His men moved to either side of him to hold him by his elbows, but before they had taken a few steps, the sounds of approaching men—by the sounds of it a good many—stopped them. It was too late. The Gordon guardsmen were already there. If he wasn’t about to collapse escape would have been possible, but hampered by the ball of lead in his belly … Well, Jeannie would have her chance to see that noose around his neck soon enough.
“My lady!” The calls echoed through the trees.
Duncan turned and looked at Jeannie, his gaze locking on hers. He knew better than to put himself at her mercy, but he had no choice. “What’s it to be, Lady Gordon? Will you help me or turn me in?” Why he bothered to ask he didn’t know. He could see the answer in her eyes.
“Here,” Jeannie called out, answering the concerned cries of her guardsmen. “I’m here.”
At least a score of clansmen broke through the trees, surrounding them, hagbuts and pistols drawn, swords brandished. When they saw the three strangers, they immediately took aim, intending to finish the job she’d started.
At least it would be fast. Ten years of waiting and it all came down to this. He should have known better than to think he would find mercy in the hands of the woman who’d betrayed him. He heard the click—
“Wait!”
All eyes turned to Jeannie. Except for his. His had been glued to her the whole time. Watching. Challenging. Seeing whether she had the stomach to do what she threatened.
“I …” she faltered.
She couldn’t do it. It shocked him almost as much as it did her. His eyes narrowed. Was there a glimmer of softness left in that cold heart after all or was some other game at play?
Their eyes met for an instant before she looked away, seemingly disgusted with herself. “Lower your weapons. There’s been a mistake,” she said calmly. “I was caught by surprise. These men mean me no harm.”
Jeannie couldn’t do it. Her chest twisted, though any emotion for this man had been wrung out of it long ago. I should. For all the pain and suffering you put me through, I should.
But as much as she wanted to send him to the devil, at the moment of truth she’d looked into his eyes and the words would not come.
Lord knew why. She owed him nothing. Indeed, he could destroy everything she’d fought so hard to protect. But hers would not be the hand that spelled his doom.
Her spurious decision seemed to have surprised Duncan as much as it did her.
Adam, the captain of her guardsmen, eyed her uncertainly , his gaze flickering to the three imposing warriors. “Who are they?”
Good question. She thought quickly. “Guardsmen hired by my brother. Additional protection after the recent events.”
She felt Duncan’s questioning gaze on her, but ignored it. Her troubles were no business of his.
Adam straightened. “We have men enough,” he said, obviously taking umbrage at the suggestion that he was not equipped to see to her protection himself. Ignoring that Duncan and his men had managed to break through the perimeter he’d set up easily enough.
“I’m sure my brother meant no disrespect,” Jeannie said, attempting to mollify the disgruntled warrior. “But you know how upset he was. I will tell him these men are unnecessary, but until then we need to get him back to the castle.”
Appeased, the captain looked around. “Where’s Tavish?”
“There was a slight misunderstanding,” Duncan provided, his voice raspy.
How he managed to stand with a hole in his belly she didn’t know. She bit her lip. Mother Mary, he was pale.
“From where he was positioned, I didn’t realize he was protecting the lass.”
There was something in the tone of Duncan’s voice that caught the captain’s attention. “I see,” Adam said grimly.
Jeannie looked back and forth between the two men, realizing she’d missed something. But now that she’d made her decision, she was anxious to have it done. The sooner she got him back on his feet, the sooner he would be on his way. She hoped she wasn’t making a huge mistake. “Adam, have your men show our guest to the tower. We will put him in the empty chamber in the garret.”
The significance occurred to her too late. Her chest squeezed. It had been her son’s chamber.
Adam lifted his brow in surprise, but did not question her decision to place a guardsman in the tower house. “Aye, my lady.”
“I will find the healer.”
“I saw her in the garden earlier,” one of the younger guardsmen offered.
“Thank you, William.”
