He moved through the trees as soundlessly as the wraith some might think him. He’d been gone a long time.
Too long.
Only now that he was back did he allow himself to acknowledge it.
Ten years he’d bided his time, forging a new life from the ashes of his old to replace the one denied him by birth and treachery, waiting for the right moment to return. Ten years he’d waged war, honing his skills and laying scourge across countless battlefields.
Ten years in exile for a crime he didn’t commit.
For so long he’d forced everything that reminded him of the Highlands from his mind, but every step that he’d taken across the heathery hills, grassy glens, rocky crags, and forested hillsides of the Deeside since he’d landed in Aberdeen two days ago had been a brutal reminder of how much he’d lost.
This place was in his blood. It was part of him, and he’d be damned if he’d be forced from here again.
Whatever it took, he would clear his name.
Duncan flexed his jaw, steeling himself for what lay ahead. His controlled expression betrayed none of the fierce turmoil surging through him as he neared the reckoning ten years in the making.
Anger that had taken years to harness returned with surprising force. But emotion would never control him again and he quickly tamped it down. For many years now, Jeannie Grant—nay, he reminded himself bitterly, Jeannie Gordon—had been nothing to him but a harsh reminder of his own failings. He’d put her out of his mind in the way that a man wants to forget his first lesson in humility. Rarely did he allow himself to think about her, except as a reminder of a mistake he would never make again.
But now he had no choice. As much as he would like to keep her buried in the past where she belonged, he needed her.
The splashing grew louder. He slowed his step as he wound through the maze of trees and brush, taking care to stay well-hidden as he drew closer. Even in the heavy thicket of trees, his height and breadth of shoulder should make hiding impossible, but over the years he’d become adept at blending into his surroundings.
He stopped near the rock where she’d left her clothes, keeping hidden behind a wide fir tree.
Every muscle in his body tensed as he scanned the dark mossy-green waters of the loch …
He stilled. There. The pale oval of her upturned face caught in the sunlight, illuminating the perfectly aligned features for only an instant before she disappeared under the water.
It was her. Jean Gordon, née Grant. The woman he’d once been foolish enough to love.
He felt a hard jerk in his chest as the memories flooded him: the disbelief, the hurt, the hatred, and finally, the hard-wrought indifference.
His name wasn’t all that she’d destroyed. She’d taken his trust, and with it, the idealism of a lad of one and twenty. Her betrayal had been a harsh lesson. Never again would he allow his heart to rule him.
But that was a lifetime ago. The lass wielded no power over him now; she was merely a means to an end.
His gaze intensified on the stretch of water where she’d disappeared. A frown betrayed his unease. He knew she was a strong swimmer, but she’d been under a long time. He took a step toward the loch, but was forced to step quickly back when she suddenly exploded out of the water like a sea nymph in a spray of effervescent light. She’d surfaced near the shore, perhaps only twenty feet separated them now, enabling him to see her clearly.
Too damned clearly.
Hair slicked back, and water dripping from her face, she emerged from the loch like Venus rising from the sea and headed straight toward him. He’d forgotten how she walked … the gentle sway of her hips seduced with every step. The air between them fired with a familiar charge, the sharp, full-bodied awareness that he’d felt from the first moment he’d seen her across the crowded hall of Stirling Castle all those years ago.
His entire body went rigid. The sark she wore was completely transparent, clinging to breasts fuller than he remembered, but just as tantalizing. The cool air against her wet skin only made things worse. Her nipples beaded into two tight buds like berries waiting to be plucked.
He swallowed, trying to clear the taste from his mouth. Ten damned years and he could still taste her on his tongue, still remember the sweet press of her breast against his teeth as he’d sucked her deep into his mouth. His nostrils flared. He could still smell the fragrant honeysuckle of her skin.
Not even his steely control could prevent the sudden rush of blood surging through his veins. He swore under his breath, the lack of control infuriating him. But the vile oath didn’t begin to summarize his anger at the realization that no matter how he felt about her, he was only a man, and for all his vaunted control, a hot-blooded one at that.
And Jeannie had a body that would tempt a eunuch.
But his earlier allusion to Venus—the goddess born in sea foam from the castrated genitals of Uranus—was a well-placed, brutal reminder of what this woman could do.
Even as an innocent girl, she’d possessed an undeniable sensuality. A primitive allure that was deeper than the mere physical beauty of dark flame-red hair, bold green eyes, ivory skin as smooth as cream, and soft pink lips. It was something in the tilt of her eyes, in the curve of her lush mouth, and in the ripe sensuality of her body that spoke to a man of one thing: swivving. And not just any swivving, but gritty, mind-blowing, come-until-you-pass-out kind of swivving.
With her youthful curves ripened into the full blush of womanhood the effect was even more pronounced.
Worse, he knew from experience it wasn’t all for show. She was every bit as wanton as she looked.
Jeannie was one massive cockstand—sex and carnality personified.
He knew seeing her again after all these years would be unpleasant, but he was unprepared for the fury of emotions unleashed inside him by the undeniable pull of the very thing that had been his downfall: desire.
