Tempted by the Highland Warrior. Michelle Willingham
the freezing cold. They had been brought to Lord Harkirk’s stronghold to die and already he’d witnessed some of the weaker men succumbing to Death’s quiet invitation.
In his memory, he recalled her beautiful face, the gentle innocence of her touch. He couldn’t say why she had tended his wounds or why she hadn’t run away from him. Callum knew what he was—a battered horror of a man.
But he wasn’t weak. Over the years, he’d kept his arms strong, lifting stones to build the walls. He’d learned, in the early years, how to steal an extra portion of food when the guards weren’t looking, to keep himself from starving. When his brother had been imprisoned with him, Bram had warned him to keep up his strength. There would come a time when they could escape together, his brother had promised.
But Bram had left him behind, seizing his own freedom, even when the soldiers had held a blade to Callum’s throat.
Callum squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away his resentment. They hadn’t killed him that day, though he’d expected to die. Bram had called their bluff and it had worked.
Although a part of him knew that his brother hadn’t abandoned him, he wished he could have left this place. Seven years of his life had faded away. And so had his voice.
Days ago, when the guards had picked him up, forcing him into the back of a wagon with four other men, Callum had tried again to speak. They might have had a chance at escaping, if the others would join him in resisting the soldiers. But no matter how hard he tried, not a word would break forth. It was as if someone had locked away his words, keeping him trapped in silence.
Worse, the others treated him as if he lacked intelligence. Several of the men talked about him, as if he couldn’t hear their words.
But when one tried to shove him back upon their arrival, Callum seized the man’s arm and stared hard at him. The startled look turned to an apology and Callum released his arm with a silent warning. Rubbing his forearm, the prisoner glanced at the others, who now viewed Callum with new eyes.
I may not speak. But I understand every word.
And from that moment, they’d held their distance.
As the days passed at Lord Harkirk’s fortress, whatever hope he’d had of being rescued began to fade. Callum didn’t know any of the prisoners and, without a familiar face, he started to slip into the madness that had plagued so many. Visions collided in his mind and he tried to focus the memories upon Lady Marguerite. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine the scent of her skin, the softness of her hands.
She’d been real. In his hands he grasped a crushed ribbon that he’d stolen from her blonde hair. It was a lighter blue than her eyes, but it confirmed that he hadn’t imagined her. She had tended his broken flesh, treating him like a man instead of a slave.
She was the sort of woman he would die to protect. Innocent and pure, she deserved to be with a man who would love her, who would set a kingdom at her feet. The way he never could.
He stared at the wooden walls surrounding the fortress. Lord Harkirk had begun converting them into stone, using the labour of Scottish prisoners like himself. Callum fingered the silken ribbon, imagining it was the curve of Marguerite’s cheek.
He would never stop trying to escape. Even if it was only for the chance to see her, one last time.
One week later
The fortress was on fire. Smoke billowed into the night sky and, outside, she heard the battle cries of men fighting. Marguerite’s hands shook as she reached for her cloak, silently murmuring prayers that somehow they would make it out alive.
Though it should have been safer to remain hidden within her chamber, the fire might spread to the main tower. Dying by the sword was at least swifter than being burned alive.
Her maid Trinette was openly weeping as she packed their belongings into a bundle. Marguerite went to the window and stared at the chaos below. Swords rang out against shields, the roar of the prisoners breaking the stillness. The earl shouted orders, unsheathing his own weapon while smoke tainted the air.
This was their best chance to escape, while the men were caught up in the fighting. She seized the bundle from Trinette. ‘We have to leave. Now.’
When her maid looked hesitant, too afraid to move, she gave her a slight push. ‘Go!’ she ordered, and Trinette hurried down the spiral stone stairs. Marguerite held on to the bundle in one arm while following her maid. The smoke created a dense fog within the main gathering space and in the darkness she couldn’t see the doorway.
Her heartbeat raced as she struggled to see, her throat raw in the smoky haze. She dropped low to the ground, trying to discover where Trinette had gone. She crawled upon the earthen floor until, at last, she spied the flare of a torch outside.
There. With a burst of energy, Marguerite fought her way towards the entrance, keeping her head down.
Outside, the cold air burned her lungs and she coughed again, trying to clear the smoke. The prisoners were escaping. She could see them pouring from their crude shelter, fighting hard, despite their chains. Another Scottish clan had attacked and half of the men created a diversion, while the others worked to free the slaves. Vengeance lined their faces while they struck hard against the Cairnross soldiers.
It was a welcome sight, watching the men go free. The only disappointment was knowing that if he’d been here, Callum MacKinloch would have been among them. Because of her interference, he was still a prisoner.
It simply wasn’t fair.
Marguerite huddled against one of the outer stone walls, tears clouding the back of her throat. She didn’t know what to do or where to go and dropped the bundle of her belongings upon the ground. She closed her eyes, wishing she could silence the sounds of death and fighting. Fear locked her feet in place.
‘Are you a hostage?’ a man shouted at her in English.
Marguerite turned her head slightly and saw a tall, dark-haired man standing before her. She gripped her arms, too afraid to move. He could kill her with a single blow if he chose to do so. But the look in his eyes held no threat and she saw a resemblance to Callum in the man’s features. She remained motionless when he reached out and lowered her hood, revealing her veiled hair.
‘If you want to leave this place, my brother can grant you sanctuary,’ he offered. ‘My wife will look after you and I promise you’ll face no harm.’
Marguerite closed her eyes, wondering what to do. Her first instinct was to refuse. It made no sense at all to leave Cairnross, fleeing a burning fortress with the strangers who had attacked it.
Yet the only choice was to remain here with a man she despised. She stood, trying to make a decision, when, in the distance, she spied her maid. Trinette had started to panic and screamed, running towards the earl, as if he could protect her from the brutal fighting that surrounded them.
Lord Cairnross was caught up in his own fight, too busy to pay Trinette any heed. When she ran too close, Cairnross reached out with his dagger and sliced it across the woman’s throat. Trinette dropped to the ground, her sightless eyes staring back at him.
Marguerite doubled over in horror, sickened by what she’d just witnessed. Dear God have mercy. Had she not seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed it. The earl knew Trinette was her maid yet he’d murdered her, simply because she’d been in the way.
Panic flooded through her lungs and Marguerite fought for breath. The truth was staring her in the face—she had to leave Cairnross or else be entrapped by a monster.
‘Please,’ she begged, searching for the right Gaelic words, ‘help me get to my father.’ She reached down and picked up the fallen bundle of clothing, trying not to think about Trinette. The maid had been her only companion from France and it broke her heart to imagine how alone she was now.
The Scottish warrior caught her hand and drew her outside the fortress, away from the