Jeannie’s face flushed with anger, she was tired of her mother-in-law’s domineering ways. She was only bringing him a tray for heaven’s sake. “There are, but I shall see to this myself. It is my fault he is injured and my responsibility to see to his care.”
“Do you think it is a good idea? What do you really know of this man?”
Jeannie felt a prickle of alarm. Though the Marchioness couldn’t possibly have guessed who Duncan was, curiosity on her part could be dangerous. “He is a guardsman sent by my brother, what more should I know?”
“He doesn’t look like a guardsman,” the Marchioness said flatly.
Jeannie cursed inwardly, for once in agreement with her mother by marriage. Duncan did not look like a typical man-at-arms—not just because of his wealth, but because of his bearing. She should have made him a king, it would have been more believable. She thought quickly. “He’s a mercenary.”
The Marchioness’s mouth pursed in distaste. “I see.” She gave Jeannie a shrewd smile. “I’m only trying to think of you, daughter. A woman in your position can never be too careful to avoid talk.”
Jeannie bristled at the innuendo. “What position is that exactly? I’m the lady of the keep, why should anyone talk about whether I bring an injured man a tray of food.”
“You’re right, of course. No doubt, I’m just being overly cautious. I worry about you and Helen out here alone when I leave.”
Jeannie hadn’t seen Ella—a nickname that had stuck when Dougall couldn’t say Helen—all morning. She shuddered to think about what kind of mischief her daughter had gotten in today. Jeannie was trying to be patient, but the little minx had become even more obstinate since her father’s death, refusing to heed her at all. She had a mind of her own and unfortunately shared her mother and grandmother’s tendency toward impulsiveness. Stubborn and impetuous was not a good combination.
Jeannie turned back to her mother-in-law. “Are you returning to Castle Gordon, then?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too eager.
The Marchioness eyed her shrewdly as if she knew exactly what Jeannie was thinking. “I’ve received word from the Marquis that he has agreed to the king’s demands and will sign the confessions of faith.”
Again, Jeannie thought. And probably with just as much sincerity as the other few times he’d renounced his Catholicism. “Then he will be released from Stirling Castle?”
“Soon, I hope.” Her mouth fell in a hard line. “Though Argyll is looking for reasons to prevent it.” One more reason why Duncan’s sudden reemergence could prove troublesome. “Have you given any more thought to the Earl of Erroll’s son?”
Jeannie shook her head. “I’m not yet ready to think about marrying again.” And when she did it would not be to a man so firmly under the Marquis’s thumb. The Gordons were less than subtle in their desire to see her son’s inheritance under their control; they’d already appointed Francis’s cousin as Tutor.
The Marchioness nodded. She’d loved her second son and that fondness was the only thing that tempered her desire to see Jeannie remarried immediately.
“You mustn’t wait too long,” her mother-in-law said. “Helen is in need of a man’s influence.” Jeannie heard the subtle criticism and bristled. “Just this morning I caught her hiding under the bread table, listening to the servants’ gossip again.”
Jeannie bit her lip, knowing she should act properly horrified, but remembering all too clearly her own hiding spots where she’d listened to the kitchen maids lusting over the latest handsome—
Oh, no! Her stomach crashed to her feet and she almost dropped the tray along with it. Ella wouldn’t. But Jeannie knew she would. Muttering some pithy excuse to her mother-in-law, she walked calmly to the stairs when every instinct in her body urged her to run. To tear her daughter away from him.
She heard their voices at the bottom of the stairs. Her heart jumped to her throat. Panic welled up inside her. She told herself to calm. Ella couldn’t say anything to make him suspicious and Duncan would never hurt her. Not intentionally at least. Her chest tugged. But Ella was so sensitive, so vulnerable since her father’s death. And Duncan was so cold and remote—hard to the bone. Ella wouldn’t understand his aloofness.
Jeannie clambered up the steps and heard Ella say, “No, this is my brother’s room.” Dougall. Oh, God! Ice filled her veins.
