She fluttered her fan a few times in front of her flushed cheeks, stirring the stagnant, warm air. Four enormous chandeliers hung from the ceiling, laden with masses of candles, casting a magical glow across the room. But as beautiful as all those candles were, they also made the room hot. Still, the heat and noise only added to the feeling of excitement surging through the hall.
“And this must be your daughter,” a man said.
Automatically, Jeannie turned to greet the newcomer; her gaze meeting the twinkling gray eyes of a distinguished-looking gentleman of middling years, perhaps a few years older than her father’s eight and forty. He was short, not much taller than her handful of inches over five feet, and built like a barrel. His white hair had thinned and receded up top, but he more than made up for the loss on his face. His impressive mustache was long and thick, curling up into two perfect points on the ends. He reminded her of a sea lion, albeit without the gruffness. The jovial smile on his face belied any thought of that.
“Aye,” her father said. “My eldest daughter, Jean.” Her father turned to her. “Daughter, I’d like you to meet an old friend, the Laird of Menzies.”
Menzies. Castle Menzies was in Perthshire, near where her mother had grown up.
“Not so old that I can’t admire a beautiful lass,” the laird said with a chuckle, taking her gloved hand and offering a gallant bow. He shook his head and said softly, “I’d recognize that hair anywhere.”
Instinctively, Jeannie stiffened, bracing herself for what was coming next. A comment about her hair was invariably followed by a knowing shake of the head and the inevitable, “just like her mother.” As if red was some kind of mark for a spirited and adventuresome—if occasionally ill-conceived—temperament.
The Laird of Menzies’s remark had not just affected her; her father tensed as well.
But to her surprise, rather than a subtle barb, the old laird said, “Your mother could light up a room with her beauty and her smile. Such energy, such light. She was a breath of fresh air, your mother.” He smiled with a wistful shake of his head. “I was sad to hear that she was gone.” He met Jeannie’s gaze and the crinkle around his eyes deepened. “I’ve never seen her like since, but I see you have some of that energy about you as well.”
Jeannie could detect no animus in his voice to suggest a different meaning. When she looked into his eyes all she could see was kindness.
She blushed and mumbled a quick thank you. It had been so long since someone said anything nice about her mother that she was at a loss as to what to say. So often reminded of the bad, she forgot the good.
The memories of her mother were faint, coming to her only in flashes. The tinkle of her laugh. The scent of rosewater and the French wine of Champagne that she loved. The thick auburn hair so like Jeannie’s own blazing red in the candlelight. The beautiful ball gowns that would have made England’s Queen Elizabeth curse with envy.
Janet Grant had loved the young King James’s court at Holyrood Palace and disliked returning to the inhospitable “wilds” of the Highlands—so she avoided it. She’d been like a beautiful butterfly flitting in and out of Jeannie’s life.
Flitting, that was a good word for it. Her mother never followed a path, only where her fancy led. She fancied herself in love with Grant, the Laird of Freuchie, so she’d married him. Four children later, with the husband she’d loved no longer dancing attendance on her, she fancied herself in love with the BloodyEnglishman—for he had no other name in their household—so she’d run off with him.
For Jeannie, the pain of her leaving never lessened. It didn’t help that her mother had quickly regretted it. The damage had been done. Donald Grant refused to take her back. The love he bore his wife could not stand in the face of the blow she’d dealt to his pride. Despite their Norman forbearers, her father was every bit a proud Highland chief and forgiveness was not in his vernacular.
Her beautiful, impetuous mother had died less than a year later in a carriage accident—the result of a madcap drunken wager—leaving Jeannie, the eldest, to pick up the pieces and burdened by a legacy of the danger of impulsivity.
“Jean is nothing like her mother,” her father said sharply.
Realizing his misstep, the Laird of Menzies stammered an apology and moved away.
Jeannie had heard the note of defensiveness in her father’s voice and tried not to let it upset her. Her father might have insisted that she stop hiding in the countryside and join him at court, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about the prospect of setting her free in the environment her mother had loved so much. The presence of her dour aunt as chaperone attested to that.
