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Michelle Willingham

Tempted by the Highland Warrior

Tempted by the Highland Warrior


Series: The MacKinloch Clan - Book #3

Click here to read Chapter 1

The sound of a man screaming awakened her from sleep.

Marguerite de Montpierre jerked upright, clutching the coverlet as she stared at her maid Trinette. “What was that?”

Trinette shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. “I don’t know. But we should stay here, where it’s safe.”

Marguerite moved to the tower window, staring outside at the darkened moonlit sky. The man’s screams had fallen into silence now. Already, she sensed what that meant.

Stay here, her mind ordered. Don’t interfere. What could she do, after all? She was only a maiden of eight and ten. Both her father and Lord Cairnross would be furious if she went out alone.

But if someone needed help . . . what right did she have to remain in her chamber? Fear shouldn’t overshadow the need for mercy.

“I’m going to find out what it was,” she informed her maid. “You can stay here if you want.”

“My lady, non. Your father would not allow this.”

No, he wouldn’t. In her mind, she could imagine her father’s commanding voice ordering her to remain in her bed. She took a breath, torn by indecision. If she remained behind, she would be safe, and no one would be angry with her.

And someone could also die. This wasn’t about obedience—it was about trying to save a life.

“You’re right. He would not allow me to leave. But my father’s not here, is he?” Marguerite murmured. She prayed her father would return as soon as possible, for with each day he was gone, her life became more of a nightmare.

Guy de Montpierre, the Duc D’Avignois, didn’t know what was happening here, for her betrothed husband had behaved with the greatest courtesy toward their family. Her father valued wealth and status, and Gilbert de Bouche, the Earl of Cairnross, had promised to provide a strong English alliance. A youngest daughter couldn’t hope for a better marriage.

But although the earl had treated her with respect and honor, his cruelty had horrified her. He was a man who firmly believed the Scots belonged in servitude. He’d captured several prisoners of war, and she’d observed them building walls of stone for hours on end.

Trinette shivered, looking down at the coverlet. “I don’t think you wish to anger Lord Cairnross by leaving this chamber.”

Marguerite didn’t disagree. But the prisoner’s cry haunted her, digging into her conscience. She’d seen Cairnross’s slaves, and the men were so very thin, with hopelessness carved into their faces. Two had already died since her arrival. And she suspected, from the screaming, that another man lay dying.

“I can’t stand by and do nothing,” she murmured. Otherwise it made her no better than the earl.

She pulled on a closely fitted cote with long sleeves, a rose-colored surcoat, then a dark cloak. Her maid gave a resigned sigh and helped her finish dressing before she donned her own clothing.

It was past midnight, and soldiers were sleeping along the hallways and in the larger chamber of the main wooden tower. Marguerite kept her back to the wall, her heart trembling as she stepped her way past the men. Her father had left half a dozen soldiers of his own as her guards, and no doubt they would stop her if they awakened.

She left the wooden tower and moved toward the inner bailey. There, she saw the cause of the screaming. A man, perhaps a year older than herself, was lying prostrate upon the ground. Blood covered his back, and his ankles were chained together. Long dark hair obscured his face, but she saw his shoulders move. He was still alive . . . for now.

Marguerite whispered to her maid. “Bring me water and soft linen cloths. Hurry.” Though she didn’t know who the man was, she wouldn’t turn her back on a suffering man. He needed help if he was to live through the night.

Trinette obeyed, and after the girl disappeared, Marguerite took tentative steps forward. When she reached the man’s side, she saw him shudder, as if he were cold. She didn’t want to startle him but whispered quietly in English, “Would you allow me to tend your wounds?”

The man tensed, his palms pressing into the ground. Slowly, he turned his head, and his battered face was swollen and bruised. But the man’s dark brown eyes were empty, as if he felt nothing. She knelt down beside him and saw his blood staining the ground.

“I am Marguerite de Montpierre,” she said, switching to Gaelic in the hope that he would understand her. Though she was good with languages and had been learning the language of the Scots for the past year, she worried about her speech. “What is your name?”

The man studied her, but didn’t speak. Pain darkened his expression, and he eyed her with disbelief, as though he couldn’t understand why she would show pity. A lock of hair hung down over his eyes, and she reached for it, moving out of his face.