Then Duncan’s voice. “Where is your brother—?”
Jeannie’s sudden appearance in the doorway stopped him. He took in her wide, panic-filled eyes and shortness of breath.
“Ella!” she shouted.
Her daughter turned uncertainly, the abruptness of Jeannie’s voice putting her on alert.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” Ella said automatically.
Jeannie took in the scene: her daughter sitting on the trunk with her feet tucked underneath her and Duncan relaxed, lying on the bed with his arms crossed behind his head—an indulgent look in his eye. For a moment her mind flashed to the loch. He’d lain just like that after …
Stop. She shook off the memory.
Feeling some of her fear subside, she forced a smile to her face as she addressed her daughter. “I know,” she said, conscious of Duncan’s eyes on her. Hands shaking, she carefully set the small wooden tray on the table. “But Duncan needs to get some rest. And it’s almost time for your lessons.”
Ella gave Duncan a glance of longing that made Jeannie’s blood chill. Had her daughter fallen into the same trap as she had, becoming immediately captivated by him?
“Do I have to?” she whined, giving her mother a much put upon look.
Jeannie nodded, not swayed by those big pleading blue eyes. “Gather the others; I’ll be down shortly.”
Ella hopped off the trunk and bounded out of the room, auburn curls dancing behind her. Only then did Jeannie breathe a sigh of relief. She turned back to Duncan. His gaze was as frosty as the snow tops of the Cairngorms.
He stood, seemingly unhampered by his injury. “You couldn’t actually think I’d hurt her?”
She straightened, not shying from his angry rebuke. But as he walked toward her, she felt the sudden urge to flee. She didn’t know where to look, uncomfortably aware of his powerful naked chest. Her body heated, flushing with awareness.
How was it possible that after ten years he could still make her feel so strongly? It didn’t make sense, she’d only known him for such a short time. Why after so many years did her body respond? Why did remembering still hurt? She’d almost half convinced herself that she’d never really loved him—that like her mother she’d gotten carried away by the moment.
Why couldn’t she be like him? Stony faced and indifferent. He looked at her with exactly the right amount of familiarity—as someone he’d known a long time ago who betrayed him. If he remembered their intimacy he did not show it—even when she’d been standing naked before him he hadn’t betrayed even a flicker of desire. A sharp contrast to the way his eyes used to smolder with heat at every glance. Now he looked at her the same way he did everyone else. If there had ever been anything special before, it was gone.
“I wasn’t sure,” she said, dropping her gaze.
It was a mistake. Her eyes fell on his shoulder at precisely the spot she’d used to love to bury her face against. She stood transfixed for a moment, her heart rising to her throat. Pain welled up from a forgotten place. Her breath was forced—hard and uneven. If she closed her eyes she could remember the warmth flooding over her as she’d pressed her cheek to his skin and curled into the curve of his body. The contentment. The security. The feeling that with him at her side nothing would ever hurt her again.
God, will I ever forget?
“Look at me, Jeannie.”
The hard clip of his voice snapped her out of it. Her mouth fell in a tight line, furious at her weakness. It was illusory. He hadn’t protected her. He hadn’t loved her. He’d left her.
“You know me better than that,” he said.
She met his gaze, feel
ing the strange urge to laugh in his face. “Do I?” She let the question hang between them. “Actually, I don’t know you at all. Ten years ago I thought I knew you, but it turns out two months isn’t long enough to know anyone.” Though it was long enough to have your heart broken. And the pain was still there, buried in a shallow grave that his return had unearthed. She couldn’t allow herself to forget it. “You weren’t half the man I thought you were.”
Her barb struck. His hand wrapped around her wrist and he swung her to him, the tips of her breasts skimming his chest. She gasped at the force of the connection. At the shock as her body exploded in sensation. Her pulse raced, her breath quickened, her blood rushed, and every nerve ending flared. Desire, hot and heavy, possessed her from head to toe.
