Her impassioned defense of her husband seemed to enrage him. His mouth drew into a sneer. “All men can be made fools for a beautiful woman.”
Including him. That’s what he meant. She flushed at the scorn in his voice. “Look somewhere else to prove your innocence, Duncan. I will not allow you to besmirch my husband’s good name.” She owed Francis that at least for all he’d done.
But she had an even greater reason. It wasn’t only the discovery of Dougall’s parentage that she had to fear or even the trouble that the reminder of Glenlivet could pose for her family. By casting suspicion on Francis and labeling him a traitor, Duncan could put her son’s inheritance in jeopardy and risk all she’d done to protect him.
Her eyes turned as hard as glass. Whatever sympathy she had for his plight dissolved in the face of the danger he posed to her son.
I should have turned him in when I had the chance.
Duncan could barely think from the anger pounding through his blood. How did she get to him like this?
It had been a mistake to touch her. His skin still burned from where she’d pressed up against him. For one treacherous instant his body had surged with lust, with visceral memories of pleasure almost too powerful to resist. Almost.
He hated weakness of any kind, but he had to admit she did something to him. She got to him the way no other woman ever had.
She was so damned beautiful. Standing there with her eyes flashing, cheeks flushed, her hair shining like copper in the sunlight.
All that passion, all that emotion … for another man.
He wanted it for himself. The primitive urge to drive away all thoughts of another man surged inside him. His fists clenched at his sides as he fought for control. His gaze met hers, hot with challenge. “How do you intend to stop me?”
Her absolute refusal to help him, to consider that her husband might have had a part in what happened to him ate through the walls of his indifference like acid. The sanctity of her husband’s name mattered more than his freedom. Mattered more than right or wrong.
What had he expected? Nothing had changed. Misplaced or not, her loyalty to her family still hung between them.
Once again the line had been drawn in the dirt and she’d chosen to stand on the opposite side. To prove his innocence he needed to investigate her family—possibly uncovering some ugly truths—and she would do everything she could to prevent it. It seemed their interests would always be at odds.
“I could call the guards,” she threatened.
And she looked angry enough to do it. “But you won’t,” he said with more confidence than he felt. She held his gaze for a long beat and he wondered if he’d miscalculated. He used to be able to read her emotions so easily, now she was cool and controlled. Her indifference riled him. But it was her unquestioning loyalty to her damned husband that egged him to recklessness.
He took a step toward her, letting his body tower over hers, forcing her to acknowledge him, wanting to prove that it had meant something, that he wasn’t the only one to remember. He could see her tense, see her pulse beating faster at her neck, see the way her senses flared. She wanted to retreat, but her pride wouldn’t let her. “Because no matter what you claim, Jeannie, I think you still remember how good it was between us.”
“Youthful fumblings? You forget I was married for ten years and have learned the difference.”
White hot rage flashed inside him. God’s wounds, she pushed too far. Just thinking about—imagining—her with another man drove him insane.
He pulled her into his arms, crushing her body to his. He heard her gasp, and felt the shudder ripple through her and wanted to roar with satisfaction when her nipples hardened against his chest.
God she felt good. His body exploded with hot, heavy sensation. Desire pounded through his body, so hard that he shook with it.
“I think it’s you who forget,” he challenged, lowering his mouth. Youthful fumblings? Inexperienced they might have been, but he remembered only too well how good it had been between them. His skills no doubt had improved over the years, but passion like they shared could not be learned. It was something in the blood, in the senses, a visceral connection that defied description.
Damn her.
He crushed her lips to his and kissed her with all the passion she’d unleashed inside him with her taunts. He groaned at the first taste of her. At the honey sweetness he’d never been able to completely forget.
Her lips were softer than he remembered; her skin and hair more fragrant. Everything was more.
His kiss was punishing. Hard and deep. Starving. One hand slid behind her neck, winding through her silky hair as the other moved over the round curve of her bottom to lift her against him.
