The shadows shielded his presence as he waited. After several minutes passed, he heard the battle cries of the men as they charged forward with dirks and spears. One of the guards shouted, only to be cut off in the middle of a word.
It was part of any raid, he knew. Even so, it didn’t diminish the sense of unrest building within him. He’d expected a fortress the size of Cairnross, where they would infiltrate the walls and break the prisoners free, as best they could.
Instead, this felt wrong.
He held an arrow fitted to the bowstring, watching for any sign of prisoners being freed. When none came, he wondered what had gone awry and whether he should go in to help.
Callum kept his arrow taut within the bowstring, ready to defend himself. His eyes blurred against the brightness of the torches when he first entered the fortress.
When his eyes adjusted, he stared in disbelief at the bodies littering the ground. There were no prisoners here at all. Only English soldiers who had been murdered.
Callum saw Iagar raise a dirk, and a roar of fury rose up inside of him. He opened his mouth, a cry rising in his throat for them to stop and lay down their weapons. But it came out as nothing but a breath of air. His mind was raging, the words trapped. He couldn’t voice a single command.
The slaughter sickened him. Aye, he’d been taken prisoner as a child by men like these, growing up in chains. But not all of the soldiers deserved to die. The fury within him transformed into revulsion.
Iagar and the others began looting the bodies, and Callum retreated into the darkness. These men were nothing but murderers and thieves.
His hand gripped the bow in a fight to control his anger. If he could have found his way back to the castle alone, he’d have gone immediately.
“MacKinloch,” he heard Sileas call out. “Aren’t you going to join us?” The man stood with his back against a wooden wall, while he held a sword from one of the fallen men.
His answer was to release one of the black-feathered arrows, embedding it in the wood behind Sileas’s head.
Sileas reached for a weapon, his temper blazing. “What was that for, ye son of a cur?”
But Callum fitted another arrow to his bow, aiming directly at the old man’s heart.
Because you deserve to die for what you’ve done.
Iagar stepped beside him. “Put down the bow, MacKinloch.”
Callum spun and aimed the weapon at the man he’d believed was an ally. He’d been wrong. They’d come here to loot and to kill. Not to save men’s lives.
Backing away slowly, he let them know that he wanted nothing to do with them. Especially because, as Sileas had predicted, he could tell no one what had happened here.
The following day, Marguerite found Callum swimming in the loch, north of the forest. The sky held streaks of rose and lavender, and she sat upon a large stone, watching him. His body tore through the water in long strokes, at a punishing pace. His shoulders flexed, and she waited for him to finish, hoping to share the gift she’d brought. Around her neck, she wore the pendant he’d given her, and she touched the cool glass, feeling suddenly nervous around him.
The last time she’d been with Callum, he’d asked her to leave everything behind to be together. She wanted to, but despite her attempts to speak with the Earl of Penrith in private, her father wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps he’d sensed what she was trying to do. Before she could voice a protest, the betrothal agreement had been finalized, signed, and witnessed.
You’re weak-willed and cowardly, she berated herself. You don’t deserve your freedom, if you aren’t able to speak for yourself.
Worry rooted inside her that she couldn’t break free at all. Yes, she could have refused to sign the document. But the Duc would demand to know why, and somehow the truth would come out. He would seek retribution against the MacKinlochs if she admitted she’d become Callum’s lover. It was a dangerous game she’d begun, one she feared was impossible to win.
When at last Callum ceased his swimming, he stood up in the water. His dark eyes caught hers, and she saw the trouble brewing within him. He looked angry, like a man returning from battle.
Emerging from the water, he didn’t seem to care as he walked to her unclothed, the water rolling down his skin in droplets. His black hair hung past his shoulders, wet and pushed back from his face.
Like a sleek predator, he watched her. It was a silent reminder of the way he’d run his hands over her skin, awakening feelings she didn’t understand. Seeing him in the morning light, the sun gleamed over his muscles, illuminating flesh she wanted to touch.
“I-I brought you something,” she murmured, averting her gaze from his body. But as she bent to retrieve the pouch, his powerful legs were so close she could reach out and touch him.
Her lungs constricted, and when she stood up, she saw that his manhood had grown thick and heavy, aroused by the sight of her. Marguerite shivered, remembering the heat of his body moving over hers.
Keeping her eyes averted, she held out the pouch. “It’s a quill, ink, and a bit of parchment. I thought you might like to try writing on it.”
“Marguerite,” he said. In his voice, she heard the unspoken questions. He took the pouch and tossed it back on the hillside, dragging her close. His arms closed around her, gripping her in a tight embrace. Against her hips, she felt the hard length of his arousal and the answering rush of desire within herself.
His mouth moved to her lips, taking her in a kiss that reminded her that she belonged in his arms. He was ruthless, demanding a response that pushed away all of her fears, reminding her of why she needed him. Why she had to sever the betrothal and face her father’s wrath.
