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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.
One day, he would avenge them. He’d grown to hate Lord Harkirk as much as his former master. While Cairnross had believed himself superior to the Scots, punishing them for imagined crimes, Harkirk cared nothing for men’s lives. Men were killed for no reason at all, simply as entertainment.
But Harkirk would die one day. And, God willing, he’d be struck down by a black-feathered arrow, one of his own.
Callum’s eyes opened as the remnants of sleep slid away. Against his cheek, he felt the softness of Marguerite’s hair and their bodies were tangled together. Her delicate scent surrounded him, his arms cradled her body close. He savoured the moment of holding her, wishing to God he could make it last.
It wasn’t yet dawn and in the faint light, he saw the golden outline of her hair. For a moment, he listened to her breathe, watching her sleep.
He’d never dreamed she would let him kiss her. It hadn’t been his intention, but when she’d put her arms around him, resting her cheek upon his, he’d lost sight of the world. Her lips had tasted sweet, but beneath her innocence, he’d tasted the promise of more. She’d tempted him, until he could do nothing except savour the moments that wouldn’t last. She was a duke’s daughter and despite the fierce desire to be her protector, he knew he’d never be a part of her life.
A sound from outside caught his attention. Callum reluctantly got out of bed, listening to the sounds of night. In the corner, he saw Bram sleeping and he wondered why his brother had allowed him to sleep with Marguerite. Silently, he moved to open the shuttered window. In the darkness, he spied faint pinpricks of light moving towards them. He didn’t know what it was, but within seconds the light vanished. Instinct warned him that whatever the source of the light was, he had to warn his brother.
Before he could say a word, he heard Marguerite moan in her sleep. She clenched the sheets, murmuring words in French that he didn’t understand. And when he tried to awaken her by touching her cheek, her eyes flew open.
She sat up and gripped him hard, still shaking from the nightmare. Callum held her tight, stroking her hair to soothe her.
It’s all right. I’m here.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I was dreaming about the tower and the fire that night. I dreamed I couldn’t get out.’ Her face rested against his neck and he kissed her hair, moving his mouth lower to console her in the only way he knew how.
She drew back, closing her eyes and lifting her mouth to his. Before he could taste her lips, the door swung open and Alex entered. His brother’s face darkened with misunderstanding, as if he thought Callum was trying to dishonour Marguerite.
‘Get away from her, Callum,’ Alex warned.
At the sudden sound, Bram woke up from his place on the floor and stood. ‘Leave them,’ he said, stretching. ‘She calms him.’
‘Did he hurt you?’ Alex asked Lady Marguerite. She shook her head, her face turning dark red.
‘I should go,’ she murmured. ‘I never meant to fall asleep.’ Embarrassed, she fled the room.
Callum stared at his brothers, needing to tell them what he’d seen. He pointed toward the window, trying to signal to them, but they didn’t understand.
He saw in their eyes that they believed he’d gone mad, as if he weren’t aware of what was going on.
‘Did he sleep at all last night?’ Alex asked Bram.
‘He kept waking up, but Marguerite stopped him from lashing out.’
‘We should keep her close, then, if she’s able to get through to him.’
Callum’s temper exploded. He moved between the men, grabbing each of his brothers by the shoulder.
Look at me. I hear your words. I understand them.
But not a single sound came, despite his mouth moving. Frustration clawed at him that he was unable to communicate anything at all.
He grabbed Bram’s tunic and hauled him towards the window, pointing outside once again.
‘There’s nothing out there,’ Bram said. ‘You’re safe now.’
He didn’t believe it. And they were fools if they did.
Alex poured a cup of wine into a goblet and handed it to him. ‘Have something to drink. Whatever it is, we’ll look in the morning.’
He drank the wine and, too late, tasted the bitter herbs within it. Staring at his brother’s betrayal, he wondered what they’d done to him.
