The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  Maybe now she could have a future.

  Duncan woke the next morning feeling as if he’d just made it through hell’s gauntlet. His body was battered, bruised, and weak, but he was alive.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d taken fever from a wound, but if the way he was feeling right now was any indication, it was the nearest he’d come to death.

  “You’re awake.” The old healer must have been sitting in the corner and heard him stir.

  He frowned, feeling a strange stab of disappointment. He’d thought …

  Had he only dreamed of Jeannie’s presence at his side?

  “You’ll be wanting something to drink,” the woman said, passing him a cup of water.

  “Aye,” he said. “And a bath when one can be arranged.”

  The woman chortled. “Feeling a wee bit gritty, are you?”

  To put it mildly.

  “The lady anticipated your request and has ordered a bath to be brought to your room when you are ready. Beth will see to your needs.”

  “And Lady Gordon?” he found himself asking.

  “Which one?” Duncan lifted his brow in question and the old woman explained. “The Marchioness has been in residence since the death of the young laird.”

  Huntly’s wife … here? Hell. He’d met her once, years ago. Though it was unlikely she would remember the bastard son of a Campbell, he would do his best to avoid her. The old battle-ax was every bit as formidable as her husband and dealt with enemies swiftly and brutally. Not long before Glenlivet when the Chief of Mackintosh who’d been feuding with the Gordons had thrown himself upon her mercy—and with foolish bravado offered to lay his head on the executioners block in submission—the Marchioness had accepted his grandiose offer and had him beheaded. “The Mistress,” he clarified.

  The healer’s eyes narrowed. “Getting some well-deserved sleep. She didn’t leave your bedside for three days. I’ll not have you disturb—”

  “Nay,” Duncan cut her off. “I’ve no wish to disturb her.” He couldn’t deny the swell of pleasure. He hadn’t dreamed it. Jeannie had been here. He knew better than to put too much weight to the fact, but perhaps she wasn’t as hardhearted toward him as he’d thought. For some reason that mattered.

  The healer was watching him closely. Almost as if she were reading his thoughts, she said, “ ’Tis no more than she would do for any man.”

  Duncan heard the implicit warning that echoed his own thoughts—don’t put too much store in her devotion.

  The old woman frowned. “Though it was difficult for her after losing the master so recently.”

  Duncan tensed. He didn’t want to think about Francis Gordon, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How did he die?” Lizzie hadn’t been specific in her note.

  “The fever,” she said bluntly. “He took a cut on his arm, during practice one day, and it festered. The sickness nearly took the lady along with it, so hard did she fight for his life.”

  His chest tightened. Jeannie must have loved her husband something fierce for such devotion.

  This was asinine. He was jealous of a dead man. But behind the irrational spur of jealousy, Duncan realized how difficult it must have been for her to nurse him.

  Was it guilt for what she’d done to him all those years ago?

  He frowned. For some reason he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The old doubts he’d had before finding out she’d married were resurfacing. He’d been so certain. But was there another explanation and he’d been too blinded by anger and distrust to see it?

  Unease settled like a rock in his gut. Never before had he allowed himself to ask the question: What if he’d been wrong? The ramifications were too horrible to contemplate. “You left me.” The echo of her voice reverberated in his ears, sending a chill down his spine. If he’d been wrong, he would hand her another pistol himself.

  But if Jeannie hadn’t betrayed him, who had?

  Jeannie heard the sound of voices as she tromped up the stairs, a leather pack containing Duncan’s belongings slung over her shoulder.

  She’d woken about an hour ago and after a long hot bath and quick bite to eat felt wonderfully refreshed. Realizing Duncan would likely want the same, she’d tracked his much relieved men down and asked them to bring her his things, which she hoped contained a spare shirt. Francis had been almost as tall and broad shouldered as Duncan, but not nearly as muscular. He’d been a warrior by necessity, not by nature. But even if she could find a shirt to fit Duncan, the idea of lending something of her husband’s to Duncan felt strangely disloyal, and she wasn’t sure Duncan would want it anyway.

