She needed him to know it, to be fully honest with him about the way her life had shifted in the past few months. At her confession, Callum's expression tensed. He picked up a dry piece of wood and tossed it on the fire. Marguerite didn't know what else to say, but she offered, "I'm glad you came. I-I've thought of you often."
His silence only intensified the awkwardness between them. Without a voice, he could tell her nothing of the past or what he was thinking now.
She tried to think of something else, but could only ask, "Has your back healed?"
Callum sent her a curious look, but set down his quiver beside the bow and removed his tunic.
When he turned his back, she saw that the scars still held a red tint, but they had fully healed. She reached out to touch the skin, and he flinched.
"Did I hurt you?"
He shook his head, lifting her hand to touch him again. The warm skin was rough from the scarred gouges, but the lines of suffering had only strengthened him. When she traced his flesh with her fingertips, he leaned into the touch, as if her palms were healing him.
She moved her fingers over his shoulders, down to his ribs. A sudden deep laugh escaped him, as if he were ticklish. Shocked, Marguerite murmured, "I didn't know you could make any sounds at all." It made her wonder if he would one day speak again. And if he did, what he would say.
Callum took her hand and brought it to his throat, his eyes watching her. The intimate touch of her fingers upon his skin made her feel awkward, and she sensed that he wanted something from her.
Abruptly, his expression grew stoic, and he put his tunic on again, reaching into a pouch of his belongings. He retrieved a silver chain holding a pendant of sapphire-colored glass. Marguerite held it in her palm, captivated by the shifting colors in the blue necklace. He lifted it over her neck, and the pendant settled upon her bosom.
"It's beautiful." She ventured, "Laren made this glass, didn't she?" At his nod, she offered, "Thank you."
She touched the pendant, not knowing what more to say. A sinking sensation pulled at her gut, and she dared to ask again, "Callum, why have you come?"
Dark brown eyes fastened upon her, with the intensity of a man who wanted more than she could give. He took her hand in his, holding it gently. Then he opened his palm, letting her pull away if she would.
Marguerite saw the question in his eyes. He would let her go, here and now if that was her choice. She simply had to walk away.
In her mind, she thought of the night he'd kissed her, and the shaken longing he'd provoked. She'd been unable to forget the way he'd made her feel, nor the tremulous emotions within herself.
Your father has already decided upon your marriage. Callum MacKinloch has no place in your life, the voice of logic demanded.
She knew that, just as she knew that the rest of her life would be commanded by others. Though she badly wanted to speak up, to tell her father that she wanted to make her own decisions, he never listened to her opinions. He simply reminded her that he wanted what was best for her life. It was hard to argue when he'd given her so much.
"I have to go back," she murmured at last. "They'll be searching for me." The words were leaden, and she suspected that Callum would be gone in the morning. Loneliness stretched out within her at the thought.
He lowered his hand, his face shielded of any emotion. She wanted to say something, to make him understand how little she power she held. But instead, she locked away the words, afraid of hurting him with the truth.
Callum escorted her back, and with every step, he felt her slipping further away. Though she'd been glad to see him, both of them knew he didn't belong here. But he'd hoped for a chance.
Inside, he closed off the numbness, accepting her decision. Just having these moments with her had been more than he'd hoped for. Of course her father would choose someone else for her to marry, someone with noble blood.
Not a prisoner, locked away from the rest of the world. Not a man with hardly a penny to call his own.
The dark tension warred with his instincts, but pride forced him to release her hand. No matter how many miles he'd traveled, if she'd made her decision, there was nothing more he could do.
Marguerite curled her palm around the pendant, her blue eyes holding back tears. He turned away, the ache burning a hole inside of him. Perhaps it was best to let her go.
"Wait." Her voice held a quaver that he didn't understand. Before he could take another step, Marguerite closed the space between them.
His pulse faltered at her plea, but he shielded his thoughts and waited for her to speak.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered.
Hope roared through him, that she might give him this chance. He touched her face, and Marguerite stood on her tiptoes, winding her arms around him.
He held her so tight, their bodies merged into one. There was so much he needed to say to her, and he struggled again to speak. But the words would not come.
For a breathless moment, he drew back to study her. His mouth hovered above hers, waiting for her consent. She lifted her mouth to his, and the physical hunger consumed him. Her kiss evoked every day that they'd spent apart, the empty loneliness that had made each day interminable.