She did not doubt that her father loved her, but sometimes she would catch him watching her and she would see something in his gaze. It was almost as if he was holding his breath, waiting for her to make a mistake.
Worse, she knew that his fear was not completely unfounded. When an idea struck her, she felt it so strongly it was hard to dislodge. It always seemed right at the time. Like when she’d hidden that horrid Billy Gordon’s clothes when he was swimming in the lake so he was forced to walk home naked or when she was six and decided to walk to Inverness because there was a shop that sold confections she liked or the time she’d served her father’s best claret to her poppets and the hounds had passed out drunk.
But she didn’t do things like that anymore.
She wanted to ease the worried look on her father’s face, to assure him that he spoke true, that she was nothing like her mother. That nothing would ever induce her to be so rash.
But doing so would only cause him more pain, so Jeannie kept her promises to herself and changed the subject.
The wait was at an end. The Laird of Grant had arrived.
Duncan Campbell eyed the crowd that had spilled out into the courtyard, effectively blocking the entrance to the great hall. But it did not deter him. Though he’d rather muck the castle stables than suffer through another evening of court entertainment—which too often meant the drama taking place off the stage and not on it—he had a job to do.
He forged his way through the throng as purposefully as a birlinn cutting across the waves. More than one young woman saw him coming and stumbled “accidentally” into his path, murmuring apologies while casting him an inviting glance. That a few looked at him with something more than a dalliance in mind was a new experience for him. News traveled swiftly at court, and word of his being named captain of his father’s guard and keeper of Castleswene had not escaped notice. Apparently for some, his new position was enough to blur the stain of his birth.
But no manner of enticement, no matter how bold, would steer him from his course. He’d spent the past few days cooling his heels, waiting for Grant to arrive and now that he was finally here Duncan was anxious to proceed. His father, the powerful Campbell of Auchinbreck, had sent him to court to persuade the Chief of Grant to join forces with the king and the Campbells in the impending battle with the Earl of Huntly. His father was giving him a chance to further prove himself, and Duncan had no intention of squandering the opportunity. So he disentangled himself with a polite smile, before purposefully continuing on his way.
Upon entering the hall, a wave of heat and the sickly sweet stench of sweat masked with too much perfume hit him hard. He grimaced. What he wouldn’t give for a fresh breath of heathery Highland air.
He scanned the room, searching for Grant. As on the battlefield, his prodigious height proved useful and his gaze traveled unobstructed over the sea of swarming courtiers.
His younger brother Colin dragged up beside him, having had a bit more difficulty in navigating through the crowd. “Damn it, Duncan, slow down. Gad brother, you must be blind. Lady Margaret’s lovely breasts were wedged so firmly against your arm, she was practically serving them up on a platter.”
Duncan’s gaze slid down to his brother’s. At eight and ten few things interested Colin more than a pair of lovely breasts. Hell, at one and twenty Duncan wasn’t altogether disinterested himse
lf. He arched a brow. “I saw them.”
“And you didn’t stop and offer an encouraging word?” Colin asked incredulously. “That field may be well plowed, but ’tis a bountiful harvest all the same. She’s a lusty lass. A real screamer, I hear. Thomas said he had to put his hand over her mouth to prevent her from waking the whole castle.”
Duncan frowned. Whether she was free with her favors or not, he didn’t like to hear his brother speak with such coarseness about a lass. “I’ve no time to dally with the lasses, Colin. I’ve other matters to attend.”
“How much time do you need?” Colin paused as the young woman in question approached, her eyes sweeping over the brothers with interest. His gaze followed her round backside as she sauntered past, hips swaying enticingly. Only when she’d moved out of sight did Colin’s gaze return to him. “The lass is panting after ye. Grant has only just arrived. Surely your talk can wait an hour?”