The handsome warrior beamed at her praise and that she’d called him by his given name. But it was not a sign of particular favor; Jeannie made it a point to know everyone in the castle.
She thought Duncan’s eyes narrowed, but she turned her back on him and went in search of the healer. Did he think William was something to her? Let him.
By the time she’d found the healer and they’d started to make their way into the keep, her mother-in-law had had plenty of time to be apprised of the situation. Not surprisingly, Jeannie found her path blocked at the entry.
“I told you no good would come of this flight of fancy of yours,” the Marchioness said.
Jeannie gritted her teeth. “So you did. But as you are no doubt aware, a man has been shot and is in need of the healer.”
“You shot him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“An accident.” This time. “I thought he was another ruffian.”
And before the Marchioness could issue another one of her I-told-you-sos, Jeannie brushed past her and led the healer up the stairs to the top level of the tower house.
A small landing separated three small chambers. Adam occupied the largest, the one with the view of the surrounding countryside so he could keep apprised of any attack, the nursemaid slept in a mural chamber next to it, and then beside hers was the small chamber that had belonged to her son and was now crammed full with towering, muscle-bound, mail-clad warriors.
She stood at the door as the healer attempted to squeeze around the blond brute. His icy Nordic looks sent a chill running through her. Which was a good thing as it was hot as Hades in here. She didn’t know what it was with men—especially warriors—but they seemed to radiate heat.
Duncan lay on the small bed, his feet hanging well over the edge. His face was flush and his eyes, burning with pain or hatred she didn’t know, fixed on her.
“Your men will have to leave,” she said firmly.
The two henchmen drew themselves up to their full height—barely missing the wood-raftered ceiling—and squared their prodigiously broad chests like two over-protective bears who had every intention of digging in their heels. She met the burly red-haired man’s—an Irishman by the sound of him—gaze and smiled sweetly. “I promise not to do him any more harm.”
He stilled, then let out a bark of laughter. Something she would wager he did quite a bit of. His rough, ruddy countenance seemed prone to joviality—a foil to Duncan’s dour darkness. “Aye, lass, you’ve a wicked sense of humor.” He shook his head. “Hurt him?” He laughed, then turned to Duncan for confirmation.
Duncan nodded. “Go. See to the horses. I’ll be fine.”
The men moved slowly. The blond one turned to her at the door. “You’ll let us know …”
“As soon as the healer has looked at him,” Jeannie assured him.
He nodded and the two men left. The room seemed infinitely larger—and blessedly cooler.
Mairghread, the healer, was already at work. She examined him for a few minutes before looking up at Jeannie. “I’ll need to remove his cotun and sark, my lady.”
His men must have helped him remove the leather plated cuirass he wore over his chest. Knowing he was watching her, Jeannie held her expression and tone even. “I’ll help you.”
She pursed her lips together, steeling herself for the unpleasantness. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, she told herself. If only he wasn’t watching her so intently, th
ose cool, unforgettably blue eyes leveled on her—unflinching and unnerving.
Her hands shook as her fingers worked the leather buckles of one side of his quilted leather cotun studded with bits of metal as Mairghread worked the other. Furious, she forced herself to steady and focused on the task at hand, not on the man, and certainly not on the intimacy of the act to which she was involved. But leaning over him like this, his scent reached out to grab her in its familiar hold. Beyond the warm leather and the faint coppery hint of blood, she caught the sea and the wind—and the elusive masculine spice that had always been uniquely his.
It was really him. All these years and he’d finally returned. A hard wave of longing washed over her, dragging her back.
But she pushed the memories aside. He’d lost the right to affect her.
If it was any consolation—and it was—the removal of his clothing didn’t seem to be any more enjoyable for him. He stiffened and clenched his teeth in pain when they tried to move it past his shoulders. A task that was proving impossible. “Cut it off,” he said tightly.
Jeannie’s brows wrinkled. “Are you sure?” It was a fine garment, expertly worked, and by the look of it costly. Now that she thought about it, everything about him bespoke wealth. From the weaponry his men had removed and set beside him when they laid him down on the bed, to the gold scabbard at his waist, to his clothing. He’d done well for himself—very well. She’d never doubted he would.