He needed pressure. He needed to release the tension that had been coiled inside him from the first moment he’d seen her.
She froze as if too stunned to respond. For a moment he felt her body sag, felt her relax and open to his kiss …
Suddenly she made a strangled sound and jerked away, pushing against his chest and breaking free of his hold. She stared at him, cheeks flushed, breath heaving, eyes hard as emeralds, mouth swollen a deep pink. “You’re wrong, I don’t want you.”
Her barb struck with the opposite effect than the one she intended. It didn’t dissuade him, rather only made him more intent on proving her wrong. She wanted him every bit as badly as he wanted her, he knew it with every bone in his body.
He took a step toward her, lust and anger coiling inside him ready to strike. Her eyes widened.
The flash of fear stopped him cold.
It wasn’t him she was afraid of, but of how easily he could prove her wrong. But it was fear all the same.
He took a step back, and forced his blood to cool. God, what the hell did she do to him? One taste of her and he turned half-crazed. His desire was too close to the surface, ready to flare at the first scent of her. He’d never had a problem controlling his base impulses, except with her.
He’d spent part of his manhood trying to ease the stain of treason and his bastard birth, gaining fame and fortune as the “Black Highlander.” Honor, nobility, duty—those were what he believe in. But one day in her presence and he was acting like a damned barbarian, ready to press his point to satisfy his damned masculine pride.
He’d let her keep hers—this time. But if she pushed him again …
Perhaps sensing her narrow escape, Jeannie said, “One more day, Duncan. That is all. I want you gone in the morning.”
And without another word she turned and left.
She was right; he needed to get the hell out of here. This place was too dangerous for him. It wasn’t the threat of calling the guards that worried him, but the memories—the very sharp and visceral memories.
Chapter 12
Jeannie’s body was drenched with sweat as she writhed in bed, the cool linen sheets rubbing uncomfortably against her sensitive skin. She was so hot. So heavy. So ready. Her body soft and throbbing.
She could feel his mouth on her lips, on her throat. Feel the rough calluses of his palms as his hands slid over her possessively.
His tongue was in her mouth, probing, sliding, twisting against hers. She could taste him on her lips. Feel the scratch of his beard against her skin. Feel the weight of his muscled body pressing down on hers.
Her body swelled, her breasts heavy, her skin too tight.
His hand slid between her legs. Her heart pounded. Her breath caught … anticipating. She wanted to cry out in pleasure at the first touch. The first stroke of his finger sliding inside her bringing exquisite relief. Her hips lifted against the heel of his hand, her thighs squeezed. She could feel the pressure building …
A soft rap on the door startled her awake. Jeannie opened her eyes to darkness. Her body sagged with disappointment. It had only been a dream. Groggy with sleep, she closed them again, rolled over, and dragged the pillow over her head. That kiss had not only shattered her peace of mind it had penetrated her dreams
, rousing feelings she’d thought long since forgotten.
Her skin still tingled with heat, sensitive to the touch. Her body stirred with restlessness, craving release.
She’d forgotten what it was like to feel passion. What it was like to kiss a man and have her body explode with pleasure so intense it took her breath away. But as the memories had hit, so too did the subtle differences. There was a confidence and strength to his movements that hadn’t been there before. He was no longer a youth, but a man. And he kissed like one. A very big, very strong, very possessive man.
She’d gone without passion for so long, but one day in his presence and it all came rushing back.
What if …?
No, she was being ridiculous. Still dreaming. But girlish dreams had no place in her life now. She had responsibilities. Staying wasn’t an option. She needed him gone by daybreak.
She heard another knock—this one more insistent.
Alarmed and suddenly wide awake, Jeannie slid from bed and tiptoed to the door, careful to avoid the pallet of the other occupant of the room who was (thankfully) still asleep.
Holding one hand flat on the wall, she cracked open the door. It was Mairghread, holding a candle to her face. Even in the shadows, Jeannie could see that something was wrong.
