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, and 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, memorizing 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, still 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, and 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 of skin 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 palm, 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 words of 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 between them went deeper than 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, and 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 defenses, 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, kissing her in other secret places.
