Abruptly, he released her and walked away. But despite her protests, he wasn’t going to abandon her. Not after all they’d endured. But somehow, he had to convince her to fight.
A heaviness clenched Marguerite’s heart when he left. The vast emptiness inside was all-consuming, for he’d thrown down a gauntlet of his own, challenging her. She forced herself to walk back to the Hall, forcing back the tears.
Even though she wanted him desperately, she understood the challenge that lay ahead. Until she’d convinced her father to end the betrothal with Lord Penrith, there was no hope of being with Callum.
Guy de Montpierre would be furious if she refused the marriage. Her father had given her a life of privilege, and she recognized his right to choose her husband. To deny it and rebel against him made her ungrateful and selfish.
The good girl daughter cringed at the thought of refusing the marriage he'd arranged. And yet, the woman who had spent the night in Callum’s arms wanted nothing more than to spend all of her days with him. No matter what happened.
She might fail . . . but she had to gather her courage and try.
Chapter Eight
“MacKinloch?” came a whisper from the back of the Hall. “Come with me.”
Callum spied Iagar Campbell beckoning to him. He rose, following the man outside. It was late at night and most of the castle inhabitants were asleep. The darkness made it difficult to follow Campbell to the stables, for the torches were sparser in this area. Though he didn’t know if anyone else was there, he supposed it was safe enough to hear what the man had to say.
They stopped just inside the doorway. Iagar loosened his tunic, revealing reddened marks around his throat. Then he lifted his wrists, revealing the scars that could only have been formed by manacles. “I was freed a few years ago,” he admitted. “But I remember what they did to you at Cairnross.”
Callum studied the reddened marks. Though it was possible that Campbell had been chained alongside them, he didn’t recognize the man. Whether or not it was true, he waited for the man to continue.
“I remember you as a boy,” Iagar said, leaning against one of the stalls. “Your brother took punishments for you.” His expression turned angry, and his fingers dug against the wood. “It shouldn’t have happened. Not to any of us.” Anger and bitterness laced Iagar’s voice, and Callum suspected the man had lost someone close to him.
“But now we’re fighting back against the English.” Iagar’s eyes gleamed with ambition. “We’re forming our own group of men to reclaim the lands stolen from us. To put an end to the suffering of our kinsmen.”
Callum folded his arms across his chest, understanding that they wanted him to be a part of their rebellion. Although he understood their purpose, he had no desire to be involved.
“Aren’t you going to say anything, MacKinloch?”
He unsheathed the dagger at his waist and touched his mouth with it, implying that his tongue had been cut out.
Iagar paled, his face tightening. “Then you, of all men, have a reason to want vengeance.”
Callum kept a veiled expression on his face. He was here for Marguerite, not to start another fight with the English.
Iagar offered, “Come and join me and the others. We have a small hut outside the castle grounds, and we could use another Scot to join us. Another man we can trust.”
He started to shake his head, but Iagar urged, “Take some time to make your decision.” He eyed the scars upon Callum’s wrists. “There are other prisoners, not far from here. I think you remember what it was like, living in English captivity. We’re going to free the rest of them. No matter the cost.”
Over the next few days, Marguerite sensed Callum’s presence everywhere she turned. At meals, he served her food. In the morning, she saw him standing outside her window, leading horses out for the hunters. And today, when she walked through the garden, she saw her name written in the earth beside the herbs she tended. It was as if he’d countered her declaration with a defiance of his own.
He wasn't leaving.
She knelt down and touched the dirt where he’d printed her name. Seeing his awkward handwriting reminded her of when she’d taught him the letters. Guilt pressed against her conscience, for she’d not been able to give him any more words to communicate. It felt as if someone were tearing her in half, leaving her heart with Callum and her mind loyal to her father. And she didn’t know how to respond to the way he was fighting for her. Until the Duc returned, she could do nothing.
Sweeping the dirt clean, she began writing his name in the space. He might not recognize it, but he would understand that she’d answered his silent message.
“What are you doing, Marguerite?” came her aunt’s voice from behind her.
She dropped to her knees, hiding the words beneath her skirts. Reaching out to pull a weed from the herb garden, she answered, “I believe that’s obvious enough.”
“You should be sewing your bridegroom’s wedding tunic,” Beatrice chided. “He will come in a few days, and you’ve barely finished any of it.”
Because I don’t want to marry him. Because I have to find a way to reason with my father.
She held her silence, and a moment later, her aunt gripped her by the arm, jerking her up. “Answer me when I speak to you. Or I’ll have you locked in your room again.”
Marguerite’s anger blazed. She pried her arm free from her aunt’s grasp and felt the rush of indignation filling her up inside. “Try it again, and see what the others think of you. Already they despise you for what you did to those soldiers.” Though she hadn’t seen either of the men, it dismayed her to think of how they’d suffered after her escape.