It was meant to help him see better, but the moment she touched him, his hand captured hers. Though his palm was cold, he held her hand as though it were a delicate butterfly.

The gentle touch startled her. Marguerite’s first instinct was to pull her hand back, but something held her in place. When she looked past his injuries, she saw that the planes of his face were strong with the resilience of a man who had visited hell and survived it.

She waited again for him to speak, but he held his silence and released her palm. It made her wonder if Lord Cairnross had ordered the prisoner’s tongue cut out. She lowered her gaze, afraid to ask.

When Trinette brought the wooden bowl of water and soft linen cloths, Marguerite saw the man’s shoulders tighten with distrust. “Stay back,” she whispered to her maid, “and call out if anyone approaches.”

Marguerite dipped the first cloth into the water and wrung it out. Gently, she laid it upon the prisoner’s bloody back, and he expelled a gasp when she touched it. “Forgive me. I’ve no wish to harm you.”

Though his mouth clenched at her touch, he made no move to push her away. Marguerite tried to wipe away the blood and dirt, hoping the cool water would soothe him. She’d never tended wounds such as these, for her father did not allow her near the soldiers when they were injured.

The sight of his blood bothered her, but she forced away her anxiety, for this man needed her. As she cleaned his wounds, she kept her touch light, knowing how it must hurt. The whip lash had gouged his skin, leaving harsh ridges that would form scars.

“Why did he do this to you?” she asked, soaking the cloth again. She moistened his cheek with the cool cloth, and he touched his mouth and throat, shaking his head as if to tell her he couldn’t speak.

“It was you who cried out in pain earlier, wasn’t it?”

The man shook his head. Then he stretched out his arm and pointed into the darkness.

And Marguerite saw the motionless body of a prisoner with sightless eyes.


Every bone in Callum MacKinloch’s body ached, his limbs raging with pain. He couldn’t move if he’d wanted to. The English soldiers had beaten him bloody and then continued on with twenty more lashes.

They hadn’t killed him yet, but they would. It had become a test of endurance. Although his body was weak and broken, his mind had transformed into an iron band of strength. He hadn’t cried out in pain, for he’d lost the ability to speak almost a year ago. After all the nightmares he’d witnessed, he supposed it wasn’t surprising.

Another wet cloth covered the lash wounds, and he shuddered. This woman offered him compassion when no one else would. Why? She was betrothed to the earl, a noblewoman who shouldn’t have left the sanctuary of the keep. From his peripheral vision, he caught glimpses of her. Her rose gown accentuated her slim form, and as she leaned forward, long strands of golden hair hung from beneath her veil.

Callum didn’t deserve her compassion. He’d been locked away for the past seven years, ever since he was a boy. His father had died in the raid, and he’d been taken captive, along with his older brother Bram.

He lowered his face to the ground, wondering if Bram had escaped after all. It had been a while since he’d left, and though his brother had sworn he would return to free him, Callum didn’t believe it. How could he?

No one would save him. It wasn’t possible. He was going to die, likely tortured to death.

Callum closed his eyes, wincing when Lady Marguerite sponged at one of the deeper wounds. The feminine scent of her skin cut through the fetid air like a breath of mercy. He held on to it, inhaling deeply, as if he could absorb the memory of her.

When she’d finished, she lifted the cloths from his back and tried to ease him to sit. Callum glimpsed her face and wondered if he had died after all. Her clear skin and heart-shaped face were fragile, with soft lips and blue eyes that would haunt him forever. He’d never seen a more beautiful creature in all his life.

“You’re cold,” she whispered and removed her cloak, settling it around his shoulders. Her scent clung to it, along with her body heat. He smelled exotic flowers and a hint of citrus, like she wore perfumes from a distant land. As he stared at her, he took in the signs of her wealth—not only the expensive silk gown, but also the softness of her hands and her pale skin.

How could she marry someone like the Earl of Cairnross? The idea of such a man possessing this innocent maiden made Callum’s hands clench into fists.

You couldn’t stop him even if you tried, came the voice of reason. The whipping had nearly killed him last night. He still wasn’t certain why the soldiers had stopped. They’d left him here, no doubt believing the exposure to the cold air would finish his life.

Instead, Lady Marguerite had intervened. Though he wished above all else that she could help him escape, it would be a futile effort. A dozen guards patrolled the gate, and he lacked the strength to stand, much less run away from Cairnross.

