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Two days later
Callum dreamed of Marguerite as he slept upon the frozen ground. The bodies of other prisoners huddled near, for it was the only way to survive the freezing cold. They had been brought to Lord Harkirk’s stronghold to die and already he’d witnessed some of the weaker men succumbing to Death’s quiet invitation.
In his memory, he recalled her beautiful face, the gentle innocence of her touch. He couldn’t say why she had tended his wounds or why she hadn’t run away from him. Callum knew what he was—a battered horror of a man.
But he wasn’t weak. Over the years, he’d kept his arms strong, lifting stones to build the walls. He’d learned, in the early years, how to steal an extra portion of food when the guards weren’t looking, to keep himself from starving. When his brother had been imprisoned with him, Bram had warned him to keep up his strength. There would come a time when they could escape together, his brother had promised.
But Bram had left him behind, seizing his own freedom, even when the soldiers had held a blade to Callum’s throat.
Callum squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away his resentment. They hadn’t killed him that day, though he’d expected to die. Bram had called their bluff and it had worked.
Although a part of him knew that his brother hadn’t abandoned him, he wished he could have left this place. Seven years of his life had faded away. And so had his voice.
Days ago, when the guards had picked him up, forcing him into the back of a wagon with four other men, Callum had tried again to speak. They might have had a chance at escaping, if the others would join him in resisting the soldiers. But no matter how hard he tried, not a word would break forth. It was as if someone had locked away his words, keeping him trapped in silence.
Worse, the others treated him as if he lacked intelligence. Several of the men talked about him, as if he couldn’t hear their words.
But when one tried to shove him back upon their arrival, Callum seized the man’s arm and stared hard at him. The startled look turned to an apology and Callum released his arm with a silent warning. Rubbing his forearm, the prisoner glanced at the others, who now viewed Callum with new eyes.
I may not speak. But I understand every word.
And from that moment, they’d held their distance.
As the days passed at Lord Harkirk’s fortress, whatever hope he’d had of being rescued began to fade. Callum didn’t know any of the prisoners and, without a familiar face, he started to slip into the madness that had plagued so many. Visions collided in his mind and he tried to focus the memories upon Lady Marguerite. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine the scent of her skin, the softness of her hands.
She’d been real. In his hands he grasped a crushed ribbon that he’d stolen from her blonde hair. It was a lighter blue than her eyes, but it confirmed that he hadn’t imagined her. She had tended his broken flesh, treating him like a man instead of a slave.
She was the sort of woman he would die to protect. Innocent and pure, she deserved to be with a man who would love her, who would set a kingdom at her feet. The way he never could.
He stared at the wooden walls surrounding the fortress. Lord Harkirk had begun converting them into stone, using the labour of Scottish prisoners like himself. Callum fingered the silken ribbon, imagining it was the curve of Marguerite’s cheek.
He would never stop trying to escape. Even if it was only for the chance to see her, one last time.
One week later
The fortress was on fire. Smoke billowed into the night sky and, outside, she heard the battle cries of men fighting. Marguerite’s hands shook as she reached for her cloak, silently murmuring prayers that somehow they would make it out alive.
Though it should have been safer to remain hidden within her chamber, the fire might spread to the main tower. Dying by the sword was at least swifter than being burned alive.
Her maid Trinette was openly weeping as she packed their belongings into a bundle. Marguerite went to the window and stared at the chaos below. Swords rang out against shields, the roar of the prisoners breaking the stillness. The earl shouted orders, unsheathing his own weapon while smoke tainted the air.
This was their best chance to escape, while the men were caught up in the fighting. She seized the bundle from Trinette. ‘We have to leave. Now.’
When her maid looked hesitant, too afraid to move, she gave her a slight push. ‘Go!’ she ordered, and Trinette hurried down the spiral stone stairs. Marguerite held on to the bundle in one arm while following her maid. The smoke created a dense fog within the main gathering space and in the darkness she couldn’t see the doorway.
Her heartbeat raced as she struggled to see, her throat raw in the smoky haze. She dropped low to the ground, trying to discover where Trinette had gone. She crawled upon the earthen floor until, at last, she spied the flare of a torch outside.
