“Don’t let me fall,” she warned.
He shook his head, and she tilted her head to look at him. The feeling of her slender body in his arms was a gift, and he tightened his hold to reassure her.
Never.
Callum adjusted the position of her body, holding her with one arm while he showed her how to move her arms. Marguerite tried to swim as he had but didn’t know how to kick her legs.
He reached out to her thighs, opening them slightly as he guided her legs up and down in a fluttering motion. Her skin was cool and firm in his hands. But when he reached to guide her other leg, her face went down into the water. Instantly, he lifted her up, and she coughed, holding him tight as she stood up.
“I-I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I should have been moving my arms, but when my face went under, I was too frightened.”
He smoothed back the hair that had escaped from her braid, his hands upon her cheeks. Don’t be afraid.
Her answer was to cling to him, resting her cheek against his chest. He embraced her, and the ache inside him spread deeper.
“I don’t know what’s happening between us,” she whispered. “And I know I shouldn’t come to you, when I’m betrothed to someone else. But I had to.”
In her voice, he heard the traces of guilt, as if she knew she was betraying her family. He rested his forehead against hers, while both of them were shivering.
Nothing mattered anymore. Not his clan, far away to the northeast. Not the stranger she was supposed to marry. Only this moment.
“Could you build a fire?” she asked. He nodded and led her out of the water to sit upon the large boulder. He gathered wood to make a fire, steeling himself against the bitter wind. Marguerite was shivering hard, but he built up the tinder and struck flint until he had a small blaze going. Once he beckoned to her, she huddled as close to it as she dared.
“Swimming was harder than I thought it would be,” she admitted, resting her chin upon her knees. “But thank you for trying to teach me.”
For a time, she simply sat with him, and it didn’t matter that neither of them spoke. The quiet time together felt right. When she sent him a glance, she flushed, as if remembering the kiss they’d shared. She took her hair over one shoulder, wringing out the water, finger combing it to dry.
The motion caught his attention, and the longing to keep her with him, to see her in intimate moments like these, was all-encompassing.
He lost himself in thought, wondering how to make her stay for a little while longer. His hands dug into the damp sand when she knelt by the fire, lifting the wet chemise away from her skin while trying to dry it.
He picked up a fallen stick, intending to toss it into the flames, but he traced it through the dirt, still watching over her. Marguerite frowned, and then she studied him with interest.
“Do you know how to write?”
The idea hadn’t occurred to him. He shook his head, but then, a sudden flash of inspiration gripped him. Though he couldn’t read or write, she could.
And if she could teach him, it would give him a way to talk to her. The idea exploded within his mind with the fierce desire to make his thoughts known, to break free of his silent prison.
Callum held out the stick to her, waiting in the hopes that he was right.
His hand closed over hers, and he guided the stick back down to the dirt. Marguerite knelt and he pointed to her, then to the ground.
Teach me what you know.
She began to write curved markings, eyeing him with uncertainty. “It’s my name,” she said. “Marguerite.”
Callum caught her hand and took the stick from her. Then he pressed her hand upon his and struggled to trace over the letters she’d printed. He couldn’t quite duplicate the lines, but it was close.
“You want me to teach you how?” she murmured.
Yes. She couldn’t know how hungry he was for words, for a way to express the thoughts inside him. If she could teach him anything at all, it would be a gift beyond price.
“Few men can read,” she warned him. “And it takes many years to learn to write. It’s not just the letters.”
He shook his head and forced her hand atop his. I need to learn. He struggled to write her name again, though one of the curving letters that dropped lower eluded him.
“Which language do you wish to write?”
