Tempted by the Highland Warrior (3 page)

But thus far they’d behaved honourably. Their leader hadn’t
been pleased with the idea of bringing her with them, but he’d agreed to protect
her, at a risk to his own people. It was the only hope she had left.

The fighting between the freed prisoners and Cairnross’s men
continued in the distance, as the men led her away. Flames consumed the
garrison, filling the air with smoke. ‘I’m glad to see it destroyed,’ she
murmured. The earl deserved to lose his stronghold after everything he’d
done.

‘How long were you there?’ Bram asked, as he climbed up behind
her, urging the horse faster.

‘Just over a sennight. But the prisoners…’ She shuddered at the
memory of all those who had suffered. Most had been freed this night, except
those who had died fighting.

‘Did you ever see a man called Callum MacKinloch?’ Bram asked.
‘Younger than me, one of our brothers?’

She glanced back at him and realised she’d been right about the
strong resemblance. It made her feel better about leaving with them, though she
couldn’t say why. ‘He was sent away a few days ago,’ she admitted. ‘
Oui
,
I saw him.’

‘Where?’

She shook her head, keeping her gaze fixed forward. ‘To the
South. That’s all I know.’

‘But he was alive and unharmed?’

‘Alive, yes.’ At least, that’s what she wanted to believe. Her
hands dug into the folds of her gown as she prayed it was still true. ‘Will you
try to find him?’ she whispered, as they took her deeper into the hills.

‘He’s our brother. We’ll bring him home,’ Bram vowed.

The intensity of the promise gave her hope that he would keep
his word. She didn’t understand why she felt the need to ensure that Callum was
safe. She’d only met him the one night. There was nothing at all between them,
not even friendship. But when he’d brought her hand to his cheek, it was as if
an invisible bond had drawn her to him. He’d dared to touch her, and though she
couldn’t say why he’d evoked these feelings, it was as if he’d been searching
for her all his life.

As if he’d been waiting for her to come.

Deep inside, she wished she could see him again—if only to
convince herself that she hadn’t imagined the interest in his eyes.

Chapter Two

C
allum refused to remain a prisoner. After
seven years of misery, waiting on his brother to make the decisions about how
and when to escape, damned if he’d wait another day. Even if he died in the
effort, he’d be no man’s slave.

Each day, he defied the soldiers, fighting to escape Lord
Harkirk’s fortress. The baron was no better than Cairnross, for he killed men
each day as an example to others. Callum didn’t doubt that he would one day be
the next victim, his head mounted upon a pike.

Strangely, his rebellion appeared to entertain the soldiers.
Each time he attempted to run away, they collected wagers from one another,
depending on how far he’d managed to go. And once they captured him again, they
took turns punishing him. Sometimes they withheld food, or other times he felt
the pain of the lash upon his shoulders.

But everything had changed when he’d stolen a bow several
nights ago. They’d whipped him afterwards, taking it back until one soldier had
decided to test Callum’s skills. A guard stood behind him, holding a dagger to
his throat while the others set up a wooden shield as a target.

‘Do you know how to shoot, MacKinloch?’ the guard had taunted,
pricking him with the blade. ‘Show us what you can do. Hit the shield and you
won’t feel the lash upon your shoulders any more this night. If you miss, you’ll
have another dozen strokes.’

Already his limbs were leaden, blood pooling down his back.
Callum’s vision blurred from dizziness and he knew they wouldn’t release him
until they saw him shoot. It had been years since he’d used a bow, but he’d gone
hunting often with his father and brothers. He’d always had a good eye and spent
hours practising until he could hit anything.

The bow felt comfortable in his hand, like a lost friend.
Although the soldiers expected him to miss, he knew the skill was there, buried
through the years. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the weapon.

Without an arrow, he pulled back the bowstring, testing the
tension. It wasn’t as taut as the bows he’d used as a child. Eyeing the distance
of the target, he knew he’d have to use his arm strength to increase the speed
of the arrow.

‘One shot,’ the soldier said, handing him an arrow. ‘If you try
to shoot one of us, you die.’ The men gathered behind him to watch, keeping away
from the target.

The cold blade rested against his neck, but Callum ignored it.
He focused all of his concentration upon the shield, ignoring the fierce pain
within his muscles. Pulling back the bowstring, he adjusted his aim. In his
mind, he heard the memory of his father’s voice.

‘See your target not only with your
eyes,’
Tavin MacKinloch had instructed him.
‘See
it with your arm, your stance. Let it fly only when you know you’ll strike
true.’

His arm was shaking now, the arrow pulled tight. A bead of
sweat rolled down his cheek and he ignored the jeers of the soldiers. He
envisioned the arrow embedding deep within the shield. Then, at last, he
released the bowstring, letting the arrow fly.

It struck the centre of the shield, just as he’d imagined.