There. With a burst of energy, Marguerite fought her way towards the entrance, keeping her head down.
Outside, the cold air burned her lungs and she coughed again, trying to clear the smoke. The prisoners were escaping. She could see them pouring from their crude shelter, fighting hard, despite their chains. Another Scottish clan had attacked and half of the men created a diversion, while the others worked to free the slaves. Vengeance lined their faces while they struck hard against the Cairnross soldiers.
It was a welcome sight, watching the men go free. The only disappointment was knowing that if he’d been here, Callum MacKinloch would have been among them. Because of her interference, he was still a prisoner.
It simply wasn’t fair.
Marguerite huddled against one of the outer stone walls, tears clouding the back of her throat. She didn’t know what to do or where to go and dropped the bundle of her belongings upon the ground. She closed her eyes, wishing she could silence the sounds of death and fighting. Fear locked her feet in place.
‘Are you a hostage?’ a man shouted at her in English.
Marguerite turned her head slightly and saw a tall, dark-haired man standing before her. She gripped her arms, too afraid to move. He could kill her with a single blow if he chose to do so. But the look in his eyes held no threat and she saw a resemblance to Callum in the man’s features. She remained motionless when he reached out and lowered her hood, revealing her veiled hair.
‘If you want to leave this place, my brother can grant you sanctuary,’ he offered. ‘My wife will look after you and I promise you’ll face no harm.’
Marguerite closed her eyes, wondering what to do. Her first instinct was to refuse. It made no sense at all to leave Cairnross, fleeing a burning fortress with the strangers who had attacked it.
Yet the only choice was to remain here with a man she despised. She stood, trying to make a decision, when, in the distance, she spied her maid. Trinette had started to panic and screamed, running towards the earl, as if he could protect her from the brutal fighting that surrounded them.
Lord Cairnross was caught up in his own fight, too busy to pay Trinette any heed. When she ran too close, Cairnross reached out with his dagger and sliced it across the woman’s throat. Trinette dropped to the ground, her sightless eyes staring back at him.
Marguerite doubled over in horror, sickened by what she’d just witnessed. Dear God have mercy. Had she not seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed it. The earl knew Trinette was her maid yet he’d murdered her, simply because she’d been in the way.
Panic flooded through her lungs and Marguerite fought for breath. The truth was staring her in the face—she had to leave Cairnross or else be entrapped by a monster.
‘Please,’ she begged, searching for the right Gaelic words, ‘help me get to my father.’ She reached down and picked up the fallen bundle of clothing, trying not to think about Trinette. The maid had been her only companion from France and it broke her heart to imagine how alone she was now.
The Scottish warrior caught her hand and drew her outside the fortress, away from the fighting. Marguerite followed him, hoping she hadn’t made a mistake in this decision. But what else could she do?
This was her only choice, no matter how terrifying it was. The man led her to a group of waiting horses where she secured her bundle. She moved with numb motions, letting her mind fall into nothingness. If she tried to think of anything beyond the simple task before her, she’d start to weep.
Behind her, the fortress blazed with fire, the scent of destruction darkening the air. She rested her hands upon a brown mare, trying not to think of what would happen to her now.
Then another Scot strode towards them. His dark hair hung to his shoulders and a long claymore was strapped to his back. Fury and disbelief raged in his eyes. ‘Bram, what in God’s name have you done? She’s not coming with us.’
He spoke Gaelic, likely to keep her from understanding his words. Marguerite shrank back and stared at her hands, pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping. Her fingers shook, but she waited for the men to make their own decision.
‘We can’t leave her there,’ Bram argued. Her rescuer stared back into the face of the other man in open defiance.
‘She’s one of them,’ the first snapped. ‘And if you bring her, Cairnross’s men will follow her to Glen Arrin.’
She could see the doubts forming in her rescuer’s eyes. If she didn’t say something, he might leave her here.
‘No,’ Marguerite interrupted, using Gaelic to reveal that she’d understood every word. She had to leave, at all costs. Searching for a way to convince the other man, she offered, ‘If you send word to my father, he’ll come for me and you will be rewarded.’
