The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  Perhaps it was the honesty of the emotion that finally penetrated, but suddenly his arms were around her and she felt the comforting security of being held against him. He stroked her hair and murmured soothingly, “I know, my love, I know. But have faith in me.”

  I do. But I’ve no faith in treachery.

  He gazed down at her and their eyes locked. She couldn’t breathe, waiting, hoping. Her mouth quivered as he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. The tenderness in his eyes gripped her heart. She loved him so much. The thought of life without him was too horrible to contemplate. “Please.” She lifted her mouth to his, needing the reaffirmation—needing him.

  His fingers tightened around her chin as if he was trying to resist the pull, but the desire and the indelible connection between them was stronger than them both.

  He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his, his kiss achingly soft, achingly tender, comforting her with the caress of his warm, silky lips.

  Her heart rose up to her throat, the relief to her frayed emotions acute. In the safety of his embrace she knew that everything was going to be all right.

  The heat of his body warmed her, gentle and soothing, taking away the chill like the morning sun on a bed of dew.

  She tasted him through the salt of her tears, the dark, spicy masculine essence of forbidden fruit. So irresistible it had to be sinful. One taste and she was lost.

  But the tender kiss was like a sprinkle of rain on a raging wildfire—too gentle, too sweet to douse the flames of her fear. Only the fierce downpour of passion could tame the desperate maelstrom lashing inside her.

  Don’t let him go.

  She sank against him, seeking the reassurance of his solid strength. Leather and steel bit into her chest, but she didn’t care. He was hard and steady, a rock in a stormy sea, and as long as she could hold on to him, nothing could go wrong.

  He groaned, sensing her need, threading his fingers through her hair to grip her neck and bring her mouth more firmly against his.

  His lips moved over hers, roughly, passionately. The comfort and tenderness of moments before turned hard and possessive. Demanding. All of the emotion that he’d fought to contain exploded in a rush of hot, searing lust. She could taste his hunger, his desire, and her body heated with awareness. Sensation shot through her in hot, shimmering waves. All she could think about was the way that he’d touched her, covering her with his big hands, pushed inside her and thrust until the heavens had parted and she’d glimpsed paradise.

  He smelled incredible. She inhaled the wind and the sun, a potent primitive scent that only increased her urgency. It filled her mind with wicked thoughts. She wanted to feel him naked against her. Wanted to slide her mouth and tongue over his chest and taste the salt of his hot skin as he pounded inside her, working them both to a frantic lather.

  Her hands clutched his shoulders, gripping hard, trying to bring him even closer. She stretched against the hard length of his body, lifting up on her tiptoes to circle her hands around his neck, seeking …

  His hand slid down her back to cup her bottom and lift her firmly against him.

  Oh, God, yes. Pleasure broke over her in heavy waves. Her body softened. Tingled. The strange fluttering awakened low in her belly, damp and insistent. She circled against him, instinctively seeking friction to ease the anxious pressure.

  He growled, a fierce primal sound that called to a place deep inside her. An erotic, carnal place she was only just discovering. She wanted to make him sound like that always. Crazy with need. Crazy for her.

  He lifted her leg to circle his waist and pinned her back up against the door. The hard column of his desire pressed insistently between her legs. This time his size did not bring fear, only eagerness. She remembered all too viscerally his fullness inside her, hot and heavy, stretching her, driving her home to oblivion.

  She wanted him there now.

  And he wanted it, too. Badly. She could feel the hammering of his heart, the taut muscles flexing under her fingertips, the jerkiness of his movements. The air verily crackled with danger. His passion was like a cask of gunpowder in her hands, ready to explode.

  His tongue was in her mouth, probing with long, wicked strokes that left no part of her unclaimed. She opened against him, wanting it even deeper. Harder. Wetter. Her entire body ached for him. Need obscured everything else.

  No longer bound by innocence, she knew what this man could do to her and she wanted that feeling again. Over and over until they collapsed in a sated heap of naked entwined limbs. Until he never wanted to leave her again.

  His mouth dropped to her throat, his hand clutched her breast, squeezing, their bodies undulating toward only one conclusion.

  He tugged her stays and bodice down to access her breasts, almost tearing the fabric in his urgency. She cried out when his mouth covered her, when he sucked her deep into her mouth, tugging her throbbing nipple between his teeth as his hips rocked against her.

  God, she could feel it. Feel the pleasure building. The heat intensifying, concentrating at her very core.

  He fumbled with the ties at his waist. A moment later she heard his sporran and scabbard hit the ground, then felt the air on her bare skin as he lifted her skirts.

  She was so wet, so hot, literally shaking with desire, her need all consuming.

  He lifted his head from her breast and gazed into her half-lidded eyes. His eyes were hooded, dark with passion, every muscle in his face and neck tight with strain. “I can’t wait,” he growled through clenched teeth. “God, what do you do to me?” he groaned, his voice raw and exposed—almost angry.

  Positioning himself between her legs, he lifted them around his waist so that her feet were off the floor, and surged inside her with a deep, guttural groan of pure masculine satisfaction.