The roar of the soldiers was deafening. They took the weapon
from him, dragging him away. As promised, they hadn’t whipped him that night,
but afterwards, they made him shoot every day, wagering upon him. It was an
unexpected gift, allowing him to rebuild the lost skill.

He didn’t hit all of their selected targets and had been
punished when he missed. But he hardly felt the blows any more. His silence
intimidated the other prisoners, making them believe he possessed an unearthly
tolerance for pain. They’d come to fear him and it heightened the sense of
isolation. It didn’t matter. Soon he would find a way to make his escape from
the fortress, leaving all of them behind.

One night, he thought he’d spied a weakness in the walls, only
to be distracted by the sight of Lady Harkirk standing at the entrance of the
tower. In her eyes, he saw the bleakness that echoed his own emotions. Her
marriage to Lord Harkirk made him think of Marguerite, betrothed to a man who
would eventually destroy her.

Callum’s hand paused on the wooden palisade wall. Instead of
seeing Lady Harkirk’s brown hair and slim form, he saw Marguerite’s lighter hair
and deep blue eyes. The young woman’s face was burned into his memory, though he
didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was because he’d never imagined that a
beautiful woman like her would ever bother with a man like him. The vision held
strong in his mind, binding him to her.

Had Marguerite suffered any punishment for granting him mercy?
The earl was infatuated with her, eager to have her as his wife. The idea of
such a man touching her, forcing himself upon her slender body, brought out a
violent edge to Callum’s temper. He wished he were at Cairnross, if only to
grant her the shadow of his protection.

‘Behind you!’ he heard Lady Harkirk cry out. Her warning broke
through his vision and Callum spun, finding three armed soldiers in chainmail
armour. He ran hard, but the chains at his ankles hindered his stride, making it
impossible to gain any speed. The men closed in on him and another stepped in to
trip him with a quarterstaff.

Callum crashed into the ground, their laughter ringing in his
ears. He tasted dirt and blood in his mouth and, when he raised his head, saw
the silent sympathy of Lady Harkirk.

The soldiers dragged him back to the centre of the fortress. He
saw where they were taking him and ceased his struggle.

‘Beg for mercy, MacKinloch, and we won’t put you inside,’ one
taunted. They knew he couldn’t speak, much less beg for anything. Callum stared
back in defiance.

They lifted the trapdoor leading to the underground pit and
threw him inside. All light extinguished when they closed the ceiling lid,
weighing it down with a heavy stone. Though he tried to push against it, the
stone wouldn’t budge.

Suffocating darkness overwhelmed him and he wondered how long
they would leave him in here. The small space was akin to a grave, and he forced
himself to breathe slowly. They wanted him to be afraid, to lose his last grasp
of sanity. Instead, he closed his eyes and sat down, reaching inside his tunic
for the crumpled ribbon. He held it to his nose, absorbing all thoughts of
Marguerite.

As the minutes drifted into hours, he remembered the gentle
touch of her hands, the soft music of her voice. If there were such a thing as a
living angel, it was she.

And hours later, when they dragged him out, he kept the ribbon
gripped in his palm as the whip struck him down.

* * *

‘You should set the MacKinloch slave free,’ Lady Alys
Fitzroy of Harkirk remarked to her husband. ‘He’s half-dead and no good to you
any more.’

Last night, she’d been too late to stop the brutal beating. The
prisoner, Callum MacKinloch, hadn’t uttered a single scream. And she’d found him
lying among the other slaves, huddled with his knees drawn up, trembling
violently. One of the other Scots had put a tunic upon him and the fabric was
stained dark with blood.

Harkirk’s gaze narrowed. ‘You saw his family approaching.’

Alys shrugged, as if it were no matter. ‘Aye. The sentry
reported that they’ve brought a purse to ransom him.’ She prayed her husband
would accept the bribe, for Lord Harkirk valued silver far more than a man’s
life.

‘Why would I let him go? If I release him, it will weaken my
authority. Better to let him die for his insolence.’

‘He might die anyway. And you’d still have the bribe.’

Though it bothered her deeply, Alys lowered herself to kneel
beside his chair. Robert preferred her subservience and she saw the moment his
eyes gleamed with interest.

He reached out to rest his palm upon her head. ‘You found him
handsome, didn’t you?’

‘My loyalty belongs to you, my lord,’ she answered quietly. ‘If
you wish to keep the slave, then that is your right.’

‘It is.’ His hand dug into her hair in a silent reminder of
possession. Thick fingers moved over her face, down to her shoulder. ‘I will
consider your request.’ When his fingers slid beneath the neckline of her gown,
touching her bare skin, she flushed with embarrassment. ‘And I’ll share your bed
tonight, wife. For that is also my right.’