Callum struggled to rise, but his knees seemed to fold beneath his weight. Lady Marguerite reached out and helped him balance himself. Though her face flushed at having to touch him, she offered, “Let me help you.”

He shook his head in refusal, steadying himself against a stone wall. He’d rather crawl on his knees like a dog than make her lower herself in such a way. She’d tended his wounds and had given him her cloak for warmth. He couldn’t understand why she would want to help a stranger and a Scot at that.

Closing his eyes, he heard her murmur words of comfort in her own language. He heard the softness of her French accent, the soothing tones sliding over him like silk.

When he tried to take a step forward, his legs gave way, and he nearly stumbled from his chained ankles. Lady Marguerite moved to his side, bringing her arm around his waist for support. He wanted to tell her no, for he was filthy and bloodstained. She shouldn’t have to endure contamination from him.

But she walked at his side, guiding him across the fortress. “You’re going to be all right,” she whispered. “I’ll come to you and bring food. Perhaps when you’re stronger, I’ll petition the earl for your release.”

He sent her a questioning look. Why? Why would she spare a moment for someone like him?

The troubled look in her eyes suggested that she didn’t know the answer. When he removed the cloak she’d given him, his hand brushed against hers. Her lips parted, and he wanted to kneel at her feet, like the goddess she was.

Callum didn’t want her pity. Though his body and voice might be broken, he wouldn’t allow her to believe that he was less than a man. His hands threaded with hers, the cold skin merging with warm.

He brought her fingers to his ragged cheeks, absorbing the warmth. A few strands of her golden hair slipped from her veil, resting against her throat. And when he brought her hand to his lips, she inhaled a gasp.

He released her instantly, expecting her to pull back in disgust. Instead, her eyes were shining with unshed tears, her fingers remaining upon his face.

“I won’t forget you,” she vowed, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. Then she picked up her skirts and disappeared into the night.

In the shadows, Callum caught a movement and turned his head. The Earl of Cairnross was standing there, watching.

And fury burned within his eyes.


“I saw you with him last night,” Lord Cairnross began when Marguerite joined the earl in breaking their fast. “The prisoner who was punished.”

Marguerite kept her eyes averted to the floor, showing no reaction at all. If she appeared dismayed, no doubt the earl would have the prisoner killed.

“I heard a man suffering,” she murmured. “It awakened me from sleep.” She kept her tone even, as if she were speaking of a wounded animal.

“You are so young, Lady Marguerite,” the earl chided. “These are not noblemen, as you are accustomed to,” he explained, making her feel like a small child. “They are ignorant Scots who dared to rise up against the king. They should be grateful that I’ve given them the chance to atone for their sins.”

Sins? She kept her gaze fixed upon her hands, wondering what he was talking about. Although some of the men were, no doubt, rebellious toward the English, the prisoner was only a year or so older than herself. From the look of him, he’d been imprisoned for years.

A shiver crossed over her skin, for the look in the prisoner’s eyes had been far more deliberate. She didn’t doubt that he could kill his master without a trace of regret.

“Do not punish him for my ignorance, my lord,” she murmured. “I saw him bleeding and meant only to tend his wounds.”

The earl took her hand in his. “Lady Marguerite, Callum MacKinloch dared to touch you. And that, I cannot forgive.”

A coldness threaded through her as she stared at the earl. In his eyes, she saw a man who believed in his own supremacy, who cared for no one but himself.

“Did you take his life?” she asked. Her voice held a quaver that she despised, but she tried to keep her tone calm. If he did, then it’s my fault.

“I should have. But the MacKinloch Clan is not far from here. They have remained resistant to the English troops, and I have decided to keep him as a hostage. But not at a risk to you, my bride.” His gaze turned possessive upon her, as if he’d guessed the uncertain feelings she held toward the man she’d saved. “I sent him south where he won’t trouble you again.”

Marguerite feigned acquiescence, though inwardly, she felt the cold anger filling her up. “You are a man of great mercy, my lord,” she lied, and his arrogant smile sickened her as he raised her palm to his lips.

Whether or not he was telling the truth, at least she knew the name of the man who had touched her that night: Callum MacKinloch.

She didn’t know what it was about Callum that entranced her. He was hardly more than a wild man, with an unkempt appearance that should have repelled her.