“The sooner I speak with him, the sooner I can persuade him to see reason.” And the sooner he could return to Castleswene and prepare his men for battle.
“You’ve a mind for only one thing,” Colin said with a shake of his head.
His brother’s look of utter disgust tugged a wry grin from Duncan. And when he saw Colin’s eyes following another comely lass, he laughed and said, “As do you, little brother.”
Colin grinned, not bothering to deny it.
If Duncan was ruthless in his determination to make a name for himself, it was because he had not the luxury of anything else. Duncan didn’t envy Colin the freedom afforded by his position, he accepted his place with the same pragmatism he would anything else he couldn’t change.
For a bastard he was more fortunate than most. When his mother had abandoned him, his father had brought him into his household and raised him alongside his half brothers and sister, treating him no differently. If anything, his father often found it difficult to hide his favoritism toward his bastard son. But it was Colin, younger by three years, who was the Laird of Auchinbreck’s heir and tanaiste. Not even his father’s love could change that.
But Duncan hadn’t let the circumstances of his birth impede him. He’d worked hard for what he’d achieved and in some ways he suspected it was all the more satisfying. He’d been made captain and become the right-hand man of his cousin the Earl of Argyll in spite of his birth, not because of it.
It was a good start, but only the beginning of what Duncan intended to achieve.
Returning to the task at hand, Duncan renewed his search for Grant.
Suddenly, he stilled.
It was the laugh that drew him. Soft and sweet, filled with a natural exuberance that seemed utterly out of place among the throng of jaded courtiers.
His gaze shot to the source and he froze. He made a sharp sound—his breath catching hard in his throat. His body charged, filled with an awareness unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.
He stared transfixed with only one word springing to mind: magnificent.
The lass was a beauty, there was no denying that, with thick dark waves of titian hair, big green eyes, flawless ivory skin, and small, delicate features.
But the hall was filled with beautiful women. It was something more. Something that seemed to reach inside him and tug with all the subtlety of a whirlpool. Something hot and primal.
An image flashed before his eyes of her naked in his arms, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, her eyes soft with pleasure. The image was so sharp, so real, his body reacted. Blood surged through him, pooling in his groin. The hard result was as instantaneous as it was unwelcome.
What the hell was the matter with him? He was acting like an untried lad.
“What’s wrong?” Colin asked.
“Nothing,” Duncan said, knocked from the temporary stupor. His brother was watching him curiously. “The lass,” he said, with a nod in her direction. “Who is she?”
Colin gave him a strange look. “Can’t you guess?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s standing next to the man you’ve been not very patiently waiting to arrive for the past week.”
Stunned that he could have missed something so important, Duncan looked back in her direction just in time to see her exchange a fond glance with the older man hovering protectively at her side. The very man he’d been searching for, the Laird of Grant. It was clear the two were close.
“Must be his daughter,” Colin added. “You know what happened to his wife.”
Grant’s daughter? Hell. Duncan felt a surprisingly sharp stab of disappointment, knowing without needing to be told. Notwithstanding his recent promotion among the ranks of his father’s guardsmen, the daughter of a powerful Highland chief was well beyond the reach of a bastard son.
His jaw flexed in a hard line. It was no use getting angry over things he couldn’t change. He’d found Grant, and daughter or no, he had a job to do.
He’d only taken a few steps toward them, however, when he was waylaid by his cousin, Archibald Campbell, the powerful Earl of Argyll.
“There you are, Duncan. I’ve been looking for you. Come with me, there is someone who wishes to speak with you.”
Duncan frowned. “But Grant has arrived.”
“Grant can wait,” his cousin replied, and then smiled. “The king cannot.” Seeing Colin beside him, Archie said almost as an afterthought, “You can come along, too.”
Duncan followed his cousin to a small antechamber off the hall. He should be thrilled with the opportunity—moments ago he would have been. Instead he felt an unmistakable twinge of disappointment.
Disappointment that had nothing to do with Grant and everything to do with his daughter.
