face blank, not knowing why the man was helping him. His suspicions went on edge, but he made no effort to deny the man’s words.

“Your cousin, is he?” the guard remarked. “Why is he here?”

“After all the raids, I suppose he’s looking for a new place to live. Am I right?” He stared at Callum, who gave a single nod.

Reluctantly, the guards let him through, and the man brought him toward the stables. “You can put your horse with the others, for now.” With a sidelong glance, he murmured under his breath, “You’re a MacKinloch, aren’t you?”

Callum inclined his head, and the man smiled. “I thought so. I knew your brother Bram. You were just a boy when I saw you last. Colin, is it?”

There was no way to correct the man, so he shrugged. It was close enough.

“I am Iagar Campbell.” The name was unfamiliar to him, but the scars upon the man’s wrist gave the clearest indication that he wasn’t lying. Iagar seemed to notice his stare, and he added quietly, “I was at Cairnross.”

When they reached the stables, the stable master began speaking in French, so rapidly that Callum couldn’t follow any of it. Iagar answered on his behalf, and after a time, the stable master grumbled and brought his horse Goliath to a stall.

“If you’re looking for a place, this is the best you’ll get. The others think we’re good for nothing except shoveling dung.” Iagar winked at him. “But there are ways to get what you want if you know how to ask.” He passed Callum a shovel and led him into one of the stalls. In Gaelic, he added, “Go on and start. We’ll talk later when there aren’t any ears to overhear our conversation.” With a light slap to his back, Iagar left the stable.

Callum eyed the horse in front of him and recognized her as Marguerite’s horse. She was a light gray mare with delicate features. When he touched her nose, letting her learn his scent, she gave a whuff and then lowered her head to drink from a trench of water.

Over the next few hours, he worked until nightfall. The stable master Jean never took his eyes off him, but after he realized Callum had done well enough cleaning the stalls, there was a noticeable difference in his demeanor.

“You don’t speak, do you?” Jean asked, using English at last. Callum shook his head, touching a finger to his lips. The stable master studied him. “You’ve earned a meal, after the work you did. You’re hungry, I suppose?” At his nod, Jean led him outside.

Torches lined the walls, the orange flames flickering against the twilight. Callum kept his face lowered, so as not to attract attention. He didn’t doubt that the guards he’d attacked on the night he freed Marguerite, would recognize him if he showed himself.

He followed Jean to the kitchen, where he saw a few other men and women gathering outside. “You can get some table scraps here,” the stable master offered. “And you can sleep in the Hall, as your cousin does.” From the emphasis he placed on the word, Jean had guessed they weren’t related.

After he left, Callum found a barrel of rainwater and splashed his face, thoroughly scrubbing his hands until he was clean. He didn’t suppose anyone would want to give him food, smelling the way he did.

He waited for over an hour among the others, his stomach raging for something to eat. Though he was accustomed to hunting for his own meat, he didn’t have the choice of returning to the forest. The idea of begging for leftover food didn’t sit well with him.

The cook was still busy preparing a light meal of sliced meat, baked salmon, cheese, and assorted breads for the Duc’s family. Seeing so many exotic foods made his mouth water. He noticed the cook struggling with a heavy iron pot of water, and without asking, Callum took it from the older woman and hung it over the fire.

She stared at him, her round face narrowed. “Merci.” Then, she took a crust of bread and placed bit of the salmon on it, ladling a thick sauce over it. Callum’s stomach roared with hunger at the sight, and he accepted the food, nodding his thanks. When he bit into the warm fish, the succulent flavor was like nothing he’d ever tasted. He caught the cook’s gaze and sent her a smile.

She spoke in French again, but he shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand. Then she asked in English, “Do you like it?”

Callum devoured the food and stood, coming close to her. The older woman’s hair was gray, and wrinkles rimmed the edges of her eyes. He took her hand and kissed it in thanks.

“Scottish devil,” she chided, snatching her hand back. “If you think you will get more food out of me by flirting . . .”

She turned her back to him and began rummaging through another part of the kitchen. Callum waited and she handed him a tart the size of his palm, dripping with cherries.

“You’d be right.” The cook’s face cracked into a smile, and Callum bit into the tart, the cherries oozing into his mouth. Never in his life had he tasted food like this. When he’d finished licking his fingers, he kissed the cook on the cheek.

“Make yourself useful by taking one of these trays to the Hall,” she ordered. “Follow the others and if you value your life, don’t spill a crumb. Or if you eat it before it gets there, I’ll have you flogged.” She pointed to the heavy tray of herbed salmon, and he followed the other kitchen servants to the Hall, being careful not to spill the sauce.

Inside, the large Hall was immaculate with fresh rushes upon the floor. Callum held the heavy tray, absorbing the sights around him, searching for Marguerite. If she’d been locked away in her room again, he would do what was necessary to set her free.

But then, he spied her at the far end of the room. She sat alongside an older matron, a shuttered expression on her face. She wore a ruby-colored surcoat and a cream cote that hung to the floor with tightly-fitted draping sleeves. A veil and gold circlet rested upon her head. Around her throat, he spied the silver chain, and the blue glass pendant rested upon the crimson gown. Although her expression remained serene, he sensed the unrest simmering beneath. Callum carried the tray and stopped before her, waiting for her to notice him.