  She gasped from the exquisite force, her back slamming against the door as if to mark his possession. Because that’s what it was—possession. She felt his power surge inside her, every inch of his six foot plus muscled frame poised and straining against her. He was so big and hard, filling her completely, the weight of her body taking him even deeper. She let the sensation wash over her, over and over. It was incredible, beautiful in its primitive perfection. She could stay like this forever.

  Their eyes met, emotion breaking through the haze of unfettered passion. She felt his love for her as surely as if he’d just reached out and touched her heart. “You are so damned beautiful,” he kissed her again, hard and punishing. “You make me lose my mind.”

  “Good,” she whispered, wriggling him even deeper. “I like you this way.”

  His eyes flared, any control he’d managed snapped. Her legs tightened around his waist as his hands gripped her naked bottom. The feel of his big, callused warrior’s hands hard and demanding on her soft flesh sent fresh tingles up her spine. He kissed her again, and his hips started to move, thrusting hard and deep. The force of each stroke shuddered through her, setting off wave after wave of sensation. She gave over to him completely, not knowing that anything could feel like this. Not realizing passion could be so fierce and furious.

  Her breath was coming in short gasps, echoing his sharp grunts. Her heart was pounding. Heat engulfed her. She could feel it coming. Faster and faster, he plunged into her, his powerful body surging into her with every thrust.

  “I can’t,” he growled through clenched teeth, his face a mask of tortured restraint. She knew he was waiting …

  Her body contracted. “Oh, God,” she cried out as the spasms ripped through her in wave after hot wave.

  But her cries were drowned by his. He held her hips and thrust into her one more time, holding her against him as his body jerked with his own release. A guttural sound of raw ecstasy tore from his chest. Warmth rushed between her legs.

  When it was over, Jeannie couldn’t move. Utterly spent, utterly boneless, her entire body sagged like a poppet made of rags in his arms.

  His breathing was still coming hard when his eyes found
hers. “God, I’m sorry.”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Whatever for?”

  Shame tinged his handsome features. “For taking you like a damned animal. Look at us.” Gently he eased himself out of her and lowered her to the ground. Her body chilled, protesting the sudden emptiness and loss of his heat. Her legs were a little shaky but she managed to stand upright—not a small feat with jelly in her bones. Boyish befuddlement clouded his gaze. “I’ve never been like this before. Something comes over me …” his voice dropped off. “You deserve to be worshipped, to be made love to properly. On a damned bed for starters.”

  He looked so chagrined. She put her hand on his cheek, the rough stubble scratching her palm. “It was wonderful. I love what you do to me.” She smiled. “I can’t imagine anything more …” her cheeks heated, “proper.” She tilted her head. “But I suppose there is one way we could rectify the situation.”

  His gaze sharpened, hot and penetrating. “How’s that?”

  She glanced past his shoulder to the narrow bed, her fingers starting to work the fastenings of his mail at his shoulders. “You could show me all that I’ve allegedly been missing.”

  Heat flared in his gaze. “Do I detect a challenge, my lady?”

  She gave an exaggerated shrug, her eyes dancing wickedly. “If you aren’t too tired. You were doing all the work, after all.”

  “I assure you, my love, it wasn’t work.” He kissed her, nuzzling her mouth with his lips and tongue, then moving onto her ear. “Nor am I tired,” he breathed against the damp skin, sending a shiver down her spine. He scooped her up into his arms. “Though I appreciate your concern for my welfare.”

  She giggled and whacked his chest. “What are you doing? Let me down.”

  A very naughty grin spread across his gorgeous face. “I think not. I intend to show you exactly how to do this properly.”

  And he did—twice—though she suspected there was nothing proper about it at all.

  Hours later, Jeannie collapsed in an exhausted heap of naked entwined limbs just as she’d wanted. But never could she have imagined the absolute contentment, the intimacy forged in the arms of another. She could stay like this forever, tucked under his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, her cheek pressed to bare skin. This might be her favorite place in the entire world. She inhaled his warm, masculine scent, savoring the moment and knowing she would remember it always.

  His soft breathing sounded in her ear, filling her with contentment such as she’d never known before. She smiled, her fingers toying with the smattering of fine hairs that formed a triangle on his chest. He’d earned his sleep.

  So had she. He was here, with her, safe.

  She sighed, nuzzling deeper into the crook of his arm, and closed her eyes. Everything was going to be all right.

  It was her last coherent thought before sleep dragged her under.

  It was still dark when Duncan jerked awake.

  He swore, furious with himself for falling asleep. He needed to get back to camp before he was missed. Carefully he untwined himself from Jeannie’s naked limbs and eased from the bed.

  It creaked loudly with the removal of his weight and Jeannie stirred, but did not wake. It was probably for the best. He hated leaving like this, without explanation, but neither did he have time for another scene.

  He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He’d only meant to comfort her, to calm her fears with a gentle kiss. But he’d tasted her need, felt her urgency in the sweet press of her body against his, and desire had reared up inside him like a wild angry beast demanding to be set free. Would it always be like this between them? Hot and explosive, almost desperate in its urgency?

