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She disappeared within the fortress and gave orders for a hot bath to be prepared for Callum. It shamed her to realise that she was hiding from them. From her vantage point in the far corner, she saw the men gathering. Nairna’s face was pale as she followed behind her husband and the others.
When Bram tried to touch the ragged tunic, Callum exploded into a fight. He was like an animal, raging at his brother, attacking with his fists. He didn’t seem to recognise his own family any more or realise that they were trying to help him.
It was awful seeing him like this. It was as if the man she’d saved was no longer there, lost in a world of his own madness.
Alex and Bram tried to subdue him, but Callum kept fighting, his blows striking hard.
‘Help us bring him above stairs,’ Alex said to Ross, one of their kinsmen. The older man had greying hair and a full beard, but there was no denying the brawny strength of his forearms.
‘He needs food,’ Ross said and Nairna hurried to fetch it. When the men half-dragged Callum up the winding stairs, Marguerite moved behind them. They brought him into Alex’s chamber and she remained on the stairs, watching from a distance. When they tried to remove his bloodstained tunic, Callum fought harder. Bram expelled a curse as a fist caught him in the eye.
Men and women came and left the chamber, but Marguerite remained in the shadows, feeling like a coward. Several of the MacKinlochs had brought in hot water, but she didn’t know if Callum would avail himself of the bath.
After a time, Nairna found her and the woman’s face was lined with worry. ‘You said you helped Callum on the night he was wounded. Would you be willing to go to him now?’
‘I don’t know if I could do anything,’ Marguerite admitted. ‘He might not remember me.’ Or if he did, he might resent her for being sent away.
‘Will you try?’ Nairna took her by the hand, drawing her into the hall. ‘You’re the last hope we have.’ Her face grew upset, but she revealed, ‘The tunic on his back has stuck to the wounds. He won’t let us take it off. It will grow poisoned if we leave it.’
Marguerite closed her eyes, suppressing a shudder. Callum would die a long-suffering death, if he didn’t allow anyone to assist him. She took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
She followed Nairna into the room, worrying that she would be unable to help. Inside, she saw Bram seated across from his brother, an untouched cup of mead resting upon a table beside him. Callum stared at the wall, as if he weren’t aware of his brother’s presence. His knuckles were bloody, matching his brother’s swollen face.
Nairna spoke quietly to her husband, while Marguerite tried to summon her courage. Why would you think you could help him? her mind demanded. He won’t even remember you.
But the moment she stepped forward, Callum turned to face her. There was disbelief in his expression, as if he couldn’t understand how she had come to be here. His brown eyes stared into hers, and though she saw the pain within them, there was something else. Almost … a longing.
Her throat grew swollen, her eyes blinking back tears, but Marguerite didn’t turn her gaze away from him. He was drinking in the sight of her, as if her presence brought him comfort. Seeing his wounds made her heart bleed, knowing what he’d endured.
You have to help him, came a voice within her. He needs you.
As if approaching a wounded wolf, she continued moving towards Callum. One foot before the other, moving closer, until she took Bram’s place across from him. She gripped the folds of her sapphire silk gown, trying to think of what to say.
Nairna took her husband’s hand. ‘We’ll wait just beyond the door if you need us.’ They retreated, leaving the door open by only an inch or two.
When they had gone, Marguerite forced herself to look back at Callum. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her and she grew nervous beneath his stare. ‘I never meant for this to happen,’ she murmured in French, knowing he wouldn’t comprehend her words. ‘I had hoped to save you. Not to make you suffer.’
He reached out, his palm covering hers. The rough skin contrasted against her own, but she understood his silent forgiveness. With each second that passed, she grew more sensitised to his touch. Not just his hand, but the warmth of his knee pressed against hers as they sat across from one another. The heat of his eyes burned into her, speaking more than any words could say.
Her cheeks flushed at his attention, but she turned her palm over to clasp his. She stroked her thumb across his skin, as if to soothe him. Although she was seated a slight distance away, it felt almost like an embrace. If she leaned forward, she could rest her head against his chest.