  But she remembered the effect his bare chest had had on her before and now that he was on the mend … well, she would find him something, even if she had to cover him with a sackcloth.

  Given all that had happened, Jeannie was amazed by how much lighter she felt. His fever had forced her to face some hard truths. She wasn’t nearly as over him as she’d wanted to believe. She’d repressed her feelings for so long, never dealing with the pain he’d caused her, forced to bury the anger and bitterness she’d felt toward Duncan for the sake of the child she was carrying. Seeing him so close to death had unleashed it with a ferocity that had surprised her.

  What had happened between them was a long time ago. A lifetime ago. Too long to hold onto such anger.

  She still wanted Duncan to leave—the danger to her son had not lessened—but she could wait until he recovered.

  She’d almost reached the top of the stairs when the deep rumble of his laugh stopped her cold. Her chest squeezed. She’d forgotten that sound. Forgotten how it affected her. How it wrapped around her and penetrated with a bone-deep contentment. How at one time it had made her feel as if she were the most special woman in the world.

  Years ago he’d been so serious that his laughter had felt like a rare gift. And now, hardened by age and battle, it was even more so.

  She bit her lip, wondering what had made him …

  She took a few more steps and the answer to her question became painfully obvious. She sucked in her breath, the lash of hurt as strong as it was unexpected.

  Duncan stood in the middle of the room, knee deep in the water of his bath, naked except for the damp drying cloth slung low around his waist, with the young nursemaid Beth plastered against his chest. His muscular arms were wrapped around her. Jeannie’s heart strained to beat. Both were laughing and the pretty fair-haired maid’s cheeks had flushed a very becoming pink.

  A sharp stab of what could only be termed jealousy landed precariously near her heart. Why should it affect her? He didn’t belong to her. There must have been numerous women in his life after he’d departed Scotland. Duncan was a sinfully handsome man—strong and undeniably virile. Women would naturally flock to him. But knowing in the abstract and seeing in the flesh—very wet, naked flesh—were two entirely different things.

  Both Duncan and Beth turned at the sound of her gasp and instantly (guiltily?) sobered. As always, Duncan’s implacable expression betrayed none of his thoughts, but Beth had the same look on her face that Ella often did—what Jeannie called the “I-didn’t-do-anything” look when caught with her hand in the biscuit jar.

  Duncan released his hold on the maid and the girl stepped back quickly. The entire front of her kirtle was damp, revealing the outline of her pert young breasts.

  “I slipped,” Duncan said, by offer of an explanation. “And almost landed wee Beth here in the bath with me.”

  Was this supposed to make her feel better? “I see,” Jeannie said, feeling like a humorless old goat, like her mother-in-law, actually. Why was she acting like this? There was nothing unusual about a servant helping a man to bathe—Jeannie had made the suggestion herself. She just hadn’t thought it through very well.

  Beth held out her arm again and this time he stepped easily from the wooden tub.

  Jeannie’s mouth went completely dry. Modesty had little place in a castle, and even less a
mong warriors, and one glimpse in his direction reminded her that he had nothing to be modest about. She could see everything. Every muscle, every bulge. She sucked in her breath. Every long, thick inch of him.

  Her stomach muscles clenched.

  Very purposefully she kept her gaze above his neck. But even that wasn’t safe. He’d shaved and her eyes were drawn to the deeply tanned skin and strong angle of his jaw. He’d always been so ridiculously gorgeous—now even more so.

  Remembering the task that had brought her here, she slid the pack from her shoulder. “I’ve brought you your things.”

  He grinned, an errant lock of wet hair sliding forward across his face roguishly. Her memory jumped to the loch, and the jabbing in her chest grew more insistent.

  “Ah, thank you. I was just going to ask Beth here to fetch them.”

