I won’t forget you, she swore, in her own silence. My heart is yours.
And when he’d gone, she sank to her knees, feeling utterly lost.
They left him with nothing but the clothes on his back. No food, no water. No shelter. It was the Duc’s way of offering a death sentence without laying a hand upon him.
He’d been blindfolded throughout the journey, giving him no means of knowing where he was. Callum could only estimate how far they’d brought him, praying that he would find some familiar landscape or a clan nearby.
The land was a bright green, with mountains rising all around him. In this part of Scotland, trees were less common, and with no horse, he had to walk mile after mile with no way to guide him.
Worst of all, he suspected that Marguerite must have gone through with the marriage. Her father had spared his life, leaving her with little choice. Enough time had passed that she was likely the earl’s wife now.
Like a slow torture, it dug into his skin, the thought of another man taking his place.
He stumbled to his knees beside a stream, drinking the cold water while he tried to exorcise the image from his mind. Aye, they’d let him live. And though he knew enough to survive off the land, every taste of food was bitter in his mouth. The damned helpless feeling was driving him into madness. He didn’t know where he was or how to find Marguerite again.
And if he did reveal himself, the Duc would kill him where he stood.
You never deserved Marguerite, the voice inside him warned. She was never yours.
But for every day, of the rest of his life, he would remember the pain in her eyes when they’d taken him away. She’d loved him, just as he loved her. She’d come to him in the darkness, bringing him into the light.
Callum climbed one of the hills, grasping at the long grasses for balance. With every step, his lungs burned, his body fighting the weakness from hunger and lack of sleep. Doggedly, he continued on, until he reached the apex.
From all around, he could see the land, rising and falling in a sea of green. Tiny rivulets of water creased the hills, waterfalls that carved silver ridges into the surface.
The temptation pulled at him, to simply lie here and let go. He would never have Marguerite, no matter how hard he fought for her. Even when he’d asked her to leave everything behind, she hadn’t come. And her father would never allow her that freedom.
Her life was too deeply woven into a world of nobility, one he’d never belong to. But in those brief, stolen moments, she’d given him a taste of heaven. He’d loved her with every breath, every part of his soul.
Upon the ridge, he watched the sun rise higher, spilling over the land in rays of gold. The immensity of his isolation filled him with the vision of years spent without her.
Sometimes he wondered if death would have been a gift, to be with her until the last breath passed from his body. But he didn’t want to give up on her or let go of that dream. She’d wanted him as much as he wanted her.
And if he found his way back to Glen Arrin and made a life without her, it was an act of cowardice. She was meant to be his, regardless of whether anyone else believed it.
No longer would he wait for her to make a decision or try to extricate herself from the tangled web of obligations. This time, he wouldn’t ask. He would simply take her with him and damn the consequences. She was worth dying for.
From his vantage point, he studied the landscape, searching for anything that would help him gain his bearings. His eyes narrowed upon a small traveling group moving on horseback through the hills.
He began his descent, moving toward them at a brisk walk, and then a light run when he reached the bottom of the hill. He would find his way back to her, no matter how long it took.
The taste of the wine was bitter, and Marguerite choked upon it. Her aunt Beatrice stared at her, a nod of satisfaction on her face.
A horrifying suspicion was confirmed, when she tasted something that shouldn’t have been in the wine.
“What have you done?” she demanded, casting the goblet aside. Wine sloshed upon the ground, and she couldn’t know how much she’d drunk. Had her aunt poisoned her?
She saw the faint nod from her father and the look they exchanged between them.
“It will start within the hour,” Beatrice said, gesturing for a servant to remove the fallen cup.
“What will start?” Marguerite touched her mouth, the aftertaste of the herbal brew making her wonder what they were talking about.
“Come,” her father said, rising from his seat at the dais. The earl sat at her left, looking mystified at what was happening. To her betrothed husband, the Duc said simply, “It is naught to concern you, Penrith.”
Marguerite felt the fear sliding deeper inside, as her father took her hand and led her above stairs. Behind her, Aunt Beatrice followed. He led her into her chamber, and dismissed the maid who was inside, mending a gown.
Once the door closed behind the maid, her father spoke. “Beatrice gave you a blend of herbs that will cast out any child you might have conceived with MacKinloch.”
