Free Tempted by the Highland Warrior by Michelle Willingham

satisfy the need that had tormented
him since the last time he’d watched her walk away.
    Fate intervened when a group of men and women approached the
drawbridge. Callum moved from his hiding place by the wall and drew his hood
over his head. Disguised among the villagers, he entered the gates.
    Marguerite danced with the other women, but her movements held
less energy, as though she didn’t want to be there. He drank in the sight of
her, memorising her beautiful face and the way she moved.
    The music shifted again, to a softer, more plaintive tone.
Marguerite stepped away from the dancing, her face flushed. As the others
gathered around the musicians, she leaned back against the wall.
    Callum never took his eyes from her as he moved through the
crowd, keeping out of the torchlights. And when he was an arm’s length from her,
the sweetness of her scent pressed a dark aching through his chest. If he could
stand in her shadow for the rest of his life, it would be enough.
    She turned toward him, her eyes narrowed. He saw the moment she
realised she wasn’t alone. Though he could have lowered his hood, revealing
himself, he spied the Duc watching over her.
    She clutched her waist, taking a step back towards the people.
His opportunity was disappearing and Callum could say nothing to stop her. But
he needed to tell her that he was here.
    When the sound of laughter resonated from the crowd,
Marguerite’s attention flickered for a moment. It was all he needed.
    As he left the castle, he pressed a single, frayed ribbon into
the palm of her hand.
    * * *
    He was here. He’d come back to see
her.
    All night long, Marguerite had held on to the ribbon, like a
faded memory. She didn’t know why Callum had travelled to Duncraig, but the
unexpected surge of anticipation broke through her disconsolate mood.
    Ever since she’d left Glen Arrin, she’d been unable to forget
Callum MacKinloch. The fierce, silent Scot had invaded her dreams, leaving her
with memories of his kiss. At night, she imagined his mouth moving down her jaw,
down to her throat. She remembered the hardened lines of his body, the taut warm
skin that had invited her to touch.
    ‘Marguerite.’ Her father interrupted her idle thoughts the next
morning, setting his silver cup upon the table beside her. ‘I am leaving for
England on the morrow. I’ll be escorting the Earl of Penrith here for your
wedding.’
    She nodded her head, trying not to betray the disappointment
inside. Even so, her father noticed her unhappiness. ‘I know these past few
months have been difficult for you. But be assured, this will be a better
marriage for you, ma petite ,’ he continued. ‘The
earl has estates here, as well as in England and Ireland. He is favoured by the
English king, and I have it in good faith that he is a nobleman worthy of being
your husband. You should be well pleased with him.’
    But what if I’m not pleased ? she
wanted to ask. What if he’s as terrible as Lord
Cairnross? Although she’d known her father would arrange another
match, the shadow of restlessness haunted her.
    Months ago, the idea of questioning her father’s orders had
never occurred to her. As the head of the family, it was the Duc’s
responsibility to choose her husband, selecting a nobleman who would best
provide for her. None of her personal desires mattered. Yet now it seemed that
the invisible bands of obedience stretched over her, strangling her into
submission.
    ‘How long will you be gone?’
    ‘A fortnight or so.’ He reached out and took her hand. His
heavy gold ring pressed against her fingers as he squeezed his reassurance.
‘There are plenty of my men to keep you safe. And soon enough, you’ll live in
England as lady of your own castle.’ He sent her a warm smile, believing that
was all she’d ever wanted.
    He had no reason to think otherwise. Only months ago, she’d
wanted to rule over her own demesne, with a strong husband at her side. She had
planned to be his obedient