Yet, the touch of his mouth against her palm had conjured up a trembling fire within her. She’d thought of nothing else since she’d seen him.

He was a fighter who’d resisted his enemy, surviving amidst insurmountable odds. When he’d stared at her, it was as if he saw something more. A woman of strength, instead of a woman who blindly obeyed.

Were she in his place, she’d have broken apart. She’d never defied anyone in her life, always obeying her father and doing as she was told. As his youngest daughter, she’d prided herself on obedience.

Or was it cowardice? She’d let her father select a husband for her, without even knowing the man. She’d journeyed to Scotland with the Duc, to the northern lands where hardly anyone spoke her language. Though she told herself that her father wanted only what was best for her, she questioned his judgment with her betrothal to Lord Cairnross. The marriage was meant to strengthen the alliance with England after the recent war had ended.

Yet, Marguerite couldn’t imagine wedding Lord Cairnross after what he’d done to the prisoners. He enjoyed watching the prisoners suffer, and she loathed everything about the man.

She thought of Callum and the way he’d stared at the gates of Cairnross, as though he’d do anything to escape. They were alike, in so many ways. Both of them were imprisoned, though her invisible chains were of her father’s making.

Somehow, she would find a way to free herself from this marriage.


Two days later

Callum dreamed of Marguerite as he slept upon the frozen ground. The bodies of other prisoners huddled near, for it was the only way to survive the freezing cold. They had been brought to Lord Harkirk’s stronghold to die, and already he’d witnessed some of the weaker men succumbing to Death’s quiet invitation.

In his memory, he recalled her beautiful face, the gentle innocence of her touch. He couldn’t say why she had tended his wounds or why she hadn’t run away from him. Callum knew what he was—a battered horror of a man.

But he wasn’t weak. Over the years, he’d kept his arms strong, lifting stones to build the walls. He’d learned how to steal an extra portion of food when the guards weren’t looking to keep himself from starving. When his brother had been imprisoned with him, Bram had warned him to keep up his strength. There would come a time when they could escape together, his brother had promised.

But Bram had left him behind, seizing his own freedom, even after the soldiers had held a blade to Callum’s throat.

Callum squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away his resentment. They hadn’t killed him that day though he’d expected to die. Bram had called their bluff, and it had worked.

Although a part of him knew that his brother hadn’t abandoned him, he wished he could have left this place. Seven years of his life had faded away. And so had his voice.

Days ago, when the guards had picked him up, forcing him into the back of a wagon with four other men, Callum had tried again to speak. They might have had a chance at escaping, if the others would join him in resisting the soldiers. But no matter how hard he tried, not a word would break forth. It was as if someone had locked away his words, keeping him trapped in silence.

Worse, the others treated him as if he lacked intelligence. Several of the men talked about him as if he couldn’t hear their words.

But when one tried to shove him back upon their arrival, Callum seized the man’s arm and stared hard at him. The startled look turned to an apology, and Callum released his arm with a silent warning. Rubbing his forearm, the prisoner glanced back at the others, who now viewed Callum with new eyes.

I may not speak. But I understand every word.

And from that moment, they’d held their distance.

As the days passed at Lord Harkirk’s fortress, whatever hope he’d had of being rescued had begun to fade. Callum didn’t know any of the prisoners, and without a familiar face, he started to slip into the madness that had plagued so many. Visions collided in his mind, and as the days passed, he tried to focus the memories upon Lady Marguerite. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine the scent of her skin, the softness of her hands.

She’d been real. In his hands he grasped a crushed ribbon that he’d stolen from her blond hair. It was a lighter blue than her eyes, but it confirmed that he hadn’t imagined her. She had tended his broken flesh, treating him like a man instead of a slave.

She was the sort of woman he would die to protect. Innocent and pure, she deserved to be with a man who would love her, who would set a kingdom at her feet—the way he never could.

He stared at the wooden walls surrounding the fortress. Lord Harkirk had begun converting them into stone, using the labor of Scottish prisoners like himself. Callum fingered the silken ribbon, imagining that it was the curve of Marguerite’s cheek.

He would never stop trying to escape. Even if it was only for the chance to see her, one last time.


One week later

The fortress was on fire. Smoke billowed into the night sky, and outside, she heard the battle cries of men fighting. Marguerite’s hands shook as she reached for her cloak, silently murmuring prayers that somehow, they would make it out alive.

