Ever since she'd left Scotland, she'd been unable to forget Callum MacKinloch. The fierce, silent Scot had invaded her dreams, leaving her with memories of his kiss. At night, she imagined his mouth moving down her jaw, down to her throat. She remembered the hardened lines of his body, the taut warm skin that invited her to touch.
"Marguerite." Her father interrupted her idle thoughts, setting his silver cup upon the table beside her. "I am leaving for England on the morrow. I'll be escorting the Earl of Penrith here for your wedding."
She nodded her head, trying not to betray the disappointment inside. Even so, her father noticed her unhappiness. "I know these past few months have been difficult for you. But be assured, this will be a better marriage for you, ma petite," he continued. "The earl has estates here, as well as in England and Ireland. He is favored by the English king, and I have it in good faith that he is a nobleman worthy of being your husband. You should be well pleased with him."
But what if I'm not pleased? she wanted to ask. What if he's as terrible as Lord Cairnross? Although she'd known her father would arrange another match, the shadow of restlessness haunted her.
Months ago, the idea of questioning her father's orders had never occurred to her. As the head of the family, it was the Duc's responsibility to choose her husband, selecting a nobleman who would best provide for her. None of her personal desires mattered. And yet now, it seemed that the invisible bands of obedience stretched over her, strangling her into submission.
"How long will you be gone?"
"A fortnight or so." He reached out and took her hand. His heavy gold ring pressed against her fingers as he squeezed his reassurance. "There are plenty of my men to keep you safe. And soon enough, you'll live in England as Lady of your own castle." He sent her a warm smile, believing that was all she'd ever wanted.
He had no reason to think otherwise. Only months ago, she'd wanted to rule over her own demesne, with a strong husband at her side. She had planned to be his obedient wife, creating a comfortable home for him and bearing children.
But everything had changed since she'd spent time with the MacKinlochs. Despite the danger and the terrifying battle, she'd shattered the glass of her protected life. Another woman lived inside her skin now, someone with courage. A woman who had seized her own escape from Cairnross.
When her father had brought her to Duncraig, she'd expected to resume her old life, like a familiar shadow. Instead, the past haunted her, making her dream of a silent warrior who had torn apart her defenses, awakening her.
And now he'd come back.
She knew little of Callum MacKinloch, nor could she guess what he thought of her. Yet, the need to see him again overwhelmed her, filling her mind with impossible thoughts.
"We'll hunt this morning," her father said. A warm smile crinkled the edges of his eyes. "I want a little more time with my youngest daughter before she leaves me as a wedded woman." He summoned a servant and ordered their horses to be readied. "While I'm away, you are not to leave these grounds. Is that understood?"
You are not to think for yourself or make any decisions that contradict mine, she thought bitterly. But she gave the expected response, "Oui, mon père."
"You will also spend your time sewing or in prayer," he added. "Do not trouble yourself with the needs of the household. I have appointed Lady Beatrice to oversee the servants and guide you in my absence."
Marguerite suppressed a groan. Though outwardly kind, her mother's sister Beatrice had a thin air of superiority that didn't sit well with her. The next fortnight would, no doubt, be an exercise in patience.
"Obey her, Marguerite," he insisted.
In spite of her nineteen years, he still treated her as if she were only seven years old. Marguerite veiled her frustration and rose from the table, ignoring the rest of her food. At his inquiring look, she gave the expected response, "If that is your will, Papa."
Approval settled into his expression, and he dismissed her with a hand. "Go, now, and we'll ride out together in an hour."
She found her father waiting for her near the stables. He sent her a welcoming smile, while she mounted her horse. "The others are not yet ready to join us on the hunt. If you're willing, we'll go out for a short ride together."
It meant that he wanted to speak with her in private, she guessed. With a nod, she followed him outside the gates.
Within her bodice, she'd tucked the frail ribbon Callum had given her last eve. Her skin tightened with the desire to see him again. Why had he come back? Knowing that he was here had opened up the Pandora's Box of her forbidden wishes. Marguerite stared at the trees around them, wondering if he was nearby.
The Duc led her along the perimeter of the forest, toward the open fields. When she drew her mare alongside his, he suggested, "Shall we race? I'll grant you a small lead."
She suspected that he intended to let her win, as he'd done when she was a young girl. Though she returned his smile, she suspected that he had other news to impart that she would not like.
"I don't need an advantage," she countered, adjusting her skirts. "I can win without it."
The challenge brought a smile to her father's face. "What shall we wager? A length of silk or a golden chain with a jewel to match your eyes? Perhaps a fur-lined cloak to keep you warm in winter?"
She shook her head. There was no need for luxuries, not when he'd granted all of that in the past. "A favor to be granted at a time of my choosing." With the reins in her hand she added, "What do you want, if you win?"
His face softened. "A visit, from time to time. Your sisters hardly ever come to see me anymore." For a fleeting moment she spied the loneliness in his expression. He'd lost her mother years ago and had not remarried, though she was not naïve enough to believe that he'd been without female companionship during that time.
"All right," she agreed. "Say the word and we'll ride."
"To the edge of the shore," he said, pointing to the coastline in the distance. The Duc lifted his hand, eying her to ensure she was ready. Then, when he lowered his palm, they both rode hard across the countryside. Marguerite leaned into the wind, watching as her father kept his horse in check, giving her the lead. Though he loved to ride as much as she, he'd always been indulgent, wanting her to win.