“ ’Tis no matter,” he dismissed without a second thought. “And the sark as well. It will be easier than trying to lift it over my head.”
Jeannie reached down and slid the jewel-encrusted dirk from its scabbard, surprised by its weight. She turned it around in her hand, marveling at the workmanship. A weapon like this was fit for a king. Carefully, holding the dirk to his neck, she prepared to score the leather.
“Remember your promise,” he said. She eyed him quizzically. “To Conall.”
Not to hurt him. Her mouth quirked in spite of herself. “I’ll do my best, but the temptation might prove too difficult to overcome.”
And then, as if to emphasize her words, she held the edge of the blade to just below his jaw and in one decisive stroke, sliced from the neck to the edge of his shoulder.
To his credit he didn’t flinch. Not once. Not even when she slowly slid the blade along the opening at the neck of his shirt. Nor when her fingers accidentally brushed his bare skin.
But she did. The moment her fingertips met smooth, hot skin, she felt the jolt from head to toe. The intense awareness. The full body reaction. The sensation that every nerve ending had come alive. The same thing she’d felt all those years ago.
The weakness infuriated her—her body’s reaction seemed the ultimate betrayal. She could, however, control what she did with that reaction. She was no longer an innocent girl with stars in her eyes. So she buried it under years of hurt and disappointment where it belonged.
She could feel his eyes on her, and knew that he’d sensed her reaction, but she kept her focus on the task at hand. She continued wielding her blade through the material and after a few more minutes of struggling and cutting, the cotun and sark lay in shreds at his side.
She stood back to admire her handiwork and choked on the involuntary gasp. The bottom of her stomach dropped to the floor. She’d like to claim that it was from the bloody hole a few inches left of his right hip, but it wasn’t the wound that knocked her senseless.
It was the wide span of tanned chest and arms. Forsooth, he was incredible. As imposing a specimen of masculinity as she’d ever seen.
His countenance wasn’t the only thing that had changed with maturity. The lean build of youth had given way to thick slabs of finely chiseled, heavily built muscle. It was as if he’d been chipped from stone, each cut precise and honed to perfection, without an ounce of spare flesh on him. From the tight bands layered across his stomach, to the smooth round curves of his arms, he was built for one purpose: battle. And if the numerous scars that lined his chest and arms were any indication, he’d seen his fair share.
Heat spread over her, her limbs suddenly heavy. She couldn’t seem to look away.
She wasn’t the only one to notice. Mairghread might be approaching three score in years but she wasn’t blind, and such a display of masculine strength and power could only be admired.
He was no longer a boy, but a man. A warrior. Jeannie felt a pang in her chest. A stranger. This was not the boy she’d foolishly given her heart to, but a man who’d lived a life that she knew nothing about. The years stretched between them, separating, snapping any connection they’d once shared.
Her gaze fell.
For the next hour Jeannie worked alongside the healer, trying to undo the harm caused by her pistol and overeager trigger finger. When it became clear that they would need to dig out the ball, Jeannie started to call for one of his men to hold him down, but he stopped her.
His fingers circled her wrist. She fought a gasp, but the big, callused hand felt like a brand on her skin. She was at once cognizant of his strength. He could crush her bones with one squeeze.
“It won’t be necessary,” he said.
Jeannie eyed the healer, having some familiarity with recalcitrant patients of the Highland persuasion. Mairghread rolled her eyes and mumbled something about stubborn laddies.
“Are you sure?” Jeannie asked, carefully pulling her wrist free. Her skin tingled, and she had to resist the urge to rub the warm imprint of his touch away.
“Aye,” he replied grimly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had a bit of lead in me.”
