Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

“MacKinloch?” came a whisper from the back of the Hall. “Come with me.”

Callum spied Iagar Campbell beckoning to him. He rose, following the man outside. It was late at night and most of the castle inhabitants were asleep. The darkness made it difficult to follow Campbell to the stables, for the torches were sparser in this area. Though he didn’t know if anyone else was there, he supposed it was safe enough to hear what the man had to say.

They stopped just inside the doorway. Iagar loosened his tunic, revealing reddened marks around his throat. Then he lifted his wrists, revealing the scars that could only have been formed by manacles. “I was freed a few years ago,” he admitted. “But I remember what they did to you at Cairnross.”

Callum studied the reddened marks. Though it was possible that Campbell had been chained alongside them, he didn’t recognize the man. Whether or not it was true, he waited for the man to continue.

“I remember you as a boy,” Iagar said, leaning against one of the stalls. “Your brother took punishments for you.” His expression turned angry, and his fingers dug against the wood. “It shouldn’t have happened. Not to any of us.” Anger and bitterness laced Iagar’s voice, and Callum suspected the man had lost someone close to him.

“But now we’re fighting back against the English.” Iagar’s eyes gleamed with ambition. “We’re forming our own group of men to reclaim the lands stolen from us. To put an end to the suffering of our kinsmen.”

Callum folded his arms across his chest, understanding that they wanted him to be a part of their rebellion. Although he understood their purpose, he had no desire to be involved.

“Aren’t you going to say anything, MacKinloch?”

He unsheathed the dagger at his waist and touched his mouth with it, implying that his tongue had been cut out.

Iagar paled, his face tightening. “Then you, of all men, have a reason to want vengeance.”

Callum kept a veiled expression on his face. He was here for Marguerite, not to start another fight with the English.

Iagar offered, “Come and join me and the others. We have a small hut outside the castle grounds, and we could use another Scot to join us. Another man we can trust.”

He started to shake his head, but Iagar urged, “Take some time to make your decision.” He eyed the scars upon Callum’s wrists. “There are other prisoners, not far from here. I think you remember what it was like, living in English captivity. We’re going to free the rest of them. No matter the cost.”

Over the next few days, Marguerite sensed Callum’s presence everywhere she turned. At meals, he served her food. In the morning, she saw him standing outside her window, leading horses out for the hunters. And today, when she walked through the garden, she saw her name written in the earth beside the herbs she tended. It was as if he’d countered her declaration with a defiance of his own.

He wasn't leaving.

She knelt down and touched the dirt where he’d printed her name. Seeing his awkward handwriting reminded her of when she’d taught him the letters. Guilt pressed against her conscience, for she’d not been able to give him any more words to communicate. It felt as if someone were tearing her in half, leaving her heart with Callum and her mind loyal to her father. And she didn’t know how to respond to the way he was fighting for her. Until the Duc returned, she could do nothing.

Sweeping the dirt clean, she began writing his name in the space. He might not recognize it, but he would understand that she’d answered his silent message.

“What are you doing, Marguerite?” came her aunt’s voice from behind her.

She dropped to her knees, hiding the words beneath her skirts. Reaching out to pull a weed from the herb garden, she answered, “I believe that’s obvious enough.”

“You should be sewing your bridegroom’s wedding tunic,” Beatrice chided. “He will come in a few days, and you’ve barely finished any of it.”

Because I don’t want to marry him. Because I have to find a way to reason with my father.

She held her silence, and a moment later, her aunt gripped her by the arm, jerking her up. “Answer me when I speak to you. Or I’ll have you locked in your room again.”

Marguerite’s anger blazed. She pried her arm free from her aunt’s grasp and felt the rush of indignation filling her up inside. “Try it again, and see what the others think of you. Already they despise you for what you did to those soldiers.” Though she hadn’t seen either of the men, it dismayed her to think of how they’d suffered after her escape.

“It was your fault,” Beatrice corrected. “Had you stayed in your room and obeyed me, it never would have happened.”

Marguerite was so stunned by her aunt’s self-righteous attitude, she could make no reply. There was no sign of remorse upon Beatrice’s face.

“It would not be wise to make an enemy of me, Marguerite,” she said quietly. “I’ll expect to see you in your chamber within the hour.”

She stared at the woman, her shoulders squared. Beatrice turned and left her there, and Marguerite wondered exactly how much damage the woman had done in the Duc’s absence. She’d been so concerned with Callum, not once had she paid heed to the castle inhabitants.

Behind her, two guards shadowed her, as if she were about to run away again.

“Come.” She beckoned to them. They were different from the first two men who had guarded her, but she suspected they would have the answers she needed. “I would like to know what happened to the two men who guarded me in my room.”

The taller guard was bearded, his brown hair cropped short. “They were whipped, my lady.”

“Did they survive?”