Callum brought her hand to touch the pulse at his throat. She could feel the rapid thrum beneath his skin, as if he were telling her the effect she had upon him. Her lips parted and she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Would he be fierce and demanding? Or quiet and arousing?
His nearness flustered her, so Marguerite rose to her feet, reaching for a length of linen that Nairna had left. She soaked the cloth in the warmed water of the tub and brought it to his bearded face. Though he had only minor wounds upon his cheeks and chin, she wanted him to trust her, to understand that she wouldn’t hurt him.
Callum endured the cleansing, breathing slowly as he allowed her to tend him. Then, he caught her hand and pressed something into it. She opened her palm and saw one of her ribbons, wrinkled and faded. There was a faint bloodstain upon the edge of it, as if he’d gripped it hard.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, in his language.
Callum reached up to her hair, removing the veil. Marguerite felt the touch of his warm hand, threading into her hair. His thumb caressed the edge of her temple, as if to apologise for what he’d done.
He must have taken it from her, the last night she’d seen him. She’d never noticed it was gone.
He’d kept it, all this time. In her mind, all she could imagine was him gripping the ribbon while the soldiers scourged him. A guilty tear spilled over, as she thought of what had happened to this man.
Marguerite pressed the ribbon back into his hand before resting her hands on his shoulders. ‘It was my fault you were sent away.’
He shook his head, denying it.
‘I’m so sorry for it,’ she whispered. ‘Your brother came for you, a few days after I saw you last. He brought me here, after Cairnross was burned.’
His gaze turned stony, but he gave a nod to show he’d heard her.
‘He would have freed you,’ she said softly. ‘They never stopped looking for you.’
Callum didn’t seem to believe her words, from the dark look in his eyes. She turned her attention to his back and the sight of the bloodstained tunic made her stomach turn. She knew what she had to do, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying.
‘I want to help you,’ she said quietly. ‘The tunic should come off so I can treat your wounds.’
Tension knotted his face, but he seemed to understand her. He turned around and gripped the edge of a table, as if to brace himself for the worst.
‘I’ll try not to hurt you,’ she offered. The garment had stuck to his skin; no doubt removing it would reopen many of his wounds.
Marguerite loosened the ties and brought her hands to the hem of the tunic, lifting it slowly. The underside wasn’t so bad, but when she reached the middle of his back, it was stuck fast. Callum’s knuckles whitened on the table and she had to force herself to continue.
She closed her eyes, as she felt his skin tearing away from the cloth. Revulsion formed in her stomach and she heard a rushing sound in her ears as she pulled the tunic over his head. It wasn’t until the edges of her vision started to blacken that she realised she was about to faint.
Don’t, she ordered herself. She bit hard against her lip, taking deep breaths with her head lowered. And when she’d regained control of herself, she opened her eyes and saw his bleeding wounds.
Mon Dieu, he was suffering so badly. Marguerite soaked another cloth in the bathwater and touched Callum’s face again before she wet it once more and laid it upon his bare back.
He lifted his head to look at her, and though she’d caused him pain, there was also relief in his eyes.
‘You’re safe now,’ she whispered. ‘It will be all right.’
But the way he was looking at her made her feel vulnerable. She didn’t understand the needs hidden behind his eyes, or what he was thinking.
‘I’ll leave you to bathe,’ she whispered. ‘If you want, I can send Bram back to help you.’
He shook his head, returning to the bench. Though he said not a word, he rested his forearms upon his legs, lowering his head. Exhaustion weighted him down and she didn’t like the look of the wounds upon his back. He was thin, his ribs revealed in the torchlight. But his arms held a wiry strength, his muscles well defined.
‘Or would you rather I stayed to help you?’ she blurted out.
Heaven only knew what provoked her to make the offer. Although she’d assisted her father’s guests with their baths in the past, there had always been several servants in attendance. It was an expected duty and she’d thought little of it.
But the prospect of seeing this man naked made her feel breathless, almost anticipating something that would never happen.
