It was her vibrancy, the spirit that seemed to bubble inside her, despite her obvious efforts to contain it behind a staid and decorous manner. He, better than anyone, understood the reasons why she fought so hard to repress her natural exuberance. Living under a black stain was something they had in common—he for his birth and she for her mother’s scandal. Abandonment, he supposed, was also something with which he was familiar.
Yet despite what she’d been through, it had not put a damper on her spirit. And for the serious Duncan that vitality was an elixir. Like a moth to the flame, he was drawn to her in a way that he’d never been drawn to a woman before.
He knew she wasn’t for him, but he couldn’t keep away.
Of certain, no lass had ever made him lose focus like this—a war with Huntly was looming for God’s sake and here he was sneaking around for a midnight swim just to have the opportunity to be alone with her.
Before meeting Jeannie, Duncan’s sole focus had been making a name for himself and earning the future that would have otherwise been his were it not for one thing: legitimacy.
But he’d never been forced to confront the inherent limitations of his birth. Marriage had seemed something in the future. Another means to advance himself. Never would he have dreamed of reaching so high. But from the first moment he’d seen Jeannie Grant he’d wanted her, wanted her in a way that he’d never wanted anything—or anyone—before. Knowing that his birth might prevent him from having her was a bitter draught to swallow and for the first time he felt something akin to bitterness.
Making it all the more surprising when Jeannie made it clear his birth didn’t matter to her. She returned his attentions so wholeheartedly he’d actually allowed himself to believe that a future between them might be possible.
To that end, when he returned to Castleswene, he intended to broach the subject of an alliance with his father. But he hadn’t been able to resist seeing her alone before he did.
Had he thought she’d come? She shouldn’t have. But no matter how hard she tried to suppress her spontaneity and thirst for adventure, he knew her well enough to know that she would be hard-pressed to resist. “I wasn’t sure,” he hedged.
They’d reached the bottom of the rocky hill upon which Stirling Castle was perched. She tossed back her hood and turned to him, hands on her hips and emerald eyes flashing. “I think you are an arrogant rogue and knew very well I’d come.”
He tossed his head back and laughed. Did she have any idea how adorable she was? Her innocence and utter lack of pretense were as rare as they were enchanting.
A rogue. No one had ever accused him of that before. Serious, focused, determined, ambitious, ruthless, aye. But Jeannie brought out a side of him that he hadn’t known existed. The playfulness in her that was so foreign to him was contagious. Two weeks in her company and he felt more carefree than he had in his entire life.
He caught her wrist and spun her toward him. They weren’t touching but his body fired with awareness simply from having her near. Reaching down, he tilted her chin to look deep into her eyes. The incredible baby softness of her skin under his fingertips was almost unreal. “I’ll not apologize for wanting you alone, lass.”
Her eyes scanned his face, lingering on his mouth. He stilled, his entire body consumed by the sudden flare of desire and the urge to kiss her. He heard her sharp intake of breath and knew she felt it, too—the hard pull that seemed to draw them together.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, her lips parted invitingly below his. God, they looked so soft and sweet. Her subtle floral perfume had wrapped itself around him, drawing him tighter. Just one taste …
He swore silently and dropped her wrist. He hadn’t brought her out here to seduce her.
But he knew he was playing with fire. He couldn’t look at her without getting hard. He’d seemingly lost control of his body, succumbing to the ailment that plagued men of his age—his mind obsessed by thoughts of one thing.
She dropped her gaze, but he could see the heat on her cheeks as if she didn’t quite understand why he’d pulled away. Hell, he was trying to protect her. Sometimes he had to remind himself how damned young—and innocent—she was.
“Come,” he said gently, indicating the path through the trees to the north. “The loch is only a short walk from here.” It was dark, but the moon provided more than enough light to navigate through the sparse birch trees.
Not quite trusting himself to touch her with heat still surging through his body, he resisted the urge to take her hand again and they walked side by side for a few minutes in companionable silence. That was one of the things he found so special about her—they were just as comfortable talking as not. “How did you get away from your eagle-eyed warden?”
She glanced over at him, a sheepish look on her face. “My aunt has a certain fondness for a glass of claret before she goes to sleep.”
He grinned. “And let me guess, you made sure she had an extra?”
Jeannie bit her lip, an innocent, girlish habit that drew his attention to her lush sensuous mouth, to the pink fullness of her lips, arousing a decidedly non-innocent response in him. A mouth like that could drive a man wild with erotic images. Those pink full lips stretched tight around … hell, he adjusted the source of discomfort and focused his attention back on her.
“Actually, I had an entire flagon sent up,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to take any chances.”
He chuckled, appreciating the foresight and ingenuity. “Done this before, have you?”
She turned to him, aghast. “Of course not—”
She stopped, seeing his expression and realizing he was teasing. Their eyes met and she burst into laughter. The soft tinkling sound made something in his chest expand and he thought he would be a happy man if he could listen to her laughter for the rest of his life.
He knew it with a certainty that should surprise him. Duncan didn’t make gut decisions; he made rational ones. But not this time.