He didn’t know what he’d expected to feel: anger … hatred … sadness … indifference? Anything but lust.
Years ago he’d wanted her, been foolish enough to think he could have her, and been firmly put in his place.
But he wasn’t a lovesick lad anymore, seduced by words of love and a body more deadly than any weapon he’d ever faced in war. He was a man hardened by the harsh blow of disappointment.
The sharp edge of lust dulled.
And then she removed her sark.
His stomach clenched and his breath came out in a hiss. Every muscle in his body went taut with the strain of curbing his reaction. Heat and heaviness tugged at his groin. His body wanted to thicken, but he fought it back. He had only one use for her now and it wasn’t to satisfy his baser urges.
Lust and emotion would never defeat him again.
To prove it he forced himself to study her—coldly, dispassionately, as a man might admire a good piece of horseflesh. His gaze slid down the curve of her spine, over the soft flare of her round bottom, and down the firm muscles of her long, shapely legs, taking in every inch of creamy bare skin.
Aye, she was beautiful. And more desirable than any woman he’d ever known. Once he would have given his life for hers. Hell, he had. Just not in the way that he’d ever anticipated.
His eyes lingered and then shifted away, satisfied. Whatever was between them once had died long ago. Her considerable charms were no threat to him now.
Focused on the task at hand, Duncan realized that he could turn her nakedness to his advantage. He had her on the defensive and he knew that with Jeannie that was a good place to start.
Eyes hard, steeling himself for the unpleasantness of what was to come, he stepped around the tree.
Jeannie didn’t think. She heard the crack of a twig behind her, the sound of a footstep, and reacted.
Instead of grabbing the sark, her fingers closed around the cold brass handle of her puffer pistol. She murmured a silent prayer of thanks for the foresight she’d had to leave it primed.
She swung around, leveling the gun in the d
irection of the noise. All she could see was the gigantic shadow of a man so tall and heavily muscled he made her heart jolt in a moment of sheer panic.
She’d learned only too recently the extent of her vulnerability at the hands of the Mackintosh scourge who’d tried to abduct her. She was strong, but even the strongest woman was no match physically for a fierce Highland warrior—and this one certainly qualified.
He started to say something, but she didn’t give him a chance. She wouldn’t be taken again. Squeezing the trigger, she heard the wheel lock click, smelled the burning, and then a few seconds afterward, the kick of the blast sent her stumbling back.
The brigand let out a vile curse and slid to his knees, cradling his stomach. Her recent instruction paid off, her aim true.
He had his head down, but vaguely it occurred to her that his clothing was far too fine to be that of a brigand.
“A knife in the back wasn’t enough?” he groaned. “You’ve decided to finish the job?”
Every muscle, every fiber, every nerve ending curled on end—an instinctive reaction of self-protection. The rich, deep sound of his voice resonated, probing the farthest reaches of her memory. In the dark forgotten place she’d locked away forever.
The blood drained from her face, from her body. Her heart constricted with a dull throb.
It couldn’t be …
Her eyes shot to his face, taking in the hard square jaw rough with dark stubble, the wavy jet-black hair, the firm nose and wide mouth. Handsome. But hard—too hard. It couldn’t be him. Then she looked at the eyes beneath the steel of his knapscall. Crystal clear, as blue as the summer sky, they bored into her with an intense familiarity that could not be denied.
Her chest tightened to the point of burning. She couldn’t breathe.
The shock was such that she could have been seeing a ghost. But this was no ghost. The prodigal son had returned. Duncan Dubh Campbell had finally come home.
For one ludicrous moment her heart leapt and she stepped forward. “You came back!” she cried before she could call the words back, all the hope of the innocent young girl who didn’t want to believe that she’d been deserted by the man she loved in her voice. At one time, she would have given anything to see his face again.
At one time. She jerked back.
That was before he’d broken her heart. Before he’d taken her innocence, promised to marry her, and left her without a word. Before she’d sat by the window for days on end, staring at the horizon, praying with every fiber of her being for him to come back to her—for him to believe in her … in them. Before she’d wept and wept until every last bit of love for him had been purged from her soul.
Her heart twisted as the memories came flooding back. Not one word for ten years. Only the first had hurt. The other nine had been spent alternating between hatred and self-recrimination.
Duncan Campbell was the last man she ever wanted to see again.
Many times she’d dreamed of putting a lead ball in his stomach, she’d just never thought it would actually happen. Her first instinct was to rush and help him, but she forced herself not to move. Once she thought she’d known him better than anyone else in the world, but this man was a stranger to her.
Her mouth fell in a tight line, refusing to think about the blood rushing between his fingers as he tried to staunch the bleeding that flowed into a crimson pool at his side. He wouldn’t die … would he? She shook off the fear and found her voice. “What do you want?”
Despite the pallor of his skin, his gaze burned as his eyes slid over her, lingering on her breasts and between her legs.
All of a sudden she realized why. Dear lord, she was naked.