She had to bite her tongue to prevent further questions, though when Mairghread began digging with her dirk, Jeannie doubted he would have been able to answer. His jaw locked, and every muscle in his neck and shoulders clenched against the pain that the knife must be causing. Sweat gathered on his brow, but he held perfectly still and said nothing—not one cry, not one grunt.
But his eyes burned into hers, holding her gaze the entire time. Jeannie’s pulse raced, her heart pounded in her too-tight chest through every agonizing minute, feeling as if she was seated on the edge of a precipice. When it was over, she was sure she was more exhausted than he was.
Mairghread assured her that the ball would not kill him—and as long as fever did not set in, he would recover well enough. Jeannie shuddered at the thought of fever. Now that the initial shock and anger of seeing him had faded, she didn’t want him dead, just gone.
After cleansing the wound with water and giving Jeannie a piece of linen with which to hold against the bleeding, Mairghread left for a few minutes to retrieve some herbs and salves from her storeroom near the kitchens.
Jeannie kept her gaze focused on the wound, but was deeply conscious of being alone with him. Of the uncomfortable silence broken only by the even sound of his breath and the erratic beat of her heart that not even her strong will could tame.
“Why didn’t you turn me in?” His voice was flat, emotionless.
She schooled her features in a similar fashion, giving no hint to the turmoil unleashed by his question. By him.
Why indeed when he could do her such harm? She didn’t know. Every minute he was here increased the risk of discovery of her secret. And there was her family to consider. Duncan’s reemergence would not bode well for either the Gordons or the Grants.
But when the time came to speak against him, it seemed as if every instinct in her body had revolted. Perhaps she wasn’t as hard-hearted and vengeful as she’d like to think. But she suspected her reasons went deeper than that. She’d had so many questions after he’d left: Why did he not try to defend himself, why had he been so quick to damn her, why did he leave without saying good-bye? Why did he wait ten years to come back? Questions that needed answering. Maybe then she could finally put the past behind her and have a chance at finding happiness.
She’d failed her husband, never being able to give him the love he so selflessly gave her; she would not do that to
another man.
But she could hardly tell that to Duncan. He was watching her closely—too closely—his gaze hard and unrelenting. Just like the man himself. This stranger who could still make her feel like she was jumping out of her skin with one deep, penetrating gaze. Fool.
She gave him a hard look. “I assure you my motives were purely selfish and had nothing to do with any fond memories or sentimentality toward you.” He had no reaction, not that she expected him to. If she’d ever harbored a girlish fantasy that he’d longed for her, that one day he would realize how he’d wronged her, it had fizzled that first moment she’d looked into his eyes. He was not here to fall at her feet and beg forgiveness. He was here because he wanted something. She gave him a pointed look. “What do you want from me?”
“Information. Access.”
Her skin prickled with alarm. “Nothing would be gained by resurrecting events that are better left in the past.”
Anger glinted in his hard blue eyes. That was one thing that hadn’t changed. His eyes were still a startling deep blue—a striking contrast to his black hair. She’d always thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen. That hadn’t changed either.
“Easy to say when it’s not your name that has been blackened and dragged through the mud for the past ten years. What of justice? Would that not be served?” His gaze narrowed at her accusingly. “What you mean is that it’s better for you and your family if the treachery done that day is forgotten.”
Heat flared in her cheeks, but she met his gaze defiantly. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean.” He was right. Trouble was the last thing her clan needed right now; their situation was precarious enough. With her father-in-law, the Marquis of Huntly, excommunicated and imprisoned in Stirling Castle for once again failing to convince the Kirk that he no longer adhered to the Popish faith, the name of Gordon was not exactly a welcome one at court. Nor did Jeannie want to bring trouble for her brother John, the new Laird of Freuchie, by reminding the Earl of Argyll of her father’s treachery at Glenlivet. The king may have forgiven her father his trespasses, but Argyll never had—not even her father’s death two years ago had cleansed his sin. Duncan’s sudden return would open up all the old hatred. Her eyes locked on Duncan’s. “Please, just leave it be.”
The Campbell Trilogy Page 84