There it was again, Jeannie thought. That odd sensation of being watched. She’d felt it earlier, but when she’d looked around and found nothing unusual, she wondered if she’d imagined it.
Only half-listening to the woman beside her, Elizabeth Ramsey—who had delighted in telling Jeannie every detail of the latest scandal to hit the court within two minutes of meeting her—Jeannie tried once again to find the source of that eerie sensation.
She stilled, noticing him right away—though he wasn’t looking in her direction. It was impossible not to. Tall and broad shouldered, his lean muscular frame honed tight as a bowstring, he stood out among the Lowland courtiers and smattering of Highlanders like her father who’d answered the king’s summons.
Her body hummed with a strange energy.
At first, due to his height and muscled build, she wondered if he was perhaps a guardsman—the champion warrior of some great lord. But the quality of his fine clothing belied that possibility, as did the air of consequence and authority in his proud stance. She was still wondering when he turned around.
She gasped. The minstrels stopped. The chaotic whirl around her stilled. Every nerve ending, every fiber of her being came alive with a charged jolt. Awareness radiated through her from head to toe and she felt an odd squeeze in her chest.
She’d heard the bards sing of love that could strike like a lightning bolt and thought it a romantic exaggeration. Now she wondered.
His eyes met hers and held.
A second shock followed closely on the heels of the first. His eyes were otherworldly—a clear cobalt blue that belonged to the heavens. The contrast with the dark ebony hair that fell in soft waves to his jaw was enough to stop her heart from remembering to beat.
Handsome seemed utterly insufficient to describe him.
His brow cocked speculatively and she blushed, realizing she was staring. But she couldn’t look away.
Apparently the lack of maidenly modesty amused him and the faint hint of a smile appeared on a countenance that appeared otherwise unaccustomed to the movement, revealing the deep crater of a dimple in his left cheek. On such a serious countenance it was a charming incongruity, and her heart tumbled a little farther.
His gaze shifted back to the man at his side who’d said something to him, breaking the connec
tion.
“Who’s that man over there?” she asked Elizabeth. Before the other woman could answer, Jeannie shifted her gaze, recognizing the man beside him. “Standing next to the Earl of Argyll.”
Elizabeth followed the direction of her gaze and let out a dreamy sigh. “His cousin, Duncan Campbell. Isn’t he gorgeous?”
“Argyll’s cousin?” Jeannie replied, apparently not hiding her interest as well as she should have.
Elizabeth Ramsay’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Don’t get any ideas. Well not any permanent ones at least.” She giggled. “I wouldn’t mind a wee ride on that stallion myself.” Jeannie’s eyes widened at such ribald talk, but Elizabeth didn’t notice. She was still gazing hungrily at the man she’d called Duncan. “He’s Campbell of Auchinbreck’s natural son.”
Jeannie experienced a flicker of disappointment. Despite Elizabeth’s crudeness, she was right. A bastard son—even one of a powerful man like Campbell of Auchinbreck—was not a proper suitor for the daughter of Grant of Freuchie.
Discovering that he was a bastard should have discouraged her, but there was something about him. Something that rose above the circumstances of his birth. The stamp of authority and the unmistakable aura of a man who knew his own worth.
“There she is,” the woman whispered, unable to hide her glee.
“Who?” Jeannie asked distractedly, still focused on Duncan Campbell.
“The one I told you about,” Elizabeth said with a much put-upon roll of her eyes. “Lady Catherine Murray. Lady Anne’s sister.” Lady Anne was the lady-in-waiting sent from the castle in disgrace. “I can’t believe she didn’t leave with her sister.”
Jeannie’s brows gathered above her nose. “Why, the girl did nothing wrong.”
Elizabeth looked at her as if she couldn’t believe she could be so obtuse. “But her sister did, and she’s tainted by association. Bad blood, you know.”
Jeannie’s mouth fell into a hard line and Elizabeth blushed, realizing her mistake.
“Of course I didn’t mean …”
The Campbell Trilogy Page 71