Her cheeks burned more with anger than with embarrassment as she quickly yanked a dry sark over her head. Eager to shield herself from his eyes, she left the kirtle in the pile and grabbed the plaid she’d brought to lie on, wrapping it around her in a makeshift arisaidh.
“Still fond of swimming, I see,” he said.
She flinched, not missing the heavy sarcasm in his voice at the pointed reminder of a night she longed to forget. Anger burst inside her. After all he’d done to her, how dare he taunt her with memories of her naïve foolishness. Her fingers tightened around the pistol she still held in her hand. Were it reloaded, she just might shoot him again. Her gaze met his just as intently and she smiled coldly. “And you’re still a bastard.”
She caught the glint in his blue-eyed gaze and knew her barb had struck. If Duncan Dubh—aptly named, though it should be for his black heart and not his coloring—had a weak point in the steely armor that surrounded him, it was the nature of his birth.
He covered his reaction so quickly, if she didn’t know what to look for she might have missed it. But they knew well how to hurt one other, that skill had been honed to perfection years ago.
The smile that curved his mouth was about as warm as the icy mountaintops of the Cairngorms that surrounded them in the dark of winter. “Some things never change,” he said matter-of-factly.
But he had.
She stared into the face that was at once heartbreakingly familiar and completely different. The youth had become a man. If anything, the passage of time had only served to make him more attractive—something she would have thought impossible. The black hair and blue eyes had always been a striking combination, but with age his boyish features had become more sharply defined and chiseled. He wore his hair shorter now—the soft waves that had fallen to his jaw had been cropped to just past his ears. The deeply tanned skin had been weathered by the elements and nicked by war, yet it only served to make him more brutally masculine—imposing, almost dangerous.
Despite his undeniable appeal, nothing stirred inside her. Looking at him she didn’t feel anything. He’d killed what was between them long ago.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “The shot will have been heard.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you shot me.”
He was trying not to show how much pain he was in and his mouth was quirked, revealing the dimple in his left cheek. She sucked in her breath, stunned by the aching familiarity. By the reminder. Her heart pounded in a hard panic as the force of everything she had to lose by his return came crashing down on her. “Why are you here, Duncan?”
“I came back to prove my innocence.” He looked at her. “I need your help.”
He held his face impassive, but she knew how much those words had cost him.
“Why would I help you? I thought I betrayed you?” She couldn’t keep the twinge of bitterness from her voice.
Nothing flickered on his expression. “And I thought you claimed otherwise?” he challenged.
He sagged backward, falling from his knees to the ground, but she made no move toward him. Any compassion she might have felt for shooting him paled beside the danger his return could bring. He’d nearly destroyed her once before, he would never have the opportunity to do so again.
And now it wasn’t just her life at stake.
Her eyes narrowed. “Now you wish to listen to me?” She laughed harshly. “You are ten years too late for that. You should never have come back, Duncan. The only thing waiting for you is a noose. And I’ll be happy to help them put it around your neck myself.”
Chapter 2
Ten Years Earlier
Stirling Castle, Stirlingshire, late summer 1598
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Jeannie Grant stood between her father and aunt in the middle of the great hall of Stirling Castle, feeling the tension gradually ease from her neck and shoulders. A short while later she even found herself smiling—really smiling—at one of the courtiers she’d been introduced to and realized that she was actually having fun.
Had she worried for nothing?
When her father, the Chief of Grant of Freuchie, had insisted she accompany him to answer King James’s summons, she’d resisted, anticipating the worst. Veiled looks. Sly remarks. Whispers like the ones that had followed her when
she was a girl.
But her mother’s fall from grace had happened eight years ago and many, many scandals ago. With the inevitableness of dawn, new misfortune had risen to take its place. Indeed, they’d arrived earlier to find the castle buzzing about one of the queen’s ladies in waiting who’d been sent from the court in disgrace.
Jeannie didn’t know the circumstances, but she could never take pleasure in another’s pain. She’d spent almost half her life living under the shadow of her mother’s scandal. Janet Grant had run off with a “BloodyEnglishman” (her father didn’t separate the two) when Jeannie was just nine years old.
She’d learned all too well how scandal and gossip engulfed everyone they touched in misery—even the innocent. Especially the innocent.
With her father and aunt locked in conversation with an old acquaintance, Jeannie took advantage of the free moment to catch her breath. She looked around the glittering hall, the massive room crammed to the wooden rafters with colorfully clad courtiers—a veritable feast of silk and satin for the eye. Her mouth twisted. So much for the “small gathering” her father had promised.
She gazed toward the crowd at the far end of the room, still waiting for her first look at King James and Queen Anne. But thus far she’d been unable to catch a wide enough opening between the silk wall of hooped skirts and puffy slops worn by the courtiers surrounding Scotland’s royal couple.
Above the din of voices she could just make out the gentle strum of the lute and the haunting melody of her favorite song—despite being written by an Englishman—“Greensleeves.” The familiar words floated through her head:
Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company …
The Campbell Trilogy Page 70