He’d never believed in fate, but there was no other way to describe what he felt about Jeannie Grant. The strength of those feelings made him uneasy. Romantic love was the province of troubadours, not of warriors. He’d thought himself immune to the weakness of emotions. Not that he wasn’t capable. He loved his family, but it wasn’t the same. The intensity, the ferocity of what he felt for Jeannie he feared as Achilles must have his tendon.
It was moving too fast, but for once in his life he couldn’t seem to stop himself. When it came to Jeannie, his prized rationality and control had deserted him.
He only hoped she felt the same. He thought she did—that this connection was not merely one-sided—but she was so young. And her propensity to follow her heart, wherever it may lead, did not necessarily augur well for steadfastness and depth of feeling.
A few more minutes of walking brought them to the edge of a small pool. No more than a half mile from the castle, they might have entered another world. Surrounded by trees on one side and a jagged staircase of rock that disappeared into the hillside on the other, it was a lush oasis that seemed more suited to a remote part of the Highlands. The full moon was poised low in the sky, hanging right over the center of the loch. It couldn’t have been in a more picturesque position had he hung it there himself.
“It’s lovely,” she said softly beside him. “However did you find it?”
He shrugged. “It’s a popular spot.” When he saw her expression, he amended, “During the day.”
“Perhaps this isn’t a good idea.”
He cocked a brow. “You aren’t going to turn around now, are you?”
She chewed on her lip, her tiny white teeth pressing into the soft pillow of pink. “I don’t know …”
God, she had no idea what she did to him. Heat built inside him, pooling in his groin. He forced his gaze away from her mouth. Time to cool off. He quickly divested himself of his clothing and weapons. Rather than the two-handed claidbeamb da laimb and longbow he preferred on the battlefield, at court he carri
ed a pistol, a short sword—mere ornament for Lowland courtiers—and a dirk. After unbuckling his thick leather belt, he removed his plaid and tossed it beside the rest of his belongings. In deference to the innocence of his companion, he kept on the linen shirt that fell almost to his knees.
Flashing a jaunty grin at her flushed face, he said, “Suit yourself,” before running to the edge of the loch and diving in.
The cold water washed over him in an invigorating shock, cooling some of the lust from his blood. He surfaced some distance away from where she was standing, but he could see her indecision clear enough in the furtive glances she kept casting from the ground at her feet to the water.
He treaded for a few minutes, watching her struggle and trying not to laugh. “It feels amazing in here,” he taunted. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You are not a very nice man, Duncan Campbell.”
He grinned. “I never claimed otherwise.”
He heard her mutter something unflattering before her hands began to work the ties of her cloak, letting it slip to the ground in a pool of black. He stilled, all joking suddenly cast aside, as he was utterly transfixed by the spectacle on the shore. Watching her undress like this was the most erotic thing he’d ever beheld. Pure torture, but he could not look away.
Though from this distance the plain ivory linen nightraile was modest, his body fired at the realization that all that separated her from nakedness was a thin swathe of fabric. Fabric that when wet would become virtually transparent. The relief he’d felt only moments ago from the cold water suddenly vanished. He went as hard as a damned spike, grateful for the dark water that hid the force of his reaction from her view.
She kicked off her slippers and pulled the combs out of her hair. The long locks tumbled down her back in a thick, shimmering wave of fiery auburn. He wanted to bury his face in its softness, feel it fall on his naked chest like a silky shroud as she rode him. He nearly groaned at the vivid images.
All her hesitation gone, she ran toward the water, following his path and diving in.
He saw the splash and the ripple of water as she swam under the water toward him. His heart pounded something fierce as he waited for her to surface. His entire body throbbed with desire. How the hell was he going to keep his hands off her?
She broke through the water a few feet away, hair slicked back, droplets of water sparkling on her skin in the opalescent moonlight like faerie dust, a smile of pure pleasure spread across her radiant face. Did she have any idea how beautiful she was?
His chest tightened. If there’d been any doubt before, there wasn’t any now: He loved her. Loved her with an intensity that took his breath away. He’d never thought himself capable of feeling like this.
“You were right, you fiend. It feels wonderful.”
The laughter in her voice made him smile. “Ah, then I’ll refrain from saying I told you so.”
“You just did,” she quipped playfully, before putting her hands together and pushing enough water to thoroughly douse him. After shaking his head to clear the water from his face, he fixed his gaze on her with predatory intent. “So that’s how it’s going to be, is it? Hasn’t anyone every told you never start a war you can’t win?”
He lunged for her. She squealed with laughter and kicked backward to evade his grasp.
Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she tisked her head in mock disappointment. “A braw Highland warrior like you? I expected better. You’ll have to do much better than that if you are going to catch me.”
And with that she disappeared under the water.
He grinned and gave chase. Practically raised in the water, Duncan was the fastest swimmer in his clan. Last year he’d come in second to Rory MacLeod at the swimming competition at the Highland Gathering. Next year he intended to be first.
He didn’t expect it to be much of a chase, but Jeannie surprised him. What she lacked in strength, she made up in agility and speed.