“I’m sorry for waking you, my lady, but you said to let you know immediately. It’s the guardsman.” Jeannie’s heart stopped beating. “He’s taken a turn for the worse.”
For a moment she forgot her anger. “A fever?”
The old woman nodded.
Fear cut down her spine. Just like Francis. It had only been a small slice—an errant slip of a blade during sword practice—but it had festered. Within a week he was gone.
Jeannie felt as if the floorboards had just been yanked out from under her feet. How had this happened? Only a few hours ago he’d kissed her. She’d felt his strength, his passion, the life radiating inside him.
“I’ll be right there,” Jeannie said. She grabbed a plaid to cover her nightraile and slid her bare feet into a pair of soft leather slippers.
Turning back into the room, she knelt down beside the small pallet and kissed the velvety cheek, inhaling the sweet baby-soft scent. Ella wasn’t a baby, not any longer, but she still smelled like one. She’d had another nightmare and Jeannie had allowed her to sleep in her room, knowing it wasn’t the bad dream, but the death of her father that haunted her child. Besides, with the little termagant sleeping beside her, she was easier to keep an eye on.
Within a few minutes, Jeannie was following the healer along the narrow corridor to the stairwell and up the winding stone stairs to the garret above.
Mairghread had already woken Beth, the young nursemaid who slept in the mural chamber, to keep watch on him. Poor Beth seemed to be having a devil of a time doing so, and Mairghread rushed forward to help her.
Duncan had kicked off the bed linens and was writhing back and forth as the maid did her best to keep a damp piece of cloth pressed to his brow. But with his size and strength it was virtually impossible for the two women to keep him down and still. Jeannie should go to help them, but she was frozen.
Not from the cold. The room was hot—stiflingly so—though only a single candle burned. The heat was coming from Duncan, and her chill was from fear. Steeling herself, she forced herself to take a few steps closer.
Oh, God. She made a muffled sound in her throat and clenched her fist to her mouth. I can’t do this.
His face flickered in the candlelight, enough for her to see the sickly telltale scarlet flush on his cheeks. His mouth was already white, soon she knew his lips would be cracked and chapped with thirst that could not be sated.
Instinctively she recoiled, taking a step back.
Mairghread read the horrified expression on her face. Their eyes met in shared understanding. The old woman knew how hard she’d fought for her husband’s life and knew what the failure had cost her.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Be happy, Jeannie. I’m sorry.” It was the last thing Francis had ever said to her, as if he’d failed her and not the other way around.
“You don’t need to be here, my lady. Beth knows what to do.”
Jeannie nodded. It was what she wanted to hear. It had almost killed her to watch the man she should have loved die, she couldn’t watch Duncan do the same. Duncan, the man she’d once loved but now hated.
At least she wanted to. But as she stood here with fear in her throat and a vise around her chest she felt the veneer crumble. It wasn’t hatred that had ripped open the scar on her heart, revealing the raw and still bleeding wound underneath. It was the memories—the yearning for a past that could never be. He’d ruined her, not of her maidenly virtue but of something far more important—her heart. Seeing him again brought it all back. Kissing him …
She didn’t want to think about this. God, why had he come back?
His body seized and he cried out as the demons of the fever possessed his body, clutching him in their fiery hold.
I could just let him die and it would all be over.
She recoiled from the thought almost as quickly as it had sprung. The malevolent impulse shocked her. Dear God, where had that come from? It hinted of anger far deeper than she’d realized. Of wounds buried but far from healed.
I have to go. But her feet remained planted to the floor.
“My lady?” Beth asked, her eyes wide with concern.
Jeannie took a deep breath and tore her gaze from the man on the bed. “I’m fine,” she answered, the terror suddenly releasing its hold. Her mind cleared. He might have left her, but she would not do the same to him. She couldn’t just let him die and do nothing to save him. Not when it was her fault.
