Читать книгу Tempted by the Highland Warrior - Michelle Willingham - Страница 8

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.

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.