Tempted by the Highland Warrior. Michelle Willingham
now,’ she whispered. ‘It will be all right.’
But the way he was looking at her made her feel vulnerable. She didn’t understand the needs hidden behind his eyes, or what he was thinking.
‘I’ll leave you to bathe,’ she whispered. ‘If you want, I can send Bram back to help you.’
He shook his head, returning to the bench. Though he said not a word, he rested his forearms upon his legs, lowering his head. Exhaustion weighted him down and she didn’t like the look of the wounds upon his back. He was thin, his ribs revealed in the torchlight. But his arms held a wiry strength, his muscles well defined.
‘Or would you rather I stayed to help you?’ she blurted out.
Heaven only knew what provoked her to make the offer. Although she’d assisted her father’s guests with their baths in the past, there had always been several servants in attendance. It was an expected duty and she’d thought little of it.
But the prospect of seeing this man naked made her feel breathless, almost anticipating something that would never happen.
Callum stood up and raised questioning eyes to her. Marguerite held still, trying to feign a calmness she didn’t feel. Her mind was ordering her to leave, for to stay meant far more than tending his wounds. She was a maiden, untouched and innocent.
‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘If you need me, I’ll stay.’
When he turned his back, reaching to untie his trews, she quickly averted her gaze.
The water had grown cooler, but it was like sharp blades cutting into his back. Callum sat in the wooden tub with his knees drawn up, wincing at the burning sensation.
He should have sent Marguerite away. Letting her see him like this wasn’t right. But the past few weeks had changed him, making him care less about what was expected and falling into the instinctive urges that bordered on wildness.
He wanted her with an urgency that consumed him. When she dipped a cloth into the water, washing the dirt from the wounds on his back, he was grateful for the pain. It kept the urges under control, for her very presence had aroused him.
As she moved her hands to wash his shoulders, his skin erupted with shivers. His treacherous mind envisioned her hands moving over his chest, down to the part of him that was growing harder.
Callum slowed his breathing, trying not to get distracted. He’d never been with a woman before, and right now her touch upon his skin was firing up his imagination.
He remembered one night at Cairnross when a prisoner’s wife had visited her husband, trying to free him. She hadn’t succeeded, but they’d spent an hour in each other’s arms. She’d lifted her skirts and rode him, impaling herself upon his arousal.
Every man had been unable to tear his eyes away when her head had fallen back in passion, her rhythmic cries making each of them wish that he could experience such a pleasure.
When Marguerite’s hands moved to his hair, Callum let out a gasp. Though no sound broke from his mouth, his fingers dug into the wood as he struggled to keep from touching her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise that would hurt you.’
It wasn’t that. God above, he wanted to reach out and pull her into a kiss. He imagined tearing her gown apart, baring the softness of her body before he laid her down upon the bed, tasting every part of her until she knew the same torment he did.
He nodded for her to continue and she washed his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp. It felt so good that he closed his eyes to immerse himself in her touch. When her hands moved to the base of his neck, he started to lose his edge of control.
To distract himself, Callum held his breath and dipped his head beneath the water. She doesn’t want you, he reminded himself. This was a duke’s daughter, a woman who ranked the same as a princess. She shouldn’t have to lower herself, bathing him.
When he emerged for air, water droplets rolled down his bearded face. He opened his eyes and saw her staring at him. Beckoning to her, he touched his beard and pointed to the blade at her waist.
Her eyes furrowed a moment. ‘You want me to help you shave?’
He nodded. The heaviness of the beard bothered him, for it seemed that the dirt of the prison was caught within it.
‘Would you rather do it yourself?’ she asked.
If he tried, no doubt he’d slit his own throat without meaning to. He’d been imprisoned since he was a young boy and when the first signs of a beard had come a few years ago, he’d simply let it grow. Never before had he shaved and he didn’t know how.
But he wanted the touch of her hands upon him, no matter what the reason.
‘All right,’ she agreed, ‘but I’ll need a sharper blade. Wait here.’
While she was gone, he soaped his face, trying to wash the dirt from it. It seemed that no amount of scrubbing would rid him of the wretched years he’d spent in chains.
When Marguerite returned, she knelt before the tub and touched his chin. First, she trimmed away the beard with shears, then reached for the soap again. When her hands washed his roughened cheeks, he remained motionless. Right now, he wanted to close his eyes and revel in the feeling of her hands upon him. He imagined her hands moving lower, to his shoulders, and while she shaved him with the blade, his desire for her intensified. Her face was so near to his, her blue eyes concentrating on the task.
He was hungry for a taste of her lips, but he forced himself not to move. Instead, he drank in the sight of her, memorising every feature. When she finished shaving him, she ran her fingertips over his cheeks.
‘I don’t think I missed any places,’ she said, but before she could move away, he captured her face in his hands. Gently, he drew his wet thumbs over her temples, down to her cheeks. Her lips parted in surprise and he drew closer, watching. Wondering if she would let him steal the kiss he wanted so badly.
Her face flamed, and she stood up. ‘Y-you can do the rest while I get your clothes.’ Handing him the soap, she moved far away from him, leaving him to wonder if he’d only imagined the answering interest in her eyes.
Callum washed his legs and the rest of his body, hiding himself from her. Upon the floor, he spied a drying cloth and picked it up. He emerged from the tub, drying himself off and wrapping the cloth around his hips. Marguerite turned around, her gaze furtive. He waited for her to approach, not wanting to frighten her. Beneath the cloth, he was still heavily aroused; if she dared to look, she would see it.
She walked slowly and he noticed the way the blue silk clung to her body, outlining the curve of her breasts and her slim figure. Her veiled hair hung below her waist, a few of the golden strands damp from the water. When she held out the clothing to him, he didn’t take it.
No words would come from his throat, no sound to tell her how grateful he was for her presence. There was no means of telling her the thoughts imprisoned deep inside. He couldn’t speak.
But he could touch.
With his hands, Callum traced the curve that skimmed from her shoulders to her throat. His fingers moved up her jaw line, watching to see if she would pull away. Her blue eyes held a myriad of emotions: regret and sympathy, along with hesitation. She didn’t know him at all, nor would she understand what her kindness meant to him.
Death was easy. So was madness. But something about this woman drew him nearer. In all the darkness he’d known, she’d become the single shard of light that gave him a reason to survive.
She uttered a soft breath when he drew his hands down the back of her neck. Beneath his palms, her delicate skin prickled. He could feel the tension within her, but as he massaged the tightness, she closed her eyes.
‘I shouldn’t let you do this, I know,’ she whispered.
He touched a finger to