Tempted by the Highland Warrior (4 page)

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 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 her lips, bidding her to be silent. Then
he went down on one knee before her.

‘What is it?’ she asked, frowning at his position. But Callum
took her hand and set it upon his head, needing her to understand what he
couldn’t say.

Her hand moved against his wet hair and she sighed. ‘I know
you’re not going to hurt me.’

Slowly, he stood and took her hands. He struggled to speak,
trying to force the words out.
I never thought I’d see you
again.
The desperate need for words tormented him, but nothing came
forth. Marguerite saw his failure, but instead of offering sympathy, she stood
on tiptoe, resting her cheek against his.