Tempted by the Highland Warrior. Michelle WillinghamЧитать онлайн книгу.
The touch of skin on skin enslaved him. She was a woman he could never have, so far beyond his reach as the sunlight in the sky.
But for this moment, he would take what he wanted.
He rested his mouth above hers, waiting for her to pull away. Her blue eyes held confusion and the flushed warmth of her cheeks revealed her embarrassment. At any time, she could pull back and he wouldn’t stop her.
Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.
Chapter Three
Marguerite couldn’t breathe when Callum kissed her. His mouth was warm, coaxing her to let go of her shyness. Although it wasn’t her first kiss, this one slipped beneath her skin with a slow burning fire, transforming her inhibitions into ashes.
The connection went deeper than that between a woman and a man she’d rescued and tended. He treated her as though no one else on the earth existed. As if he needed her more than the air he breathed.
It was something she wasn’t used to. At home, she was the youngest of four daughters, largely overlooked. Her older sisters were mischievous and outspoken, accustomed to having suitors vie for their hand. Marguerite was quiet and usually remained in the background, unnoticed.
But she suspected that Callum MacKinloch would always notice her.
He was half-naked before her, his body pressed against her own. There were no thoughts spinning through her mind, only the need to bring him closer. Her arms wound around his neck but when she felt the evidence of his arousal, it didn’t frighten her as she’d thought it would. Instead, it awakened her own response, with an answering need between her legs.
The kiss turned deeper and Marguerite let out a shuddering gasp as Callum conquered her mouth, bringing her back against the wall. With his kiss he broke down her defences, until she was trembling beneath the onslaught.
At last, he let her go, resting both hands upon the wall. His dark eyes were heated with desire, his mouth looking as if he wanted to do more, kiss her in other secret places.
She didn’t know what to do or what to say now. Confused, she fumbled for words—anything to distract herself from the turmoil of ragged feelings. ‘Y-you should get dressed,’ she told him quietly.
He studied her, his eyes discerning. Then he touched her cheek, a question hidden within his expression—almost as if he were asking if he’d overstepped his bounds.
She didn’t know what to say. Colour flooded her face at what she’d done, for she could give no reason why she’d allowed him to kiss her. Only that she’d wanted him to.
Taking his hand, she led him over to the pile of clothing. ‘Nairna brought these for you.’ Then she went to the far side of the room, turning her back. Inside, she trembled from the kiss. He’d shaken her deeply, making her crave his touch.
From behind her, she heard the light rustle as he picked up the clothes. Heaven only knew what possessed her to do it, but she turned over her shoulder to steal a look at him.
Callum’s shoulders and back held stripes of both healed and unhealed lash marks, scars that he would carry for the rest of his life. His waist was lean, but, despite his thin frame, he had the body of a fighter. He had tight, muscular buttocks and powerful thighs.
And, oh God, he’d caught her looking at him.
A slow, wicked smile curved over his mouth, as if daring her to look further.
Marguerite whirled around, wondering why she’d done such a thing. But he hadn’t been angry. In fact, she’d caught a glimpse of amusement in Callum’s eyes, as if he’d wanted her to look.
He was undeniably handsome, despite the harsh conditions he’d endured. His dark eyes held secrets and an intensity that weakened her senses. Long dark hair flowed past his shoulders and she imagined what it would be like cut short. His clean-shaven face revealed a strong jaw and a determined confidence in his demeanour.
She didn’t know why she was attracted to a man who’d been held prisoner for so long. It might be compassion, but more likely it was her own curiosity. Callum had made no secret of his interest, and she could not have chosen someone more different from herself.
She’d been raised in a castle, surrounded by servants. And although it wasn’t her nature to demand material goods, she’d had everything she ever wanted. Callum was the third-born son, with hardly more than the clothes on his back. He could give her nothing at all.
Perhaps that was what drew her to him. He saw her, while the other men saw only her father’s wealth and power.
When Marguerite risked another look back at him, Callum was sitting on the bed, fully dressed. His wrists rested upon his knees, his head bowed. He looked tired, yet unable to sleep. She took a step forward, and the sound of her motion prompted him to lift his head. He let out a slow breath, his face masked. Then he touched the place beside him in a silent request for her to sit.
She remained still, unsure of herself or what he wanted from her. Time hung suspended while she debated whether or not to stay a little longer. He appeared calmer, more in command of himself.
‘You can’t kiss me again,’ she warned.
He didn’t tease her with a smile, but gave a single nod as his silent promise. In his hands, she saw the faded blue ribbon.
She took a breath and moved a slight distance beside him. ‘It’s all right to sleep, you know. No one will harm you.’ Though she was tired herself, she intended to return to her own room, once he had found a peaceful rest.
Callum reached out and pulled her to sit beside him. Then he laid his head upon her lap.
The gesture should have made her uneasy. Instead, as she stroked his long hair back and watched him close his eyes, heavy tears pricked at her. He’d suffered for so long, chained in the dark. Was it any wonder that he yearned for human comfort?
Although the weight of her own exhaustion burdened her, Marguerite didn’t move. Callum clasped her other hand in his while he slept. She let him rest against her, though her back ached.
In time, she succumbed to the need for sleep, lying back against his pillow.
The raucous cries of a raven haunted him. The birds were known for circling the camp, awaiting the moment when a prisoner died. Callum hated them, for they fed upon the flesh of the dead. Just the sight of the birds sickened him, and he’d chased dozens of them away from the corpses.
Though most of the other prisoners were nameless companions, they didn’t deserve to be dishonoured, their flesh picked away by black-winged predators.
And so he’d begun collecting their feathers. He couldn’t say why, but when the guards watched him making more arrows, he’d glued their dark tips to the shaft. It was as if he could honour the memory of the fallen.
One day, he would avenge them. He’d grown to hate Lord Harkirk as much as his former master. While Cairnross had believed himself superior to the Scots, punishing them for imagined crimes, Harkirk cared nothing for men’s lives. Men were killed for no reason at all, simply as entertainment.
But Harkirk would die one day. And, God willing, he’d be struck down by a black-feathered arrow, one of his own.
Callum’s eyes opened as the remnants of sleep slid away. Against his cheek, he felt the softness of Marguerite’s hair and their bodies were tangled together. Her delicate scent surrounded him, his arms cradled her body close. He savoured the moment of holding her, wishing to God he could make it last.
It wasn’t yet dawn and in the faint light, he saw the golden outline of her hair. For a moment, he listened to her breathe, watching her sleep.
He’d never dreamed she would let him kiss her. It hadn’t been his intention, but when she’d put her arms around him, resting her cheek upon his, he’d lost sight of the world. Her lips had tasted sweet, but beneath