‘She’s one of them,’ the first snapped. ‘And if you bring her, Cairnross’s men will follow her to Glen Arrin.’
She could see the doubts forming in her rescuer’s eyes. If she didn’t say something, he might leave her here.
‘No,’ Marguerite interrupted, using Gaelic to reveal that she’d understood every word. She had to leave, at all costs. Searching for a way to convince the other man, she offered, ‘If you send word to my father, he’ll come for me and you will be rewarded.’
‘And just who is your father?’ he demanded.
Marguerite sent him a cool stare. ‘Guy de Montpierre, the Duc D’Avignois.’
Although she’d never before evoked the power of her father’s rank, she saw that it indeed made a difference with the first man. His face grew intrigued, as if to wonder how he could use her.
She didn’t care. As long as he helped her escape from Cairnross and summoned her father, she would ensure that he was rewarded for his assistance.
‘I am Marguerite de Montpierre,’ she continued, sending him a regal nod. ‘I was betrothed to Lord Cairnross.’ Distaste filled her mouth at his very name.
‘You may have our protection until your father arrives,’ the first man agreed. ‘But you’d best pray that Cairnross doesn’t find you.’
She didn’t doubt that at all. If the earl learned that she’d conspired with the enemy to escape, she might share in Trinette’s fate. Silently, Marguerite uttered a prayer for the woman’s soul.
Bram boosted her onto the saddle, and she arranged her skirts around the bundle of clothes she’d brought. Her hands shook as she gripped the saddle, wondering if she was making a mistake to go off with strangers. She didn’t know these men at all, nor was there any reason to trust them.
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
Callum 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