The second man nodded. “Barely. Thomas has been abed since it happened. He was too old to receive fifty lashes. John took twenty more of them, on his behalf.”

Marguerite shuddered at the thought. She took a breath, and asked, “Do they blame me for it?”

The bearded guard shook his head. “They know it was the fault of that peau de vache.”

Marguerite knew she ought to chastise him for comparing Beatrice to a cow, but she let the insult go. “I would like to see the guards who were injured, if I may.”

“She will not allow it,” the first man protested.

“Do you not believe those men deserve compensation for what they have suffered?” She fingered the pearls upon her bodice, as if to remind them of her wealth.

They exchanged a wary glance, and she pressed further. “My father would never allow food to be denied me, nor innocent men be punished. Beatrice has stepped beyond her authority, and I intend to see it stopped.” She held out her palm. “Give me your knife.”

The bearded guard obeyed, and Marguerite cut off four pearls from her bodice. Giving two to each of them, she added, “Your loyalty belongs to me. Not to her.”

The two men were listening now, and she continued, “In front of my aunt, you may accompany me at all times. But when she is gone . . .” She cut off two more pearls and handed one to each. “Allow me my freedom to go or stay as it pleases me.”

The guarded bowed his head in obedience. “Oui, my lady. And if you so desire, we can take you to the two wounded guards so that you may speak to them.”

She nodded her agreement and began walking back toward the tower with the guards following behind. When she crossed by the stables, she saw Callum standing against the far wall, holding the reins of her father’s destrier. She sensed him watching her, though he kept his head averted. His silent rebellion unnerved her, for she remembered the strength of his arms and the conquering touch of his mouth upon hers.

As she moved past him, her body grew sensitive, remembering how he’d awakened her with his touch.

And something within her snapped. What good was it to push away the man she wanted, behaving like a coward? She had precious time before the others arrived. Was it not better to steal whatever moments she could?

As she followed the guards to go and tend to the wounded soldiers, her mind raced with ideas on how to seize what she wanted.

At dawn, Callum heard Marguerite enter the stables. She ordered the stable master, “Prepare my horse. I am going riding this morn.”

“But Lady Marguerite, what will your aunt say?” Jean protested. “I thought your orders were not to leave the castle grounds while your father was away.”

Marguerite smiled. “The guards are outside my bedroom door. According to them, I am still inside, sewing.” She nodded toward Callum. “I will take one of your men with me, as an escort. That one will do.”

That one? Callum sent her a sidelong glance, wondering what she was up to. She was behaving as if she’d never seen him before, and his suspicions deepened.

Marguerite didn’t spare him a glance, but when the stable master began to argue again, she pressed something into his hand. “I’ve been held prisoner for nearly nine days now. If I am gone for a few hours, no one will know. And you will be rewarded for your silence.”

The stable master inclined his head. “As you say, my lady.”

Callum finished saddling Marguerite’s horse and his own mount, leading both outside the stables. He assisted Marguerite on to the animal, and she rode forth from the gates with him behind her. He let her take the lead, and instead of going through the forest, she rode west, toward the sea. He hadn’t realized they were so close, within only a few miles.

Marguerite stopped by a stream to let the horses drink before continuing toward the coast. Not once did she speak to him, and he couldn’t guess at her reasons for bringing him here. Whatever the reason, she hadn’t wanted anyone to eavesdrop on their conversation.

When she drew her horse to a stop, he saw the gray waters of the sea, and dark clouds hovering above. Sea gulls circled the rocks, and the hill descended into a large stretch of sand. Marguerite dismounted and let the horse graze while she walked to the sand. He followed, but as she continued her slow strides across the beach, he caught her hand.

Why? he asked in silence.

She reached within her bodice and withdrew the silver chain and glass pendant. “You never left. Even when I asked you to.”

In answer, he touched her chin, cupping her soft cheek. Soft golden hair rested upon her throat, and she reached up to remove her veil, tossing it on the sand. “I don’t know what will happen when my father returns. I'm frightened about what he will do if he finds out about us.”

Her hands reached to cover his and she continued, “But I have a few days left with you. I don’t want to lose them before I have to.”

The words fired up a hope he hadn’t dared to feel. He captured her palm with his and led her down toward the ocean. Marguerite leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked, and he drew her closer.

Beneath her calm demeanor, he sensed the unrest simmering. Tension lined her face, mingled with defiance. She’d brought him here for a reason, but for what, he couldn’t guess.

She let go of his hand when they reached the shoreline. Driftwood and shells lined the sand, along with a fallen log. He followed Marguerite there, where she leaned down to pick up a stick.

“I promised to teach you more words,” she said, offering him the stick.

But he didn’t take it. Instead, he reached out to cup her chin, wishing he could read her thoughts. Something was making her anxious, but she wouldn’t reveal it to him.

“If you want, I’ll try to teach you more writing,” she blurted out, her words rushed. “Or perhaps you could give me another lesson in swimming?”

