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She started to pull free, when something made her stop and turn around. Callum held his bow over one shoulder, his gaze shielded. He gave her a signal to leave, that he wouldn’t stop her. But she realised the truth of what was happening.
The moment she reached her father’s side, everything would return to the way it had been. She would be safe with her family, and likely she wouldn’t see Callum again.
Regret pulled at her, even though she’d known the moments between them were never going to last. They would fade into bittersweet memories.
‘I’ll never forget you,’ she whispered, touching his cheek in farewell.
Callum drew his bow as soon as Marguerite left the trees, intending to shoot any man who came near her. Two of her father’s guards escorted her to safety and she spoke to them, gesturing toward the MacKinlochs as if to intervene.
He kept low, crouching with his bow as he watched the men. Harkirk was still alive, but the body of Cairnross lay upon the ground, slaughtered by his brother Bram.
He should have been relieved that Marguerite would never marry the earl. Instead, angry resentment filled him up, that Bram had wrought justice instead of himself. He’d wanted to be the one to set her free.
More, he wanted to take the earl’s place as Marguerite’s husband. He touched the veil she’d bound around his arm as a makeshift guard and the softness reminded him of her.
I’ll never forget you.
He didn’t believe that. As soon as she returned to France, her father would arrange another marriage to a nobleman. She would wed the man, bear him children and forge a different life for herself. One that didn’t include him.
Callum watched as they brought a horse for her. He saw his brothers negotiating a truce while Harkirk’s men withdrew and Nairna spoke to the Duc. And just as he’d expected, Lady Marguerite rode away with her father. The evening sunset glinted upon her hair like a fading band of gold.
And he knew he would never see her again.
Chapter Four
Summer—1306
The blue ribbon was so faded it had turned to grey, the edges frayed with time.
‘You’re hurting by being apart from Marguerite, aren’t you?’ his brother’s wife Laren had said to him, only months ago. ‘Surely, she would find it romantic if you were to steal her away, taking her back with you.’
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