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.
Her throat grew swollen, her eyes blinking back tears, but Marguerite didn’t turn her gaze away from him. He was drinking in the sight of her, as if her presence brought him comfort. Seeing his wounds made her heart bleed, knowing what he’d endured.
You have to help him, came a voice within her. He needs you.
As if approaching a wounded wolf, she continued moving towards Callum. One foot before the other, moving closer, until she took Bram’s place across from him. She gripped the folds of her sapphire silk gown, trying to think of what to say.
Nairna took her husband’s hand. ‘We’ll wait just beyond the door if you need us.’ They retreated, leaving the door open by only an inch or two.
When they had gone, Marguerite forced herself to look back at Callum. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her and she grew nervous beneath his stare. ‘I never meant for this to happen,’ she murmured in French, knowing he wouldn’t comprehend her words. ‘I had hoped to save you. Not to make you suffer.’
He reached out, his palm covering hers. The rough skin contrasted against her own, but she understood his silent forgiveness. With each second that passed, she grew more sensitised to his touch. Not just his hand, but the warmth of his knee pressed against hers as they sat across from one another. The heat of his eyes burned into her, speaking more than any words could say.
Her cheeks flushed at his attention, but she turned her palm over to clasp his. She stroked her thumb across his skin, as if to soothe him. Although she was seated a slight distance away, it felt almost like an embrace. If she leaned forward, she could rest her head against his chest.
Callum brought her hand to touch the pulse at his throat. She could feel the rapid thrum beneath his skin, as if he were telling her the effect she had upon him. Her lips parted and she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Would he be fierce and demanding? Or quiet and arousing?
His nearness flustered her, so Marguerite rose to her feet, reaching for a length of linen that Nairna had left. She soaked the cloth in the warmed water of the tub and brought it to his bearded face. Though he had only minor wounds upon his cheeks and chin, she wanted him to trust her, to understand that she wouldn’t hurt him.
Callum endured the cleansing, breathing slowly as he allowed her to tend him. Then, he caught her hand and pressed something into it. She opened her palm and saw one of her ribbons, wrinkled and faded. There was a faint bloodstain upon the edge of it, as if he’d gripped it hard.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, in his language.
Callum reached up to her hair, removing the veil. Marguerite felt the touch of his warm hand, threading into her hair. His thumb caressed the edge of her temple, as if to apologise for what he’d done.
He must have taken it from her, the last night she’d seen him. She’d never noticed it was gone.
He’d kept it, all this time. In her mind, all she could imagine was him gripping the ribbon while the soldiers scourged him. A guilty tear spilled over, as she thought of what had happened to this man.
Marguerite pressed the ribbon back into his hand before resting her hands on his shoulders. ‘It was my fault you were sent away.’
He shook his head, denying it.
‘I’m so sorry for it,’ she whispered. ‘Your brother came for you, a few days after I saw you last. He brought me here, after Cairnross was burned.’
His gaze turned stony, but he gave a nod to show he’d heard her.
‘He would have freed you,’ she said softly. ‘They never stopped looking for you.’
Callum didn’t seem to believe her words, from the dark look in his eyes. She turned her attention to his back and the sight of the bloodstained tunic made her stomach turn. She knew what she had to do, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying.
‘I want to help you,’ she said quietly. ‘The tunic should come off so I can treat your wounds.’
Tension knotted his face, but he seemed to understand her. He turned around and gripped the edge of a table, as if to brace himself for the worst.
‘I’ll try not to hurt you,’ she offered. The garment had stuck to his skin; no doubt removing it would reopen many of his wounds.
Marguerite loosened the ties and brought her hands to the hem of the tunic, lifting it slowly. The underside wasn’t so bad, but when she reached the middle of his back, it was stuck fast. Callum’s knuckles whitened on the table and she had to force herself to continue.
She closed her eyes, as she felt his skin tearing away from the cloth. Revulsion formed in her stomach and she heard a rushing sound in her ears as she pulled the tunic over his head. It wasn’t until the edges of her vision started to blacken that she realised she was about to faint.
Don’t, she ordered herself. She bit hard against her lip, taking deep breaths with her head lowered. And when she’d regained control of herself, she opened her eyes and saw his bleeding wounds.
Mon Dieu, he was suffering so badly. Marguerite soaked another cloth in the bathwater and touched Callum’s face again before she wet it once more and laid it upon his bare back.
He lifted his head to look at her, and though she’d caused him pain, there was also relief in his eyes.
‘You’re safe 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