“You knew me well enough,” he said, the husky burr in his voice seeping under her skin. “Well enough to give me your body.” His finger traced a path down the curve of her cheek to her chin. She was too stunned to move. Too overcome by sensation to turn away. Her heart tugged when his gaze met hers.
She wanted to kiss him, could almost feel the warmth of his lips on hers. The impulse came on with the force of a lightning bolt, but she fought it. She was no longer a girl to allow lust to cloud her judgment. But she couldn’t completely erase the desire from her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Jeannie? Remembering?” His hand slid down her throat. “Was some of it real after all?”
She heard the edge of mockery in his voice and tried to pull away. “Let go of me.” But his hand gripped her wrist like a steel manacle. Their eyes met and for the first time she saw an ember flickering in his gaze. He was not completely unaffected.
Jeannie fought to catch her breath. From somewhere buried deep inside her, she felt an old spark of recklessness, an impulsive urge to provoke him right back. Heedless of the danger, she shifted her body closer, nestling her hips to his and pressing her breasts to his chest. Their bodies slid together, locking together from memory. She felt the hard column of his erection against her stomach. Heat drenched her with the force of a tidal wave. She looked up at him, letting her eyes settle on his mouth. “I think ’tis you who are remembering. Is what you came back for? Is that it, Duncan? Do you still want me?”
Every muscle in his body tensed and Jeannie wondered if she’d made a mistake. She’d wanted to prove that he was not as indifferent as he pretended, but Duncan was not a man to toy with—he was the most feared warrior on the continent for heaven’s sake. The flare of heat in his eyes frightened her. He frightened her. She wasn’t a naïve girl anymore; she knew how dangerous it was to play with fire.
He released her as if she’d suddenly scalded him. He didn’t answer her question, but they both knew the answer. Instead, he returned to the original subject. “I would never harm a child, Jeannie,” he said quietly. “Then or now.”
A horrible thought crept into the back of her mind. She knew nothing about him. Nothing about what his life had been like the past ten years. What if she was not the only woman to fall prey to his undeniable masculine allure? “And you have plenty of experience with children?”
He gave her a hard look. “I’ve never married.”
The twinge of relief disappeared when she recalled her own circumstances. “You better than anyone should know that is not a prerequisite.”
His eyes darkened dangerously. “Just exactly what are you accusing me of?”
She shrugged. “I wonder how many black-haired, blue-eyed bairns are strewn across the continent?”
She’d pushed too far. He grabbed her by the arm and brought her toward him. She gasped, the barely restrained fury in his eyes made her heart race.
“Do you really think I’d consign a child to my burden?”
He had. She bit the words back and said instead, “Unmarried parents don’t make you a bastard. Your actions do.”
She saw the muscle in his neck tic and knew her barb had struck.
His mouth tightened. “I would never allow a child of mine to go unclaimed.”
Her blood chilled, his words giving voice to her fears. He could never find out about Dougal. Duncan’s birth had always been his Achilles tendon and he would not be rational about it. He would see her lie for what it was and his blasted nobility would never allow him to stand aside.
All she wanted was an explanation and then his swift departure. Gathering up the tattered remnants of her emotions, she pulled herself together. How did he manage to get to her like this? Couldn’t they simply have a rational conversation? Must there always be this strong undercurrent crackling between them, this fierce awareness that made her feel like that foolish, impetuous girl again ready to believe in white knights and faerie tales. She was an adult now, a mother. She should know better.
She returned to the original subject. “Ella has been a trifle headstrong of late, I will make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”
He seemed about to object, but then appeared to reach the same conclusion as she had—better not to encourage an acquaintance.
But he wasn’t quite done yet. “You have a son as well?”
She tensed, but quickly masked the visceral reaction to the danger posed by his question. She spoke carefully, feeling as if each word somehow held the potential to explode. “Yes, he is being fostered.” She didn’t want to tell him anything, but knew it would be better to be as honest as possible. He would sense any caginess on her part.