Callum stood up and raised questioning eyes to her. Marguerite held still, trying to feign a calmness she didn’t feel. Her mind was ordering her to leave, for to stay meant far more than tending his wounds. She was a maiden, untouched and innocent.
‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘If you need me, I’ll stay.’
When he turned his back, reaching to untie his trews, she quickly averted her gaze.
The water had grown cooler, but it was like sharp blades cutting into his back. Callum sat in the wooden tub with his knees drawn up, wincing at the burning sensation.
He should have sent Marguerite away. Letting her see him like this wasn’t right. But the past few weeks had changed him, making him care less about what was expected and falling into the instinctive urges that bordered on wildness.
He wanted her with an urgency that consumed him. When she dipped a cloth into the water, washing the dirt from the wounds on his back, he was grateful for the pain. It kept the urges under control, for her very presence had aroused him.
As she moved her hands to wash his shoulders, his skin erupted with shivers. His treacherous mind envisioned her hands moving over his chest, down to the part of him that was growing harder.
Callum slowed his breathing, trying not to get distracted. He’d never been with a woman before, and right now her touch upon his skin was firing up his imagination.
He remembered one night at Cairnross when a prisoner’s wife had visited her husband, trying to free him. She hadn’t succeeded, but they’d spent an hour in each other’s arms. She’d lifted her skirts and rode him, impaling herself upon his arousal.
Every man had been unable to tear his eyes away when her head had fallen back in passion, her rhythmic cries making each of them wish that he could experience such a pleasure.
When Marguerite’s hands moved to his hair, Callum let out a gasp. Though no sound broke from his mouth, his fingers dug into the wood as he struggled to keep from touching her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise that would hurt you.’
It wasn’t that. God above, he wanted to reach out and pull her into a kiss. He imagined tearing her gown apart, baring the softness of her body before he laid her down upon the bed, tasting every part of her until she knew the same torment he did.
He nodded for her to continue and she washed his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp. It felt so good that he closed his eyes to immerse himself in her touch. When her hands moved to the base of his neck, he started to lose his edge of control.
To distract himself, Callum held his breath and dipped his head beneath the water. She doesn’t want you, he reminded himself. This was a duke’s daughter, a woman who ranked the same as a princess. She shouldn’t have to lower herself, bathing him.
When he emerged for air, water droplets rolled down his bearded face. He opened his eyes and saw her staring at him. Beckoning to her, he touched his beard and pointed to the blade at her waist.
Her eyes furrowed a moment. ‘You want me to help you shave?’
He nodded. The heaviness of the beard bothered him, for it seemed that the dirt of the prison was caught within it.
‘Would you rather do it yourself?’ she asked.
If he tried, no doubt he’d slit his own throat without meaning to. He’d been imprisoned since he was a young boy and when the first signs of a beard had come a few years ago, he’d simply let it grow. Never before had he shaved and he didn’t know how.
But he wanted the touch of her hands upon him, no matter what the reason.
‘All right,’ she agreed, ‘but I’ll need a sharper blade. Wait here.’
While she was gone, he soaped his face, trying to wash the dirt from it. It seemed that no amount of scrubbing would rid him of the wretched years he’d spent in chains.
When Marguerite returned, she knelt before the tub and touched his chin. First, she trimmed away the beard with shears, then reached for the soap again. When her hands washed his roughened cheeks, he remained motionless. Right now, he wanted to close his eyes and revel in the feeling of her hands upon him. He imagined her hands moving lower, to his shoulders, and while she shaved him with the blade, his desire for her intensified. Her face was so near to his, her blue eyes concentrating on the task.
He was hungry for a taste of her lips, but he forced himself not to move. Instead, he drank in the sight of her, memorising every feature. When she finished shaving him, she ran her fingertips over his cheeks.
‘I don’t think I missed any places,’ she said, but before she could move away, he captured her face in his hands. Gently, he drew his wet thumbs over her temples, down to her cheeks. Her lips parted in surprise and he drew closer, watching. Wondering if she would let him steal the kiss he wanted so badly.