Though it should have been safer to remain hidden within her chamber, the fire might spread to the main tower. Dying by the sword was at least swifter than being burned alive.

Trinette was openly weeping as she packed their belongings into a bundle. Marguerite went to the window and stared at the chaos below. Swords rang out against shields, and the roar of fighting prisoners broke the stillness. The earl shouted orders, unsheathing his own weapon while smoke tainted the air.

This was their best chance to escape while the men were caught up in the fighting. She seized the bundle from Trinette. “We have to leave. Now.”

When her maid looked hesitant, too afraid to move, she gave her a slight push. “Go!” she ordered, and Trinette hurried down the spiral stone stairs. Marguerite held on to the bundle in one arm while following her maid. The smoke created a dense fog within the main gathering space, and in the darkness, she couldn’t see the doorway.

Her heartbeat raced as she struggled to see, coughing in the choking haze. She dropped low to the ground, trying to discover where Trinette had gone. She crawled upon the earthen floor until at last, she spied the flare of a torch outside.

There. With a burst of energy, Marguerite fought her way toward the entrance, keeping her head down.

Outside, the cold air burned her lungs, and she coughed again, trying to clear the smoke. The prisoners were escaping. She could see them pouring from their crude shelter, fighting hard despite their chains. Another Scottish clan had attacked, and half the men created a diversion while the others worked to free the slaves. Vengeance lined their faces while they struck hard against the Cairnross soldiers.

It was a welcome sight, watching the men go free. The only disappointment was knowing that if he’d been here, Callum MacKinloch would have been among them. Because of her interference, he was still a prisoner.

It simply wasn’t fair.

Marguerite huddled against one of the outer stone walls, tears clouding the back of her throat. She didn’t know what to do or where to go, but she dropped the bundle of her belongings upon the ground. She closed her eyes, wishing she could silence the sounds of death and fighting. Fear locked her feet in place.

“Are you a hostage?” a man shouted at her in English.

Marguerite turned her head slightly and saw a tall, dark-haired man standing before her. She gripped her arms, too afraid to move. He could kill her with a single blow if he chose to do so. But the look in his eyes held no threat, and she saw a resemblance to Callum in the man’s features. She remained motionless when he reached out and lowered her hood, revealing her veiled hair.

“If you want to leave this place, my brother can grant you sanctuary,” he offered. “My wife will look after you, and I promise, you’ll face no harm.”

Marguerite closed her eyes, wondering what to do. Her first instinct was to refuse. It made no sense at all to leave Cairnross, fleeing a burning fortress with the strangers who had attacked it.

And yet, the only choice was to remain here with the earl she despised. She stood, trying to make a decision while in the distance, she spied her maid Trinette. The young woman grew panicked, and she screamed, running toward the earl, as if he could protect her from the brutal fighting that surrounded them.

Lord Cairnross was caught up in his own fight, too busy to pay Trinette any heed. When she ran too close, Cairnross reached out with his dagger and sliced it across the woman’s throat. Trinette dropped to the ground, her sightless eyes staring back.

Marguerite doubled over in horror, sickened by what she’d just witnessed. Dear God have mercy. Had she not seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed it. The earl knew Trinette was her maid. And yet, he’d murdered her, simply because she’d gotten in the way.

Panic flooded through her lungs, and Marguerite fought for breath. The truth was staring her in the face—she had to leave Cairnross or else be entrapped by a monster.

“Please,” she begged the stranger, searching for the right Gaelic words. “Help me get home to my father.” She reached down and picked up the fallen bundle of clothing, trying not to think about Trinette. The maid had been her only companion from France, and it broke her heart to imagine how alone she was now.

The Scottish warrior caught her hand and drew her outside the fortress, away from the fighting. Marguerite followed him, hoping she hadn’t made a mistake in this decision. But what else could she do?

This was her only choice, no matter how terrifying it was. The man led her to a group of waiting horses where she secured her bundle. She moved with numb motions, letting her mind fall into nothingness. If she tried to think of anything beyond the simple task before her, she’d start to weep.

Behind her, the fortress blazed with fire, the scent of destruction darkening the air. She rested her hands upon a brown mare, trying not to think of what would happen to her now.