  Even after the first time, his efforts to slow the pace and tease out her pleasure were for naught. Their emotions were too raw, their passion too fiery, their need too violent. He lost his mind when he was with her. A small part of him questioned whether he was equipped to handle something so intense. He’d never thought something like this could happen to him. He’d always felt his destiny lay on the battlefield; love had never seemed part of it. Love only complicated things. He need only look as far as the old tales of Arthur or Tristan to see that.

  His gaze lingered on her face, her delicate features almost angelic in repose—were it not for the naughty mouth. Even sleep couldn’t hide the decidedly sensual curve of her lips.

  His chest tightened, moved beyond words that she was his.

  Forcing his gaze away, he squinted into the darkness trying to locate his belongings, which in his eagerness—or frenzy—had been strewn around the room.

  Instead he was surprised to see everything folded in a neat pile. He frowned. When had she done that? He shook his head. He must have slept deeper than he’d realized. Given what they’d been doing—and that he’d found release three times in about an hour—it probably wasn’t all that surprising. He should count himself fortunate that he woke at all from such a sated slumber.

  He dressed quickly and pressed one more kiss on her temple before quietly leaving the room. Less than an hour later, after leaving instructions with the ale woman to rouse the guardsmen at dawn, he pushed back the flaps and entered the dark tent.

  He was glad Colin was asleep—he was far too tired for explanations. With only a few hours left until daybreak, he didn’t bother to remove his clothes, tossing off only his weapons and sporran beside him before crawling onto his pallet. He was so damned tired.

  And morning would come soon enough.

  Chapter 8

  Duncan’s eyes and throat burned from the acrid smoke of gunpowder that hovered like a shroud over the bloody battlefield. Sweat poured from every inch of his body. He was exhausted, dirty, and bleeding from too many places to count. It was a rout all right, just not the way his cousin had planned.

  “Fall back!” he yelled to a party of men advancing before him. But it was too late. The cannon ball exploded right in front of them, taking two men with it. Five more explosions followed in quick succession down the line with similar deadly results.

  Initially, the sight of limbs torn apart and flying body parts had startled him just as it had the rest of the Campbell forces. It had taken all of Duncan’s command to prevent half the troops from deserting at the first blast of the strange, terrifying weapon that attacked with a devastating power never before encountered.

  That first cannon shot had proved a harbinger of things to come. By no accident it had been aimed right at his cousin’s position, claiming not the intended target, Argyll, but Campbell of Lochnell who rode at his side.

  Now, hours later, with the rest of the army deserting all around them, all that was left of the vanguard were his father’s men and the right wing under the command of MacLean of Duart.

  It wasn’t only Huntly’s cannon that had decimated them, however, but treachery.

  His mouth fell in a grim line. Jeannie’s father, the Chief of Grant, had betrayed them, retreating at the first cannonade, taking the entire left position with him, and irretrievably crippling the vanguard from the start.

  Had Jeannie known what her father intended? Throughout the long day, the question—or more specifically, the answer he knew—haunted him.

  When the smoke from the latest barrage cleared he looked around for the earl. This time his damned cousin would bloody well listen to him: Argyll needed to retreat. It was too dangerous this close to the line, and it had become too difficult to protect him. Their numerical advantage was gone. The men who’d eagerly answered the call, hoping for spoils, had second thoughts at the first sign of difficulty. They had about two hundred fifty mounted men and perhaps a thousand foot soldiers to Huntly’s fifteen hundred cavalry, though those who remained with them were mostly trained warriors. But hagbuts and swords, even in the hands of trained soldiers, could not defeat cannon. All that had prevented the center vanguard from collapsing was their superior position upon the hill and the fact that the sun was behind them.

  He turned his mount around fr
om where he’d ridden ahead to try to warn the men, and then scanned the line behind him, relieved to see Argyll at his father’s side.

  His cousin could shoot a musket well enough, but in close combat, skill with a sword was preferable—a man could be skewered before he had a chance to reload. Duncan’s father wielded a sword with enough skill for them both.

  As had occurred all day, a force of Huntly’s men had charged forward after the cannon fire, taking advantage of the gaps in the line created by the explosions. But right away, Duncan could see that this time something was different. There were more men, more horses, and more guns—all aimed directly at his father and Argyll.

  He shouted a warning, but it was swallowed up in the clash and clatter of the battle. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the reins and clapped his heels to urge his horse to a gallop, but the distance to close was too great. His pulse raced. He wasn’t going to make it.

  Dread rose up inside him.

  Through the smoke, through the tangle of moving limbs and mail of fighting soldiers, Duncan saw the barrel of the gun pointed right at Argyll.

  Time suspended. It felt like he had one foot dangling over the edge of a cliff, tottering as he fought to pull back. Duncan knew what was going to happen. He could almost see the bullet strike his cousin, and every instinct, every fiber of his being, rushed up to try to prevent it. But time wouldn’t stop long enough for him to catch up.

  The Gordon soldier pulled the trigger.

  He saw the spark. Felt the delay. Heard the blast.

  He must have shouted again because his father looked up, caught sight of him barreling toward them, and quickly discerned the reason why. With his sword raised, he threw his body into Archie’s with enough force to knock them both from their horses. Stumbling to the ground, his father managed to strike a blow, splaying open the man who’d just fired the gun.