Her face flamed, and she stood up. ‘Y-you can do the rest while I get your clothes.’ Handing him the soap, she moved far away from him, leaving him to wonder if he’d only imagined the answering interest in her eyes.
Callum washed his legs and the rest of his body, hiding himself from her. Upon the floor, he spied a drying cloth and picked it up. He emerged from the tub, drying himself off and wrapping the cloth around his hips. Marguerite turned around, her gaze furtive. He waited for her to approach, not wanting to frighten her. Beneath the cloth, he was still heavily aroused; if she dared to look, she would see it.
She walked slowly and he noticed the way the blue silk clung to her body, outlining the curve of her breasts and her slim figure. Her veiled hair hung below her waist, a few of the golden strands damp from the water. When she held out the clothing to him, he didn’t take it.
No words would come from his throat, no sound to tell her how grateful he was for her presence. There was no means of telling her the thoughts imprisoned deep inside. He couldn’t speak.
But he could touch.
With his hands, Callum traced the curve that skimmed from her shoulders to her throat. His fingers moved up her jaw line, watching to see if she would pull away. Her blue eyes held a myriad of emotions: regret and sympathy, along with hesitation. She didn’t know him at all, nor would she understand what her kindness meant to him.
Death was easy. So was madness. But something about this woman drew him nearer. In all the darkness he’d known, she’d become the single shard of light that gave him a reason to survive.
She uttered a soft breath when he drew his hands down the back of her neck. Beneath his palms, her delicate skin prickled. He could feel the tension within her, but as he massaged the tightness, she closed her eyes.
‘I shouldn’t let you do this, I know,’ she whispered.
He touched a finger to her lips, bidding her to be silent. Then he went down on one knee before her.
‘What is it?’ she asked, frowning at his position. But Callum took her hand and set it upon his head, needing her to understand what he couldn’t say.
Her hand moved against his wet hair and she sighed. ‘I know you’re not going to hurt me.’
Slowly, he stood and took her hands. He struggled to speak, trying to force the words out. I never thought I’d see you again. The desperate need for words tormented him, but nothing came forth. Marguerite saw his failure, but instead of offering sympathy, she stood on tiptoe, resting her cheek against his.
God above, he’d never expected this. Her arms came around his neck, offering solace. And danger.
The scent of her skin, and the fluid lines of her body made him fully aware of all the ways he wanted to worship her. Never taking his eyes from her, he lifted her hand and placed it over his racing heart. The touch of skin on skin enslaved him. She was a woman he could never have, so far beyond his reach as the sunlight in the sky.
But for this moment, he would take what he wanted.
He rested his mouth above hers, waiting for her to pull away. Her blue eyes held confusion and the flushed warmth of her cheeks revealed her embarrassment. At any time, she could pull back and he wouldn’t stop her.
Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.
Chapter Three
Marguerite couldn’t breathe when Callum kissed her. His mouth was warm, coaxing her to let go of her shyness. Although it wasn’t her first kiss, this one slipped beneath her skin with a slow burning fire, transforming her inhibitions into ashes.
The connection went deeper than that between a woman and a man she’d rescued and tended. He treated her as though no one else on the earth existed. As if he needed her more than the air he breathed.
It was something she wasn’t used to. At home, she was the youngest of four daughters, largely overlooked. Her older sisters were mischievous and outspoken, accustomed to having suitors vie for their hand. Marguerite was quiet and usually remained in the background, unnoticed.
But she suspected that Callum MacKinloch would always notice her.
He was half-naked before her, his body pressed against her own. There were no thoughts spinning through her mind, only the need to bring him closer. Her arms wound around his neck but when she felt the evidence of his arousal, it didn’t frighten her as she’d thought it would. Instead, it awakened her own response, with an answering need between her legs.
The kiss turned deeper and Marguerite let out a shuddering gasp as Callum conquered her mouth, bringing her back against the wall. With his kiss he broke down her defences, until she was trembling beneath the onslaught.
At last, he let her go, resting both hands upon the wall. His dark eyes were heated with desire, his mouth looking as if he wanted to do more, kiss her in other secret places.