Alys said nothing, keeping her head bowed in obedience. An icy
shield kept her courage from shattering apart. Just as the Scots were imprisoned
in servitude, so too, was she a captive in this marriage.

She couldn’t free herself…but she could help them. It was her
own form of silent rebellion. Although most of the prisoners were men, there had
also been a few women. And recently a young girl, hardly more than ten years
old.

Only a monster would imprison a child. Above all others, Alys
would fight for the life of the girl.

She only wished Harkirk were dead, so she could free them
all.

* * *

A restlessness brewed within Marguerite. Though Bram and
Alex MacKinloch had gone on a rescue mission to free Callum, nearly a sennight
ago, she couldn’t stop herself from pacing. Bram’s wife Nairna had given her a
few tasks to occupy herself while they were gone, but household duties had done
little to ease her preoccupation. She wished for a needle and thread, for sewing
often helped her to calm herself.

‘They’ll be back,’ the chief’s wife Laren reassured her. ‘And
soon your father will come for you.’

‘Perhaps.’ Marguerite wasn’t entirely certain that her
well-being was more important than political alliances. Though the Duc had been
good to her and her sisters, his primary interest was in using their marriages
to support his own position. No doubt he would be furious when he learned she’d
run away from the earl.

Ever since she’d come to live with the MacKinlochs, the immense
freedom had been overwhelming. There was no one to tell her what to wear, where
to go, or what her duties were each day. Although Marguerite tried to offer her
help, she was unaccustomed to living this way. She felt awkward, trying to
settle into a pattern that wasn’t her own.

A commotion outside caught their attention and Laren hurried to
see what it was. Marguerite followed and saw the men returning on horseback.
Callum was with them, but he stared off into the distance as if he were blind.
In his broken posture, she glimpsed a man who had suffered years’ worth of
torment in only a few weeks.

An aching regret squeezed her heart.
It’s
my fault
, she thought to herself. If Callum spied her, he might be
angry with her for what had happened. A strange rise of nerves gathered inside
her like a windstorm of leaves. She wanted to see him again, but it was possible
he didn’t remember her.

She disappeared within the fortress and gave orders for a hot
bath to be prepared for Callum. It shamed her to realise that she was hiding
from them. From her vantage point in the far corner, she saw the men gathering.
Nairna’s face was pale as she followed behind her husband and the others.

When Bram tried to touch the ragged tunic, Callum exploded into
a fight. He was like an animal, raging at his brother, attacking with his fists.
He didn’t seem to recognise his own family any more or realise that they were
trying to help him.

It was awful seeing him like this. It was as if the man she’d
saved was no longer there, lost in a world of his own madness.

Alex and Bram tried to subdue him, but Callum kept fighting,
his blows striking hard.

‘Help us bring him above stairs,’ Alex said to Ross, one of
their kinsmen. The older man had greying hair and a full beard, but there was no
denying the brawny strength of his forearms.

‘He needs food,’ Ross said and Nairna hurried to fetch it. When
the men half-dragged Callum up the winding stairs, Marguerite moved behind them.
They brought him into Alex’s chamber and she remained on the stairs, watching
from a distance. When they tried to remove his bloodstained tunic, Callum fought
harder. Bram expelled a curse as a fist caught him in the eye.

Men and women came and left the chamber, but Marguerite
remained in the shadows, feeling like a coward. Several of the MacKinlochs had
brought in hot water, but she didn’t know if Callum would avail himself of the
bath.

After a time, Nairna found her and the woman’s face was lined
with worry. ‘You said you helped Callum on the night he was wounded. Would you
be willing to go to him now?’

‘I don’t know if I could do anything,’ Marguerite admitted. ‘He
might not remember me.’ Or if he did, he might resent her for being sent
away.

‘Will you try?’ Nairna took her by the hand, drawing her into
the hall. ‘You’re the last hope we have.’ Her face grew upset, but she revealed,
‘The tunic on his back has stuck to the wounds. He won’t let us take it off. It
will grow poisoned if we leave it.’

Marguerite closed her eyes, suppressing a shudder. Callum would
die a long-suffering death, if he didn’t allow anyone to assist him. She took a
deep breath and nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

She followed Nairna into the room, worrying that she would be
unable to help. Inside, she saw Bram seated across from his brother, an
untouched cup of mead resting upon a table beside him. Callum stared at the
wall, as if he weren’t aware of his brother’s presence. His knuckles were
bloody, matching his brother’s swollen face.

Nairna spoke quietly to her husband, while Marguerite tried to
summon her courage.
Why would you think you could help
him
? her mind demanded.
He won’t even remember
you.

But the moment she stepped forward, Callum turned to face her.
There was disbelief in his expression, as if he couldn’t understand how she had
come to be here. His brown eyes stared into hers, and though she saw the pain
within them, there was something else. Almost…a longing.