‘And just who is your father?’ he demanded.
Marguerite sent him a cool stare. ‘Guy de Montpierre, the Duc D’Avignois.’
Although she’d never before evoked the power of her father’s rank, she saw that it indeed made a difference with the first man. His face grew intrigued, as if to wonder how he could use her.
She didn’t care. As long as he helped her escape from Cairnross and summoned her father, she would ensure that he was rewarded for his assistance.
‘I am Marguerite de Montpierre,’ she continued, sending him a regal nod. ‘I was betrothed to Lord Cairnross.’ Distaste filled her mouth at his very name.
‘You may have our protection until your father arrives,’ the first man agreed. ‘But you’d best pray that Cairnross doesn’t find you.’
She didn’t doubt that at all. If the earl learned that she’d conspired with the enemy to escape, she might share in Trinette’s fate. Silently, Marguerite uttered a prayer for the woman’s soul.
Bram boosted her onto the saddle, and she arranged her skirts around the bundle of clothes she’d brought. Her hands shook as she gripped the saddle, wondering if she was making a mistake to go off with strangers. She didn’t know these men at all, nor was there any reason to trust them.
But thus far they’d behaved honourably. Their leader hadn’t been pleased with the idea of bringing her with them, but he’d agreed to protect her, at a risk to his own people. It was the only hope she had left.
The fighting between the freed prisoners and Cairnross’s men continued in the distance, as the men led her away. Flames consumed the garrison, filling the air with smoke. ‘I’m glad to see it destroyed,’ she murmured. The earl deserved to lose his stronghold after everything he’d done.
‘How long were you there?’ Bram asked, as he climbed up behind her, urging the horse faster.
‘Just over a sennight. But the prisoners …’ She shuddered at the memory of all those who had suffered. Most had been freed this night, except those who had died fighting.
‘Did you ever see a man called Callum MacKinloch?’ Bram asked. ‘Younger than me, one of our brothers?’
She glanced back at him and realised she’d been right about the strong resemblance. It made her feel better about leaving with them, though she couldn’t say why. ‘He was sent away a few days ago,’ she admitted. ‘Oui, I saw him.’
‘Where?’
She shook her head, keeping her gaze fixed forward. ‘To the South. That’s all I know.’
‘But he was alive and unharmed?’
‘Alive, yes.’ At least, that’s what she wanted to believe. Her hands dug into the folds of her gown as she prayed it was still true. ‘Will you try to find him?’ she whispered, as they took her deeper into the hills.
‘He’s our brother. We’ll bring him home,’ Bram vowed.
The intensity of the promise gave her hope that he would keep his word. She didn’t understand why she felt the need to ensure that Callum was safe. She’d only met him the one night. There was nothing at all between them, not even friendship. But when he’d brought her hand to his cheek, it was as if an invisible bond had drawn her to him. He’d dared to touch her, and though she couldn’t say why he’d evoked these feelings, it was as if he’d been searching for her all his life.
As if he’d been waiting for her to come.
Deep inside, she wished she could see him again—if only to convince herself that she hadn’t imagined the interest in his eyes.
Chapter Two
Callum refused to remain a prisoner. After seven years of misery, waiting on his brother to make the decisions about how and when to escape, damned if he’d wait another day. Even if he died in the effort, he’d be no man’s slave.
Each day, he defied the soldiers, fighting to escape Lord Harkirk’s fortress. The baron was no better than Cairnross, for he killed men each day as an example to others. Callum didn’t doubt that he would one day be the next victim, his head mounted upon a pike.
Strangely, his rebellion appeared to entertain the soldiers. Each time he attempted to run away, they collected wagers from one another, depending on how far he’d managed to go. And once they captured him again, they took turns punishing him. Sometimes they withheld food, or other times he felt the pain of the lash upon his shoulders.
But everything had changed when he’d stolen a bow several nights ago. They’d whipped him afterwards, taking it back until one soldier had decided to test Callum’s skills. A guard stood behind him, holding a dagger to his throat while the others set up a wooden shield as a target.