She didn’t know what to do or what to say now. Confused, she fumbled for words—anything to distract herself from the turmoil of ragged feelings. ‘Y-you should get dressed,’ she told him quietly.
He studied her, his eyes discerning. Then he touched her cheek, a question hidden within his expression—almost as if he were asking if he’d overstepped his bounds.
She didn’t know what to say. Colour flooded her face at what she’d done, for she could give no reason why she’d allowed him to kiss her. Only that she’d wanted him to.
Taking his hand, she led him over to the pile of clothing. ‘Nairna brought these for you.’ Then she went to the far side of the room, turning her back. Inside, she trembled from the kiss. He’d shaken her deeply, making her crave his touch.
From behind her, she heard the light rustle as he picked up the clothes. Heaven only knew what possessed her to do it, but she turned over her shoulder to steal a look at him.
Callum’s shoulders and back held stripes of both healed and unhealed lash marks, scars that he would carry for the rest of his life. His waist was lean, but, despite his thin frame, he had the body of a fighter. He had tight, muscular buttocks and powerful thighs.
And, oh God, he’d caught her looking at him.
A slow, wicked smile curved over his mouth, as if daring her to look further.
Marguerite whirled around, wondering why she’d done such a thing. But he hadn’t been angry. In fact, she’d caught a glimpse of amusement in Callum’s eyes, as if he’d wanted her to look.
He was undeniably handsome, despite the harsh conditions he’d endured. His dark eyes held secrets and an intensity that weakened her senses. Long dark hair flowed past his shoulders and she imagined what it would be like cut short. His clean-shaven face revealed a strong jaw and a determined confidence in his demeanour.
She didn’t know why she was attracted to a man who’d been held prisoner for so long. It might be compassion, but more likely it was her own curiosity. Callum had made no secret of his interest, and she could not have chosen someone more different from herself.
She’d been raised in a castle, surrounded by servants. And although it wasn’t her nature to demand material goods, she’d had everything she ever wanted. Callum was the third-born son, with hardly more than the clothes on his back. He could give her nothing at all.
Perhaps that was what drew her to him. He saw her, while the other men saw only her father’s wealth and power.
When Marguerite risked another look back at him, Callum was sitting on the bed, fully dressed. His wrists rested upon his knees, his head bowed. He looked tired, yet unable to sleep. She took a step forward, and the sound of her motion prompted him to lift his head. He let out a slow breath, his face masked. Then he touched the place beside him in a silent request for her to sit.
She remained still, unsure of herself or what he wanted from her. Time hung suspended while she debated whether or not to stay a little longer. He appeared calmer, more in command of himself.
‘You can’t kiss me again,’ she warned.
He didn’t tease her with a smile, but gave a single nod as his silent promise. In his hands, she saw the faded blue ribbon.
She took a breath and moved a slight distance beside him. ‘It’s all right to sleep, you know. No one will harm you.’ Though she was tired herself, she intended to return to her own room, once he had found a peaceful rest.
Callum reached out and pulled her to sit beside him. Then he laid his head upon her lap.
The gesture should have made her uneasy. Instead, as she stroked his long hair back and watched him close his eyes, heavy tears pricked at her. He’d suffered for so long, chained in the dark. Was it any wonder that he yearned for human comfort?
Although the weight of her own exhaustion burdened her, Marguerite didn’t move. Callum clasped her other hand in his while he slept. She let him rest against her, though her back ached.
In time, she succumbed to the need for sleep, lying back against his pillow.
The raucous cries of a raven haunted him. The birds were known for circling the camp, awaiting the moment when a prisoner died. Callum hated them, for they fed upon the flesh of the dead. Just the sight of the birds sickened him, and he’d chased dozens of them away from the corpses.
Though most of the other prisoners were nameless companions, they didn’t deserve to be dishonoured, their flesh picked away by black-winged predators.
And so he’d begun collecting their feathers. He couldn’t say why, but when the guards watched him making more arrows, he’d glued their dark tips to the shaft. It was as if he could honour the memory of the fallen.