She was quick, he’d give her that. A wolfish smile curled his lips. But not quick enough.
He held back, lulling her into a false sense of security for a few minutes, before catching up with her in a few powerful strokes. With one hand he reached out and latched his fingers around a slim ankle, pulling her back until he circled her waist. The ivory linen of her nightraile puffed out like a sail, revealing long, shapely legs. She tried to wriggle free, but he held her firm, her efforts only succeeding in stirring his body to painful awareness. He pulled her around to face him when they burst through the surface, both of them gasping big gulps of air from their underwater struggle.
Her eyes shone with laughter as she tried to push away. “Let me go.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, snuggling her more firmly against him. God she felt amazing. Chest to chest, hip to hip, legs entwined—he could feel every glorious inch of her. From the soft pillow of her lush breasts, to the hard point of her nipples and bones of her hips, to the sweet juncture at her thighs, to the strong, lean muscles of her legs. They could have been naked, there was nothing between them but water and wet fabric.
Playing with fire …
All of a sudden she seemed to become aware of their position—of their very intimate position. And there could be no doubt of his very prominent state of arousal. Her eyes widened and he heard the erotic little catch of breath in a small gasp. But she didn’t move. The innocent curiosity in her gaze only fanned the flames of his desire—and his agony.
“You cheated,” she said, her voice husky.
He was intensely conscious of the heavy rise and fall of her chest against his. Of her soft breasts crushed to his chest. Of the hard point of her nipples branding him. He forced his attention back to their conversation. Cheated … he arched a brow. “How so?”
“You grabbed my ankle.”
He shrugged. “There are no rules in warfare. A good warrior takes advantage of any opportunity.”
She bit back a smile. “And what of honor?”
He smiled wickedly. “Overrated.”
“Wretch.” She giggled and tried to push away again. This time he let her go. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold her like that and not kiss her.
She swam to the edge of the loch and levered herself up to sit on a long flat rock that served as a ledge over the water. Planting his hands on the edge of the rock, he pulled himself up beside her. He caught her staring at his flexed arms, but she quickly turned away, embarrassment staining her cheeks. He fought a grin. Apparently, the prominent muscles in his arms developed from the constant sword training served another function other than dispatching enemies.
She’d brought her knees to her chest, hiding her nakedness from his view, but he wouldn’t have trusted himself to look at her anyway. They sat in contented silence, the exertion of their swim seeping from their bodies as they watched the reflection of the silvery moon bob on the rippling black water.
“You’ll be leaving soon?” she asked.
He nodded. “Aye, the situation with Huntly has deteriorated. I need to return to Castleswene to report back to my father.” He wasn’t sure how much she knew of their reasons for being at court.
King James was furious with the recalcitrant Earl of Huntly and intended to rein the Great Lord in. Not only had Huntly refused to either renounce his Catholic faith or leave the country as required by last year’s decree, but he’d also been accused of conspiring with the king of Spain to restore the papist religion to Scotland. Huntly’s continued defiance was an embarrassment to King James who was trying to assert himself as heir—a Protestant heir—to the aging English queen.
“There will be war?”
Apparently she knew enough. “It seems unavoidable—unless Huntly agrees to the king’s demands to renounce his faith.”
“Which he won’t do.”
“Probably not,” he admitted.
“And you will fight?” She couldn’t keep the trepidation out of her v
oice.
“Aye.” She looked like she wanted to say something, but he cut her off. “It’s what I do, Jeannie.” There was something inside him that drove him and he couldn’t give it up—not even for her.
She gave him a long look but didn’t respond. Instead, she asked, “And what is my father’s part in all of this?”
He shrugged. “That’s up to him. But the king hopes he will be persuaded to see the virtue of our side.”
Jeannie considered him thoughtfully. “In other words, King James is hoping to take advantage of the current feuding between my father and Huntly.”
It was an astute observation. Her father had been furious with Huntly’s role in the murder of the Earl of Moray—enough to break his vassal duty and feud with his lord. The king hoped to drive the wedge even further between the two. “Aye,” Duncan admitted.
She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose it’s possible, but the feud with Huntly has waned. The fighting was severe and I doubt my father would like to see it renewed. I would think it more likely that he would stay neutral—it’s not his battle. The Grants repudiated the Catholic religion years ago.” She untucked her feet from under her and dropped them back down into the loch, kicking carelessly on the surface of the water. Even her tiny arched feet were adorable.
Duncan gave her a measured look, for all her naïveté she was more aware of the political situation than he’d realized. She’d echoed her father’s response to Duncan’s appeal almost verbatim. “Your father says much the same, but he might be forced to chose a side whether he wants to or not.” And sooner than he realized. The king had given a royal commission to Argyll—his lieutenant—to march against Huntly before the month was out. “You are close with your father?”
She gave him a wry smile. “Probably more than is typical for a daughter. We’re all close—my father, brother, sisters, and I. Circumstances …” her voice dropped off. She sighed deeply. “Well, suffice it to say, there is strength in numbers. A unified front is an easier position from which to defend.”
The Campbell Trilogy Page 73