His reaction moments ago only solidified what she already knew. He would insist on claiming his son, even if it meant labeling him a bastard and destroying everything she’d done to protect her son from the scandal Duncan had left in his wake. She couldn’t risk it—not when it was her son who would suffer. Duncan had lost any claim on Dougall when he’d left her.
She felt his eyes on her, watching intently.
“How old is he,” he asked, “your son?”
She met his gaze, her expression betraying none of the raging panic inside her. She had gone to a great deal of trouble to protect her secret, she could not allow him to suspect anything.
The Battle of Glenlivet had turned out to be her salvation. The Gordons had been forced into exile. Francis hadn’t gone with his father to the continent, but they’d removed to a remote castle up north with only a few trusted servants. They hadn’t returned for almost two years and by then Dougall’s true age was easy to hide. Moreover, there was no reason anyone should question his age. Only one person could do that.
“He just turned nine.” She phrased her next words for maximum impact. “He was born over a year after Francis and I were wed.”
She thought something in his gaze might have flickered at the mention of her marriage.
“Where is he being fostered?”
Even though every instinct in her body urged her to say nothing more, she forced herself to appear as if she had nothing to hide. “Dougall is at Castleswene with your brother.”
“With Jamie?” He didn’t hide his surprise.
It was one more reason she had to be grateful to her husband. Dougall would never know that he was being fostered by his uncle, but Francis had found a way for him to be tied to his kin. “The battle of Glenlivet was a long time ago, Duncan. Old feuds have mended.”
“My cousin hasn’t forgotten,” Duncan pointed out.
“Perhaps not, but there is no reason for Argyll to renew old hostilities.”
His gaze hardened. “You mean unless I make him remember.”
“Yes.”
“Why does this matter so much to you? Your father and husband are both dead, not even my cousin can reach them where they are.”
Jeannie’s breath caught, her eyes widening in sudden understanding. Francis. That was why he’d come to her. “Am I to understand that it is not just my father and me you have envisioned in this conspiracy against you, but my husband as well?” The hard look on his face was all the answer she needed. “Francis had nothing to do with what happened to you.”
She thought he flinched, but
his even voice gave no hint to his thoughts. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because he would never do something so dishonorable as to frame another man for treason.”
“And your father would?”
Her mouth tightened, anger stained her cheeks. “I didn’t say that.”
“Grant had to be in contact with someone in the Gordon camp and your quick marriage certainly suggests that it was your husband.”
Her gaze shot to his, hearing the sharp bite in his tone. The speed of her marriage had bothered him. She felt the strange urge to laugh. If he only knew the reason why. The man who Duncan sought to drag through the mud had given his bastard not just a name, but an inheritance. Francis had known she was pregnant when he married her. Not many men would do what he’d done—claiming, raising, loving her child as his own.
Her husband had done so much for her and yet she’d never been able to give him the one thing he wanted.
Because of Duncan.
Guilt rose inside her. She might not have been able to give Francis her love, but she could damn well give him her loyalty. She wouldn’t let Duncan embroil him in this mess.
“You can’t deny that your father was working with your husband?”
“No.” It had been Francis who’d met her father that day in the solar. “But encouraging my father to change sides in battle is an entirely different proposition from framing a man for treason. What reason could he have?”
His eyes burned into her. “The same reason as your father. You. He would not be the first man to act ignobly for a woman.”
She shook her head. “You are wrong. Francis left Freuchie Castle before I told my father about us. My husband had nothing to do with what happened to you.”
Remembering the conversation she’d overheard a few days later about the map and gold, she ignored the twinge of uncertainty.
His eyes bored into her with a strange intensity. “Prove it. Let me look through his things.”
“I don’t need to prove it. I knew him, and I know he wasn’t involved.”
The Campbell Trilogy Page 86