‘Do you know how to shoot, MacKinloch?’ the guard had taunted, pricking him with the blade. ‘Show us what you can do. Hit the shield and you won’t feel the lash upon your shoulders any more this night. If you miss, you’ll have another dozen strokes.’
Already his limbs were leaden, blood pooling down his back. Callum’s vision blurred from dizziness and he knew they wouldn’t release him until they saw him shoot. It had been years since he’d used a bow, but he’d gone hunting often with his father and brothers. He’d always had a good eye and spent hours practising until he could hit anything.
The bow felt comfortable in his hand, like a lost friend. Although the soldiers expected him to miss, he knew the skill was there, buried through the years. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the weapon.
Without an arrow, he pulled back the bowstring, testing the tension. It wasn’t as taut as the bows he’d used as a child. Eyeing the distance of the target, he knew he’d have to use his arm strength to increase the speed of the arrow.
‘One shot,’ the soldier said, handing him an arrow. ‘If you try to shoot one of us, you die.’ The men gathered behind him to watch, keeping away from the target.
The cold blade rested against his neck, but Callum ignored it. He focused all of his concentration upon the shield, ignoring the fierce pain within his muscles. Pulling back the bowstring, he adjusted his aim. In his mind, he heard the memory of his father’s voice.
‘See your target not only with your eyes,’ Tavin MacKinloch had instructed him. ‘See it with your arm, your stance. Let it fly only when you know you’ll strike true.’
His arm was shaking now, the arrow pulled tight. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek and he ignored the jeers of the soldiers. He envisioned the arrow embedding deep within the shield. Then, at last, he released the bowstring, letting the arrow fly.
It struck the centre of the shield, just as he’d imagined.
The roar of the soldiers was deafening. They took the weapon from him, dragging him away. As promised, they hadn’t whipped him that night, but afterwards, they made him shoot every day, wagering upon him. It was an unexpected gift, allowing him to rebuild the lost skill.
He didn’t hit all of their selected targets and had been punished when he missed. But he hardly felt the blows any more. His silence intimidated the other prisoners, making them believe he possessed an unearthly tolerance for pain. They’d come to fear him and it heightened the sense of isolation. It didn’t matter. Soon he would find a way to make his escape from the fortress, leaving all of them behind.
One night, he thought he’d spied a weakness in the walls, only to be distracted by the sight of Lady Harkirk standing at the entrance of the tower. In her eyes, he saw the bleakness that echoed his own emotions. Her marriage to Lord Harkirk made him think of Marguerite, betrothed to a man who would eventually destroy her.
Callum’s hand paused on the wooden palisade wall. Instead of seeing Lady Harkirk’s brown hair and slim form, he saw Marguerite’s lighter hair and deep blue eyes. The young woman’s face was burned into his memory, though he didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was because he’d never imagined that a beautiful woman like her would ever bother with a man like him. The vision held strong in his mind, binding him to her.
Had Marguerite suffered any punishment for granting him mercy? The earl was infatuated with her, eager to have her as his wife. The idea of such a man touching her, forcing himself upon her slender body, brought out a violent edge to Callum’s temper. He wished he were at Cairnross, if only to grant her the shadow of his protection.
‘Behind you!’ he heard Lady Harkirk cry out. Her warning broke through his vision and Callum spun, finding three armed soldiers in chainmail armour. He ran hard, but the chains at his ankles hindered his stride, making it impossible to gain any speed. The men closed in on him and another stepped in to trip him with a quarterstaff.
Callum crashed into the ground, their laughter ringing in his ears. He tasted dirt and blood in his mouth and, when he raised his head, saw the silent sympathy of Lady Harkirk.
The soldiers dragged him back to the centre of the fortress. He saw where they were taking him and ceased his struggle.
‘Beg for mercy, MacKinloch, and we won’t put you inside,’ one taunted. They knew he couldn’t speak, much less beg for anything. Callum stared back in defiance.
They lifted the trapdoor leading to the underground pit and threw him inside. All light extinguished when they closed the ceiling lid, weighing it down with a heavy stone. Though he tried to push against it, the stone wouldn’t budge.
