Tempted by the Highland Warrior by Michelle Willingham Page B

I’m betrothed to someone else. But I had
to.’
    In her voice, he heard the traces of guilt, as if she knew she
was betraying her family. He rested his forehead against hers, while both of
them shivered.
    Nothing mattered any more. Not his clan, far away to the
Northeast. Not the stranger she was supposed to marry. Only this moment.
    ‘Could you build a fire?’ she asked. He nodded and led her out
of the water to sit upon the large boulder. He gathered wood to make a fire,
steeling himself against the bitter wind. Marguerite was shivering hard, but he
built up the tinder and struck flint until he had a small blaze going. Once he
beckoned to her, she huddled as close to it as she dared.
    ‘Swimming was harder than I thought it would be,’ she admitted,
resting her chin upon her knees. ‘But thank you for trying to teach me.’
    For a time, she simply sat with him and it didn’t matter that
neither of them spoke. The quiet time together felt right. When she sent him a
glance, she flushed, as if remembering the kiss they’d shared. She took her hair
over one shoulder, wringing out the water, fingercombing it to dry.
    The motion caught his attention and the longing to keep her
with him, to see her in intimate moments like these, was all-encompassing.
    His hands dug into the damp sand when she knelt, peeling the
wet chemise away from her skin while trying to dry it.
    He picked up a fallen stick, intending to toss it into the
fire, but he traced it through the dirt, still watching over her. Marguerite
frowned, then she studied him with interest.
    ‘Do you know how to write?’
    The idea hadn’t occurred to him. He shook his head, but then, a
sudden flash of inspiration gripped him. Though he couldn’t read or write, she could.
    And if she could teach him, it would give him a way to talk to
her. The idea exploded within his mind with the fierce desire to make his
thoughts known, to break free of his silent prison.
    Callum held out the stick to her, waiting in the hopes that he
was right.
    His hand closed over hers and he guided the stick back down to
the dirt. Marguerite knelt and he pointed to her, then to the ground.
    Teach me what you know.
    She began to write curved markings, eyeing him with
uncertainty. ‘It’s my name,’ she said. ‘Marguerite.’
    Callum caught her hand and took the stick from her. Then he
pressed her hand upon his and struggled to trace over the letters she’d printed.
He couldn’t quite duplicate the lines, but it was close.
    ‘You want me to teach you how?’ she murmured.
    Yes. She couldn’t know how hungry
he was for words, for a way to express the thoughts inside him. If she could
teach him anything at all, it would be a gift beyond price.
    ‘Few men can read,’ she warned him. ‘And it takes many years to
learn to write. It’s not just the letters.’
    He shook his head and forced her hand atop his. I need to learn. He struggled to write her name again,
though one of the curving letters that dropped lower eluded him.
    ‘In which language?’
    An unexpected laugh broke forth from him. Though he supposed
she was serious, he hardly cared at all. Any language was better than the
endless silence. Callum pointed to her and then to himself.
    ‘Both?’
    He nodded and took the stick back. She adjusted his fingers to
help him with the grip. ‘I can try. But it takes time. More time than we
have.’
    He didn’t care how long it took. He would practise until his
fingers bled, if he had to.
    But there was a shadow in her mood. ‘They watch me, Callum. I
may not always be allowed to come and see you.’
    He drew her up to stand before him, cupping her face in his
hands. She covered his fingers with her own, but didn’t pull back. Instead, she
closed her eyes and he rested his forehead upon hers.
    ‘I’ll do what I can to help you,’ she promised.
    * * *
    ‘Where were you?’ Lady Beatrice demanded, when
Marguerite returned to the castle. There was no answer she could give. Her