  Feeling like a fool for letting him get to her, Jeannie started to back away. She’d been down this path before. But she was no longer a girl caught up in romantic fantasies who saw something she wanted and acted without thought of the ramifications. Her life had been one big long ramification. She was wiser now and would not tempt discretion.

  “I’ll leave you then. I’ve asked one of the servants to bring you some food, and when you are ready, I believe your men are anxious to see you.”

  “I can imagine,” he said dryly.

  She turned to leave, but he stopped her. “Wait. If you have a moment, there is something I would like to speak with you about.”

  Very conscious of the other woman in the room, Jeannie nodded stiffly. “Of course.”

  Beth’s gaze shifted between them. She seemed uncertain what to do. Duncan came to her rescue. “I think I can manage from here, thank you, lass. Sorry about getting you all wet.”

  Beth didn’t look like it had bothered her at all, but she bobbed her head and quickly bustled out of the room. A room that suddenly seemed much smaller.

  Jeannie hoped he didn’t intend for her to help him dress. She didn’t want to get any closer to him than she already was. Even five feet away, her body hummed and every nerve ending pulsed with a restless energy.

  He didn’t look at all like a man who’d just escaped the clutches of death. He looked strong and powerful and more attractive than anyone she’d ever known.

  His body was a thing of beauty, exuding raw masculinity that called to her on a base level she couldn’t explain. It was something intangible, something involuntary, but undeniable.

  It wasn’t merely his physical appeal. Her husband had been a handsome man, but she’d never responded to him this way—though she’d tried and tried. The lack of passion between them had been a disappointment to them both—one that had eventually driven Francis from her bed. Despair cut through her, knowing how much her tepid responses had hurt him.

  How wrong it was that one look at Duncan could provoke more desire in her than years with her husband. Her body’s reaction seemed the cruelest disloyalty and one more nail in the coffin of her guilt.

  He riffled through the contents of his pack, eventually removing a pair of black leather breeches and a clean linen shirt. When his hand went to the cloth at his waist, Jeannie carefully shifted her gaze. But her senses seemed unnaturally heightened and she was painstakingly aware of every movement. She knew it was impossible, but she could have sworn she heard the thin drying cloth drop on the floor. Heard the fabric stretching as he pulled the breeches over his legs. Felt the whoosh of air as he dropped his shirt over his head.

  “I’m done,” he said, the wry amusement in his voice made her wonder if she was totally transparent. She turned to face him and he pulled out a chair for her. She hesitated, then told herself she was being ridiculous and sat, folding her hands primly in her lap. He lowered himself to the edge of the bed opposite her—much too close for her comfort. She could smell the warm tang of soap on his skin and the dark, male essence that had always haunted her.

  “I wanted to thank you for what you did.”

  “It was nothing,” she dismissed quickly, fighting the heat that rose to her cheeks and wondering how much he remembered.

  He didn’t argue with her, but they both knew she lied. “I’m sorry that my return might cause you difficulty. It was not my intention to hurt you. But you had to know I’d come home sometime.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Actually, I wasn’t sure if you’d ever return. If half the legends are true, why would you?” She couldn’t prevent the twinge of curiosity. “Did you really defeat an entire army with a dozen men?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “Half of what you’ve heard is no doubt exaggerated.”

  And the other half? She noticed he didn’t deny her original question. “It must have been difficult having nothing but your sword arm to make your living. You went to Ireland?”

  He nodded. “I was a gallowglass mercenary for the O’Neills. When they were forced from Ireland, I went with them. First to France, then to Switzerland, Italy, Flanders, and eventually Spain. It was a hard life, but not without its rewards.”

  He turned the question back on her. “And what of you, Jeannie. What has your life been like? Have you been happy?”

  She regretted her impulse to probe into his past—it was the last thing she wanted to discuss with him. But he’d answered her honestly and she would do as much for him. Happy? Nay, but she hadn’t suffered. “I’ve been content. I’ve had my children.”

  “And your husband? He was good to you?”