She might not be able to help him clear his name, but she could not completely turn away from him.
Squaring her shoulders, she readied for the battle ahead. With quick, determined strides she reached the bed and took Beth’s place at his side. She dunked a cloth in the bowl of cool water, wrung it out, and placed it on his head, holding it to his brow and murmuring soothing words while Mairghread attended to the infected wound.
He settled at the sound of her voice. His eyes fluttered open and locked on hers for a long heartbeat before closing again. He was blinded by the haze of the fever, yet somehow she wondered whether he’d known it was her.
For two long days and nights she stayed at his side, battling the inferno that tried to consume him, not knowing whether he was going to live or die.
She wouldn’t leave his side. Not Mairghread, not her mother-in-law, not even Ella’s worried little face, could drag her from the room. It was no more than she would do for anyone, she told herself. It was her duty.
But it didn’t feel like duty, it felt like an exorcism. The hotter he burned, the deeper her unraveling. Emotions long since buried bubbled to the surface like a volcano waiting to erupt. She spun back and forth between cursing him to the devil and praying with all she had for his life.
Then, in the wee hours of the second night, he woke. Delirious with fever, he cried out her name, before falling suddenly still. Dead still. Just like Francis.
Panic gripped her heart. “No!” she cried, shaking him. “Damn you, Duncan. You’ve no right to die. I’m not done with you yet.” She’d never got a chance to tell him how much he’d hurt her. How it had felt to know she was pregnant and alone. How her heart had been breaking for him, how all she wanted to do was curl in a ball and cry, but she’d had to be strong. How she’d been forced to marry a man she didn’t love to protect her child from her folly.
She shook him again and again, but he moved lifelessly in her hands. The healer woke at the sound of her voice, and rushed to his side. Mairghread placed her hand on his heart and lowered her cheek to his mouth. When she stood, Jeannie knew from the old woman’s expression that it was bad. “I’m sorry, my lady. The fever has weakened his heart and lungs.”
Jeannie shook her head stubbornly, refusing to believe that this i
ndestructible man could be defeated. Deep in her bones, she knew he would not die. He couldn’t leave her. She wouldn’t let him.
She stared at the once beloved handsome face gray with sickness, a tumult of emotions pressing inside. I hate you, damn you. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pressed her lips gently to his.
God, I loved you. She’d loved him with all her girlish heart. And that was what she thought of now. Laying her head on his shoulder, in that warm place she remembered, she wept, mourning the loss of the girl and of the love. She wept for the treacherous circumstances that had forced them apart, for her lost innocence, for dreams disappointed, and for her son who would never know his father. She wept until she had nothing left.
“There is nothing more you can do for him, lass,” the healer said gently.
Maybe not, but she would try. Duncan was strong—stronger than any man she’d ever known. The fever that had struck with such potent destruction had weakened him, but she knew if anyone could weather such an attack it would be him.
Mairghread left her to her solitary vigil. And on the third morning Jeannie’s belief was rewarded. As the first light of dawn crested over the horizon, Duncan opened his eyes—the blue cobalt every bit as clear and vibrant as she remembered.
His gaze locked on hers, weak and confused but lucid. “How could you marry him, Jeannie? How could you marry someone else?”
The emotion in his voice clamped around her heart. He didn’t know what he was saying, but it didn’t diminish the honesty of his feelings.
He had cared for her. Perhaps not enough to trust her, but she hadn’t been the only one to suffer at their parting. Her throat tightened, moved by the unexpected revelation. “I didn’t have a choice.”
But he didn’t hear her; he’d already slid back into sleep’s healing embrace.
She stared at him for a long while, wondering what it meant.
Exhausted, Jeannie stood, legs shaky, and walked slowly across the room.
It was over. She felt as if she’d been freed from ten years of purgatory. Duncan would live, and she’d finally made some peace with her past.
The Campbell Trilogy Page 87