“And what of the earl? A betrothal cannot be so easily broken, Marguerite.”
“He helped me to the shore,” she admitted. “I let him go, just as he released me.” At his doubt, she added, “He knows, Father.”
The Duc reached out and took her hand. In that moment, he looked so weary, she didn’t know what to believe. “I suppose he must have. Someone pulled up the anchor and the ship drifted for miles before we realized it." He squeezed her palm and reached out to touch her hair. “You look so much like your mother, ma petite.”
She sent him a blinding smile, understanding the apology he had not spoken.
Chapter Seventeen
Callum stood before Marguerite, still in disbelief that her father was witnessing their marriage. The priest spoke a blessing in Latin, joining their hands together while Marguerite smiled at him. Her blue eyes were filled with joy, and he’d hardly managed to speak the vows that now married them.
He leaned in to kiss her, and his kinsmen cheered. The dark look in the Duc’s eyes wasn’t entirely pleased, but he’d agreed to a reluctant peace between them. Though he didn’t like letting his daughter go, his resignation had done a great deal to heal the distance between them.
Callum met the man’s gaze, offering the silent promise to always make her happy.
Laren and Nairna had created a feast that was nothing short of miraculous. Several of the soldiers had spent the afternoon fishing, and they ate cold mutton, roasted fowl, and salmon, as well as oat cakes and bowls of summer berries. There was music and dancing, and the Duc agreed to dance with Marguerite. Her face shone with love, and when she looked back at him, Callum returned the same silent message.
“What happened to Aunt Beatrice?” she asked her father.
“I sent her back to France. She was causing more trouble, and I heard tales from my men that you were right.” He shrugged. “It was her idea about the herbs.” Touch her cheek he said, “I never should have agreed to it. I ask your forgiveness.”
She nodded, recognizing the sincerity in his voice. He’d allowed his anger to blind him. “I’m glad she’s gone.” Resting her head upon his shoulder, she added, “I still owe you that prize from the day I let you win our race.”
When he said nothing, she raised her head to look at him. “Do you remember? I promised to visit you.”
There was a small hint of emotion in his face. “I would like that very much.” His arms tightened around her, and in his arms, she sensed his love.
The night continued with more feasting and music. The Duc expressed interest in the stained glass window within the fortress he’d spied earlier, and after he’d drunk a few more cups of ale, he spoke with Laren about commissioning a glass window for his chateau in France.
Though he sat with Marguerite and forced himself to eat, Callum wasn’t at all interested in food. She caught his gaze, and her smile faded into the look of understanding.
She extended her hand to him, and he followed her away from the celebration to the woods. They had just entered the trees, when abruptly, Marguerite stopped walking and leaned against one of the tall oaks. Reaching up to him, she pulled him into a deep kiss.
He took her mouth with his, claiming her with a husband’s right. She met the kiss with her own passion, winding her arms around his neck and offering everything of herself.
When she withdrew, her breathing was staggered, her mouth swollen. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“If you hadn’t led me here, I might have carried you off,” he answered. The need to feel her bare skin against his, to show her how much he loved her, was so strong, he lifted her into his arms.
“Then again, perhaps I will.”
She laughed against his shoulder as he took her into the forest, the sunset gleaming red and gold upon the horizon. He carried her into their house, closing the door behind them. Then he lowered her onto their bed.
Marguerite reached for him, and Callum worked to free her from her gown while she helped him remove his own clothing. She reached to lift away the crown of flowers upon her hair, but he took it from her. “Wait.”
He settled back to look at her. With her hair unbound and her beautiful body revealed to him, it stole his senses to think that she was now his wife. He broke off a spring of purple heather from the wreath and brought it to her body. With the rough sprig in his hands, he traced patterns upon her skin.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, gasping when he drew the blossom over her erect nipple.
“You taught me to write my name,” he answered. “I thought I should practice.” Swirling the blossom around her breast, he added, “The letter S was always hard.”
“I know something else that is hard,” she answered, reaching for him.
He laughed, but when her palm closed over his shaft, he inhaled sharply while the heather fell to the linen sheets. Lowering his mouth to her skin, he began to kiss her. He traced a path over her shoulders and up to the sensitive place upon her throat. He could sense her desire from the way her pulse pounded beneath his lips.
He kissed the column of her throat, and brought his hand lower. She tightened her grasp upon him, and he wanted her so badly, he fought to keep control over his lust. “Slow down, sweet.”
“Perhaps I don’t want to.” Her thumb moved over the crest of his erection, and she sent him a wicked smile. “I was abducted this night by a Scottish warrior. I hope to be ravished by him.”