When she did, her hand stilled upon the goblet of wine, panic etched on her face. She appeared frozen, not at all pleased to see him. It was as if he’d invaded her safe world, the uninvited guest whom she could never present to her family. Though she accepted a piece of salmon from his tray, not once did she look at him.

He gave no reaction to her dismay, slipping into the role of a nameless servant. Frustrated anger simmered beneath his skin, for he no longer knew if she wanted him here or not.

But when he followed the others back, he caught her stricken gaze and sent her his own challenge. He’d infiltrated the castle walls just to see her—let her come if she dared.

Marguerite waited hours before slipping away from her guards during the evening entertainment. Distracted by the storytelling, they hadn’t noticed her disappearance. But they would. She had only moments to warn Callum.

She found him standing outside the stables. He’d stripped himself of the tunic and had poured water over himself. Though the night air was warm, his skin puckered from the cool droplets. She saw the reddened scars upon his back and the strong muscles that corded along his upper arms and torso.

She remembered what it was to touch his skin, to taste the firm mouth that stole away her wits, leaving her breathless.

“You can’t be here, Callum,” she whispered. “Please. You have to go.” Couldn’t he understand that if they were caught together, his life was in danger? Beatrice hated the Scots, and she wouldn’t hesitate to punish him or worse, have him killed.

“If they find me with you—”

Her words broke away when he led her into the shadows. There was no light, and she couldn’t see anything, not even his face.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered. “I’m trying to keep you safe. If anything happened to you . . .”

He drew closer, his dark eyes shadowed with persistence. It had been such a mistake to let him touch her, as he had in the forest. For now he’d glimpsed the secret desires within her heart.

He took her hands, lifting them to his shoulders in a blatant invitation. Marguerite’s fingers moved to his throat, where she felt the rapid pulse. Her own heartbeat echoed his, for she was caught without knowing what to do. Like the apple of sin, he offered her a temptation she didn’t want to refuse.

Callum pressed her back against the wall, supporting her as his warm breath silenced her protests. She cared.

He sensed how distraught she was, but he wasn’t going to abandon her. Not after they’d hurt her before.

“It’s too dangerous for me to see you anymore, Callum,” she murmured. “My father will return in a few days. And my new . . . betrothed husband will come with him.”

His hands stilled on either side of her as the coldness slid through his veins, freezing into anger. Was she giving up?

“I am grateful to you for protecting me,” she whispered. “And I am glad that you are healed. But it has to end between us.”

No. He wasn’t going to stand back and let her fear dictate the future. He gripped her hand and drew it back to his throat. Reminding her that he couldn’t speak, but it hadn’t stopped him from coming here.

She was his, and he intended to fight for her.

His hands moved up to cradle her head, his thumbs edging her temples. He wanted her to feel his touch, to know the thoughts inside of him. When his fingers passed down her cheeks, there was wetness from her tears.

“I don’t want you here anymore.”

In the heated darkness between him, he knew it was a lie. She was trying to drive him away in order to protect him. Didn’t she know that he would do anything for her?

A sliver of frustration irritated his pride, for he didn’t intend to hide. If she wanted to be with him, he could take her away right now. But she was faltering. He could see it in her divided loyalty, her uncertainty of whether she could turn her back on her family, seeking a life with him. Leaving her made it too easy for her to forget what there was between them.

Callum ignored her soft struggle to move away and held her captive. Against his hands, he felt the harsh beating of her pulse. He moved his mouth to kiss the trembling vein and her hands came up to hold his head.

Aye, she was lying to him. He sensed it in the way her hands dug into him, pulling him closer. He nipped at her throat, moving up to her chin, and then capturing her mouth.

There was desperation in her answering kiss, but she didn’t try to free herself. She kissed him back, her mouth meeting his as he took possession. Never would he stand aside and let another man take what belonged to him. He wouldn’t cower before a duke or hide in the shadows out of fear.

He kissed her hard, provoking the heat that had always been between them. He slid his hands slowly to the underside of her breasts, tantalizing her. And when he grazed the hardened tips, reminding her of the way he’d pleasured her, she gasped against his mouth.

Don’t ever deny what’s between us.

Abruptly, he released her and walked away. But despite her protests, he wasn’t going to abandon her. Not after all they’d endured. But somehow, he had to convince her to fight.

A heaviness clenched Marguerite’s heart when he left. The vast emptiness inside was all-consuming, for he’d thrown down a gauntlet of his own, challenging her. She forced herself to walk back to the Hall, forcing back the tears.

Even though she wanted him desperately, she understood the challenge that lay ahead. Until she’d convinced her father to end the betrothal with Lord Penrith, there was no hope of being with Callum.

Guy de Montpierre would be furious if she refused the marriage. Her father had given her a life of privilege, and she recognized his right to choose her husband. To deny it and rebel against him made her ungrateful and selfish.

The good girl daughter cringed at the thought of refusing the marriage he'd arranged. And yet, the woman who had spent the night in Callum’s arms wanted nothing more than to spend all of her days with him. No matter what happened.

She might fail . . . but she had to gather her courage and try.