There was an edge to her voice, a nervousness about her demeanor. Though she might believe swimming was a way to spend time together, it wasn’t a good idea. The moment he saw her slender body, wet from the waves, he’d want to touch her again. And God help him, if he did, for he didn’t think he could stop.

The summer air was cool, and he motioned for her to wait a moment. He built a fire for them, and when it was burning bright, he picked up the stick again and sat beside her.

“Show me the letters you remember,” she said.

He wrote out the alphabet that he’d spent countless hours memorizing. Some of the shapes still eluded him, but his hand was growing steadier with the practice.

She bent to help him with the letter S, her hand upon his. When she leaned so close, her delicate scent ensnared him. He wanted to lay her back in the sand naked, touching her body until he learned what made her sob with pleasure.

The stick nearly snapped in his hand, and he forced himself to concentrate.

“You’ve learned so fast,” she remarked, kneeling beside him. “It took me years to do as much as you have.”

He took the stick and wrote her name, then his own.

“You saw it,” she murmured. “I wrote it for you in the garden, hoping you would find it.”

At her timid smile, he set down the stick and faced her. Her hands moved up to touch his shoulders, and she rested her cheek against his in a light embrace. “I’m sorry for what I said a few days ago. I was afraid that if you stayed, you would be in danger.”

He’d known that, but hearing her say it made him hold her closer. Words stumbled in his throat, yet he couldn’t get them out.

But now, he had another way. Pulling back from her, he picked up the stick and thought for a moment. He struggled to remember the shapes of the letters and the spelling.

Finally, he wrote in the sand: Myn.

Her expression softened with emotion. She changed the spelling of the word to Mine, and he studied the shape of the letters. Then she answered, “Yes. I am yours. For as long as I can be.”

It wasn’t the promise he wanted. He wanted her for always.

The words revealed the truth he’d suspected. Despite what there was between them, she was still her father’s daughter. Her loyalty to her family was stronger than any feelings she held toward him.

It was sobering to know that he was asking her to choose between them.

But then, she leaned in and kissed him. Her lips were soft, and in the touch of her mouth upon his, there was a decision. She’d found a way to come to him, and no matter how long it lasted, he intended to make the most of it.

A breathless sigh escaped her when he bent to kiss her jaw and the delicate skin of her throat.

“I want this day with you,” she demanded. “A few hours with no one to stop us. No one to tell me what sort of man I should wed.” She stared hard at him, and a dark blush covered her cheeks. “I want to feel the way you made me feel a few days ago when you touched me.”

She was playing with the fire of his lust, and God only knew where it would end. Callum stared at her, letting her see how badly he wanted her. Taking his hands, she brought them to the back of her gown.

“Help me take this off,” she murmured. After he loosened the laces, she raised her arms. As he removed each layer, he saw the gooseflesh cover her skin.

When she stood in her chemise, he paused, not knowing how far she wanted to go. “Leave it for now,” she answered. “Teach me to swim, and then . . . “ Her words trailed off, her shyness overcoming her.

He wasn’t about to let his mind ponder what she meant by those words. Instead, he removed his tunic and took her into the water. The waves moved against her, and she clung to him for balance.

“It’s c-c-colder than the lake, isn’t it?”

When they reached a depth that was just above her waist, he lifted her up, stretching her on her stomach. She struggled against the waves, but tried again to swim. With her hair dipping below the water, she fought, churning her arms and kicking her legs. He released her without warning, and as she continued to move, she suspended herself in the water. It wasn’t smooth or particularly strong, but she did manage to swim.

“Look!” she cried out to him. “I’m not sinking.”

He gave a slight smile, moving into a different position that forced her to swim to him. When at last he stopped, she moved her arms and kicked until she caught his waist and stood up. “It wasn’t so bad this time. At least I remembered to move my arms and legs.” Her teeth chattered, but he warmed her in his embrace. A breathless smile lit up her face as her arms came around him.

She was shivering, but when he pointed to the water, asking if she wanted to swim again, she shook her head.

“I want you to help me get warm,” she whispered.

Her body pressed against him, and he wondered if she knew what she was asking. The waves sloshed against them, but he guided her out of the water. Sand caked their legs, and she shivered, holding on to him.

Callum led her back to the fire, adding more driftwood to increase the heat. He took her discarded cloak and spread it out before the fire, gesturing for her to sit upon it. Marguerite ignored him, standing before the flames with her hands outstretched. Her expression had gone distant, as though she were lost in thought.

What did she need from him?

She turned to look at him, a question in her eyes. In that moment, he saw the uncertainty in her face, mingled with fear. He met her gaze with unyielding strength. No matter what happened, he would remain at her side. She was the woman who had risked everything to save his life, the woman who had brought him back from the brink of madness. The woman he would die for.

And then she stared straight at him, her hands lifting her chemise away until she stood naked before him, wearing nothing except the glass pendant.