  Something in his voice caught her attention. He seemed hanging on her every reaction. “Aye, Francis was a good man.” She should have loved him. Wanting to avoid further discussion of her husband, she returned to the original subject. “You’ve made a name for yourself on the continent, but nothing has changed here. You are still under a cloud of treason.”

  “Not a cloud,” he said tightly. “I was convicted before I left. I would have hanged the moment they found me.”

  “That’s why you left so suddenly?”

  He shrugged. The lack of bitterness in his voice surprised her. Everyone had turned against him and he acted like it meant nothing, but it had to have been horrible.

  “With my father dead and the rest of my clan convinced of my guilt, I thought there was nothing left for me here.”

  She could barely get the words out, her throat burned. “What about me?”

  Their eyes locked and something passed between them—something deep and significant.

  Jeannie swore she would not defend herself against his spurious charges again, but his silence compelled her to try one more time. It was too late to reclaim what was lost—not to mention dangerous with all she had to lose—but it seemed somehow important that he know the truth. “I did not take the map, Duncan. I would never have betrayed you like that. I loved you.”

  He didn’t look away, but neither did he respond. What had she expected? He hadn’t believed her years ago when he’d claimed to love her, why should he now when she was nothing to him.

  “All those years, did you not once question my guilt?” she asked, her voice climbing higher. “Did you not once think about coming back?”

  Did you think of me at all?

  His eyes went flat. Cold. She wanted to pound her fists against his granite wall of a chest, hating that he could be so unaffected when her pain felt so raw.

  “You married. Rather quickly if I recall.”

  She sucked in her breath. The edge in his voice gave him away. Had her marriage prevented him from coming back?

  What horrible irony. She’d married to give their son a name and may have prevented him from attaining his rightful one. But she couldn’t look back. What was done was done. She wouldn’t be foolish enough to fall for him again.

  His gaze leveled on her, hard and unwavering. “If you had nothing to do with the plot against me, why did you marry so quickly?”

  Her pulse jumped, knowing the danger that lurked in his question. She tried to control the frantic race of her heart, but her knuckles tu
rned white as she clenched her hands in her lap. “My father wished it.” It was the truth. As much as she would give him.

  His mouth curled. “And, of course, the dutiful daughter would never think to defy him.”

  She heard the not-so-subtle criticism and fought to keep her temper in check. “How dare you,” she seethed. “Once I would have defied my father in the worst way possible. I was ready to run off with you. I would have left everything for you. It was not me who broke the vow. You were the one who left. What reason did I have not to marry Francis? Should I have waited these ten years for you to return?”

  “No,” he said, taken aback by the emotion in her voice.

  He’d never looked at what happened from her perspective. He’d taken her innocence, vowed to marry her, and then left her. He’d hurt her when he left, he couldn’t deny it.

  He’d thought he had reason, but what if he was wrong? She sounded so sincere. He shouldn’t have asked her about her past, but he’d seen her sadness and wondered what her life had been like. But thinking about her married to another man ate through his gut like acid. The selfish part of him wanted her to have known the same emptiness he had. “You deny taking the map, but not once have you questioned my guilt. Why is that?”

  She lifted her eyes back to his. “Perhaps I have more faith in you, than you have in me.”

  The rebuke was not without effect. Should he have trusted her when all evidence pointed against her? With Jeannie he’d let himself get carried away. He’d allowed his feelings for her to affect his judgment, something that had never happened to him before and he didn’t like. When he thought she’d betrayed him, he’d been ashamed of falling trap to his emotions. He’d felt responsible for the loss of the battle and for his father’s death. In his shame and anger had he rushed to judgment? It would be a horrible irony given what had happened to him.

  Could he have failed her so miserably? He recoiled from the thought, reminding himself that even if she hadn’t taken the map, she’d still made her choice. And no matter what she tried to claim now, it had never been him. “Faith? It wasn’t in me. You never would have defied your father. Your actions are proof enough of that.”