Instead, Lady Marguerite had intervened. Though he wished above all else that she could help him to escape, tonight it would be a futile effort. A dozen guards patrolled the gate and he lacked the strength. He could hardly stand, much less run away from Cairnross.
Callum struggled to rise, but his knees seemed to fold beneath his weight. Lady Marguerite reached out and helped him balance himself. Though her face flushed at having to touch him, she offered, ‘Let me help you.’
He shook his head in refusal, steadying himself against a stone wall. He’d rather crawl on his knees like a dog than make her lower herself in such a way. She’d tended his wounds and given him her cloak for warmth. He couldn’t understand why she would want to help a stranger and a Scot at that.
Closing his eyes, he heard her murmur words of comfort in her own language. He heard the softness of her French accent, the soothing tones sliding over him like silk.
When he tried to take a step forward, his legs gave way and he nearly stumbled from his chained ankles. Lady Marguerite moved to his side, bringing her arm around his waist for support. He wanted to tell her no, for he was filthy and bloodstained. She shouldn’t have to endure contamination from him.
But she walked at his side, guiding him across the fortress. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll come to you and bring food. Perhaps when you’re stronger, I’ll petition the earl for your release.’
He sent her a questioning look. Why? Why would she spare a moment for someone like him?
The troubled look in her eyes suggested that she didn’t know the answer. When he removed the cloak she’d given him, his hand brushed against hers. Her lips parted and he wanted to kneel at her feet like the goddess she was.
Callum didn’t want her pity. Though his body and voice might be broken, he wouldn’t allow her to believe that he was less than a man. His hands threaded with hers, the cold skin merging with warm.
He brought her fingers to his ragged cheeks, absorbing the warmth. A few strands of her golden hair slipped from her veil, resting against her throat. And when he brought her hand to his lips, she inhaled a gasp.
He released her instantly, expecting her to pull back in disgust. Instead, her eyes were shining with unshed tears, her fingers remaining upon his face.
‘I won’t forget you,’ she vowed, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. Then she picked up her skirts and disappeared into the night.
In the shadows, Callum caught a movement and turned his head. The Earl of Cairnross was standing there, watching.
And fury burned within his eyes.
‘I saw you with him last night,’ Lord Cairnross began, when Marguerite joined him in breaking their fast. ‘The prisoner who was punished.’
Marguerite kept her eyes averted to the floor, showing no reaction at all. If she appeared dismayed, no doubt the earl would have the prisoner killed.
‘I heard a man suffering,’ she murmured. ‘It awakened me from sleep.’ She kept her tone even, as if she were speaking of a wounded animal.
‘You are so young, Lady Marguerite,’ the earl chided. ‘These are not noblemen, as you are accustomed to,’ he explained, making her feel like a small child. ‘They are ignorant Scots who dared to rise up against the King. They should be grateful that I’ve given them the chance to atone for their sins.’
Sins? She forced herself to stare at her hands, wondering what he was talking about. Although some of the men were, no doubt, rebellious toward the English, the prisoner was only a year or so older than herself. From the look of him, he’d been imprisoned for years.
A shiver crossed over her skin, for the look in the man’s eyes had been deliberate. She didn’t doubt that he could kill his master without a trace of regret.
‘Do not punish the prisoner for my ignorance, my lord,’ she murmured. ‘I saw him bleeding and meant only to tend his wounds.’
The earl took her hand in his. ‘Lady Marguerite, Callum MacKinloch dared to touch you. And that I cannot forgive.’
A coldness threaded through her as she stared at Lord Cairnross. In his eyes, she saw a man who believed in his own supremacy, who cared for no one but himself.
‘Did you take his life?’ she asked. Her voice held a quaver that she despised, but she tried to keep her tone calm. If he did, then it’s my fault.
‘I should have. But the MacKinloch clan is not far from here. They have remained resistant to the English troops and I have decided to keep him as a hostage. But not at a risk to you, my bride.’ His gaze turned possessive upon her, as if he’d guessed the uncertain feelings she held towards the man she’d saved. ‘I sent him south, where he won’t trouble you again.’
Marguerite feigned acquiescence, though inwardly she felt the cold anger filling her up. ‘You are a man of great mercy, my lord,’ she lied, and his arrogant smile sickened her as he raised her palm to his lips.
Whether or not he was telling the truth, at least she knew the name of the man who had touched her that night: Callum MacKinloch.
She didn’t know what it was about Callum that entranced her. He was hardly more than a wild man, with an unkempt appearance that should have repelled her.
Yet the touch of his mouth against her palm had conjured up a trembling fire within her. She’d thought of nothing else since she’d seen him.
He was a fighter who’d resisted his enemy, surviving amidst insurmountable odds. When he’d stared at her, it was as if he saw something more than others saw. A woman of strength, instead of a woman who blindly obeyed.
Were she in his place, she’d have broken apart. It was not in her nature to defy anyone. She obeyed her father, did as she was told. As his youngest daughter, she’d prided herself on obedience.
Or was it cowardice? She’d let her father select a husband for her, without even knowing the man. She’d journeyed to Scotland with the Duc, to the northern lands where hardly anyone spoke her language. Though she told herself that her father wanted only what was best for her, she questioned his judgement with the betrothal to Lord Cairnross. The marriage was meant to strengthen the alliance with England, after the recent war had ended.
Yet, Marguerite couldn’t imagine wedding Lord Cairnross after what he’d done to the prisoners. He enjoyed watching the men suffer and she loathed everything about the man.
She thought of Callum and the way he’d stared at the gates of Cairnross, as though he’d do anything to escape. They were alike, in so many ways. Both of them imprisoned, though her invisible chains were of her father’s making.
Somehow, she would find a way to free herself from this marriage.
Two days later
Callum dreamed of Marguerite as he slept upon the frozen ground. The bodies of other prisoners huddled near, for it was the only way to survive 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