Then, another Scot strode toward them. His dark hair hung to his shoulders, and a long claymore was strapped to his back. Fury and disbelief raged in his eyes. “Bram, what in God’s name have you done? She’s not coming with us.”

He spoke Gaelic, likely to keep her from understanding his words. Marguerite shrank back, and she stared at her hands, pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping. Her fingers shook, but she waited for the men to make their own decision.

“We can’t leave her there,” Bram argued. Her rescuer stared back into the face of the other man in open defiance.

“She’s one of them,” the first snapped. “And if you bring her, Cairnross’s men will follow her to Glen Arrin.”

She could see the doubts forming in her rescuer’s eyes. If she didn’t say something, he might leave her here.

“No,” Marguerite interrupted, using Gaelic to reveal that she’d understood every word. She had to leave, at all costs. Searching for a way to convince the other man, she offered, “If you send word to my father, he’ll come for me, and you will be rewarded.”

“And just who is your father?” he demanded.

Marguerite sent him a cool stare. “Guy de Montpierre, the Duc D’Avignois.”

Although she’d never before evoked the power of her father’s rank, she saw that it indeed made a difference with the first man. His face grew intrigued, as if wondering how he could use her.

She didn’t care. As long as he helped her escape from Cairnross and summoned her father, she would ensure that he was rewarded for his assistance.

“I am Marguerite de Montpierre,” she continued, sending him a regal nod. “I was betrothed to Lord Cairnross.” Distaste filled her mouth at his very name.

“You may have our protection until your father arrives,” the first man agreed. “But you’d best pray that Cairnross doesn’t find you.”

She didn’t doubt that at all. If the earl learned that she’d conspired with the enemy to escape, she might share in Trinette’s fate. Silently, Marguerite uttered a prayer for the woman’s soul.

Bram boosted her on to the saddle, and she arranged her skirts around the bundle of clothes she’d brought. Her hands shook as she gripped the saddle, wondering if she was making a mistake to go off with strangers. She didn’t know these men at all, nor was there any reason to trust them.

But thus far, they’d behaved honorably. Their leader hadn’t been pleased with the idea of bringing her with them, but he’d agreed to protect her at a risk to his own people. It was the only hope she had left.

The fighting between the freed prisoners and Cairnross’s men continued in the distance, as the men led her away. Flames consumed the garrison, filling the air with smoke. “I’m glad to see it destroyed,” she murmured. The earl deserved to lose his stronghold after everything he’d done.

“How long were you there?” Bram asked, as he climbed up behind her, urging the horse faster.

“Only a sennight. But the prisoners . . . “ She shuddered at the memory of all those who had suffered. Most had been freed this night, except those who had died fighting.

“Did you ever see a man called Callum MacKinloch?” Bram asked. “Younger than me, one of our brothers?”

She glanced back at him, and realized that she’d been right about the strong resemblance. It made her feel better about leaving with them, though she couldn’t say why. “He was sent away a few days ago,” she admitted. “Oui, I saw him.”


She shook her head, keeping her gaze fixed forward. “To the south. That’s all I know.”

“But he was alive and unharmed?”

“Alive, yes.” At least, that’s what she wanted to believe. Her hands dug into the folds of her gown as she prayed it was still true. “Will you try to find him?” she whispered, as they took her deeper into the hills.

“He’s our brother. We’ll bring him home,” Bram vowed.

The intensity of the promise gave her hope that he would keep his word. She didn’t understand why she felt the need to ensure that Callum was safe. She’d only met him the one night. There was nothing at all between them, not even friendship. But when he’d brought her hand to his cheek, it was as if an invisible bond had drawn her to him. He’d dared to touch her, and though she couldn’t say why he’d evoked these feelings, it was as if he’d been searching for her all his life.

As if he’d been waiting for her to come.

Deep inside, she wished she could see him again. If only to convince herself that she hadn’t imagined the interest in his eyes.



After suffering years as a prisoner of war, Callum MacKinloch finally breaks free . . . but his voice is still held captive.

Lady Marguerite de Montpierre tries to heal his brutal wounds and is captivated by the handsome Highlander. She faces her own impending prison of a loveless betrothal, though she is drawn to the fierce warrior who does not speak. Although a future together seems impossible, she is losing her heart to a man she cannot have.

But Callum refuses to give up on the angel who fought back against the demons of his past and gave him another reason to live…for her.

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