Suffocating darkness overwhelmed him and he wondered how long they would leave him in here. The small space was akin to a grave, and he forced himself to breathe slowly. They wanted him to be afraid, to lose his last grasp of sanity. Instead, he closed his eyes and sat down, reaching inside his tunic for the crumpled ribbon. He held it to his nose, absorbing all thoughts of Marguerite.
As the minutes drifted into hours, he remembered the gentle touch of her hands, the soft music of her voice. If there were such a thing as a living angel, it was she.
And hours later, when they dragged him out, he kept the ribbon gripped in his palm as the whip struck him down.
‘You should set the MacKinloch slave free,’ Lady Alys Fitzroy of Harkirk remarked to her husband. ‘He’s half-dead and no good to you any more.’
Last night, she’d been too late to stop the brutal beating. The prisoner, Callum MacKinloch, hadn’t uttered a single scream. And she’d found him lying among the other slaves, huddled with his knees drawn up, trembling violently. One of the other Scots had put a tunic upon him and the fabric was stained dark with blood.
Harkirk’s gaze narrowed. ‘You saw his family approaching.’
Alys shrugged, as if it were no matter. ‘Aye. The sentry reported that they’ve brought a purse to ransom him.’ She prayed her husband would accept the bribe, for Lord Harkirk valued silver far more than a man’s life.
‘Why would I let him go? If I release him, it will weaken my authority. Better to let him die for his insolence.’
‘He might die anyway. And you’d still have the bribe.’
Though it bothered her deeply, Alys lowered herself to kneel beside his chair. Robert preferred her subservience and she saw the moment his eyes gleamed with interest.
He reached out to rest his palm upon her head. ‘You found him handsome, didn’t you?’
‘My loyalty belongs to you, my lord,’ she answered quietly. ‘If you wish to keep the slave, then that is your right.’
‘It is.’ His hand dug into her hair in a silent reminder of possession. Thick fingers moved over her face, down to her shoulder. ‘I will consider your request.’ When his fingers slid beneath the neckline of her gown, touching her bare skin, she flushed with embarrassment. ‘And I’ll share your bed tonight, wife. For that is also my right.’
Alys said nothing, keeping her head bowed in obedience. An icy shield kept her courage from shattering apart. Just as the Scots were imprisoned in servitude, so too, was she a captive in this marriage.
She couldn’t free herself … but she could help them. It was her own form of silent rebellion. Although most of the prisoners were men, there had also been a few women. And recently a young girl, hardly more than ten years old.
Only a monster would imprison a child. Above all others, Alys would fight for the life of the girl.
She only wished Harkirk were dead, so she could free them all.
A restlessness brewed within Marguerite. Though Bram and Alex MacKinloch had gone on a rescue mission to free Callum, nearly a sennight ago, she couldn’t stop herself from pacing. Bram’s wife Nairna had given her a few tasks to occupy herself while they were gone, but household duties had done little to ease her preoccupation. She wished for a needle and thread, for sewing often helped her to calm herself.
‘They’ll be back,’ the chief’s wife Laren reassured her. ‘And soon your father will come for you.’
‘Perhaps.’ Marguerite wasn’t entirely certain that her well-being was more important than political alliances. Though the Duc had been good to her and her sisters, his primary interest was in using their marriages to support his own position. No doubt he would be furious when he learned she’d run away from the earl.
Ever since she’d come to live with the MacKinlochs, the immense freedom had been overwhelming. There was no one to tell her what to wear, where to go, or what her duties were each day. Although Marguerite tried to offer her help, she was unaccustomed to living this way. She felt awkward, trying to settle into a pattern that wasn’t her own.
A commotion outside caught their attention and Laren hurried to see what it was. Marguerite followed and saw the men returning on horseback. Callum was with them, but he stared off into the distance as if he were blind. In his broken posture, she glimpsed a man who had suffered years’ worth of torment in only a few weeks.
An aching regret squeezed her heart. It’s my fault, she thought to herself. If Callum spied her, he might be angry with her for what had happened. A strange rise of nerves gathered inside her like a windstorm of leaves. She wanted to see him again, but it was possible he didn’t remember her.