Chapter Thirteen
She left him an hour later. The darkness enveloped him, leaving him with nothing but a memory. Her scent was upon him, and Callum closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall.
Today. He was going to speak with the Duc and make his way out of the prison. He didn’t doubt that Marguerite’s father would leave him down here to rot, if he could.
The sound of the guards returning interrupted his plans. A man’s voice broke through the silence, and a chained figure fell upon the ground, only a few feet away. In the darkness, it was hard to tell who it was, but Callum spied the tell-tale marks of a whiplash.
“That you, MacKinloch?” Sileas demanded. The older man’s hands were chained together, but he managed to come closer.
Callum said nothing, letting the man believe that he still lacked the ability to speak. The older man slumped against the wall beside him, his head resting between his knees. “Hope ye said a prayer last night. For today’s the day we die.”
He stared at Sileas, waiting for the man to continue.
“I gave them names. Told them you were with us.” A grimace twisted his mouth. “We’ll be hanged for it.”
He didn’t doubt that the Duc would hold him accountable, regardless that he’d done nothing wrong—if for no other reason that he’d dared to love Marguerite.
Throughout the next hour, he barely heard another word the old man said, for his mind was turning over ways to escape. At this moment, his hands were unbound, and only the guards stood between him and freedom. He had to seize the one chance he had.
Within the stone walls, there were no weapons. No stones, no blades—nothing at all. Stealth and surprise were the only advantages.
The old man began mumbling prayers again, and it was clear that he’d already given up. Callum stood, moving toward the stairs. At the top, the two guards blocked his way.
“I want . . . to speak with the Duc,” he demanded, frustrated with himself when his voice was still hoarse and the words stalled when he spoke.
The first guard seemed startled to realize that he could make any sounds at all. But he shrugged, answering, “You will be taken before him at noon this day.”
“Why?”
The guard said nothing, and Callum suspected that Sileas’s claim, that they would be put to death, had truth in it. “Who else?”
The guard named a few of the men who had gone on the raid, finishing with, “The old man, yourself, and Iagar Campbell.” His expression turned grim. “You can’t escape it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
But Marguerite had sworn she would not go through with the marriage if he was harmed. Therefore, it was unlikely she would be present to witness his death. Her father would invent an excuse.
“He wants you gone, MacKinloch. Because of the Lady.”
Callum didn’t doubt it. Guy de Montpierre wouldn’t hesitate to punish him for touching Marguerite. Most men would be frightened to think of dying within a few hours. But he’d faced his own death so many times, it didn’t distract him from his purpose. He would find a way out, at a moment when they least expected it.
He took a step backwards, as if he were returning, but stumbled forward, bumping against the guard.
He muttered an apology, falling back into the shadows. And as he retreated, he slipped the dagger he’d stolen beneath his tunic. The weapon would serve him well when it was needed.
The afternoon sun rose high, spreading its light across fleecy clouds. Marguerite saw the prisoners gathered below, the same men whose names she had given to her father. Justice would be done for the murders.
A light knock sounded upon her door, and when she called out for the visitor to enter, she saw the Earl of Penrith standing. His expression appeared strained. “You should come below, Marguerite.”
“I have no wish to watch men being hanged. Even if it was for murder.”
“What of your lover? Will you not let him look upon your face for the last time before he dies?”
His words startled her into numbness. “Callum is there? But my father—”
“One of the guards whom I sent away that night, told the Duc that you spent hours together.” The earl’s gaze lowered to her waist. “Could he have gotten you with child?”
Her cheeks burned with shame. “I don’t know.” She still couldn’t grasp the earl’s willingness to accept a bastard as his own, if by some mercy she had conceived a new life.
“If you want him to live, his time grows short.” The earl waited, and Marguerite gripped her skirts, hurrying outside her chamber.
