Duncan presented his case matter-of-factly, leaving out nothing except for what had happened between him and Jeannie at the inn, though he suspected Jamie guessed the rest. When he was done, he handed him the map and correspondence between Grant and Francis Gordon. Jamie frowned when he read the last.
He didn’t say anything right away, taking time to consider all that Duncan had said. Eventually, he gave Duncan a long look and said, “So you believe that someone took the map, gave it to Grant, and then planted the gold later.”
“Aye. Grant was anxious to be rid of me and when suspicion turned to me, he found a way to ensure that I was eliminated. It worked. But he had someone to help him. Someone with access to my belongings.”
“And what is Lady Gordon’s place in all of this? I take it by her presence here that you no longer believe she took the map?”
His gut reaction was to say he trusted her, but he could not rely on his gut. He hedged. “I need to consider all possibilities, including others who had an opportunity.”
“You think one of our men might have betrayed you?”
“Aye, though it would help if I knew why someone would want to do so.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you?”
A wry smile curved his mouth. “Perhaps one or two.”
Jamie nodded, understanding. Their father had given him authority and position. It was easy to see how others might resent that a bastard had been given so much. He’d earned his way, but people saw what they wanted to see.
Jamie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Who had something to gain?”
Duncan had been thinking the same thing himself with little success. Once he’d begun to consider that Jeannie had not been involved, it had opened up possibilities Duncan had not fully considered before.
They went through the list of men who Duncan could remember had slept in the tent that night. Of the handful of men besides his father and Colin, one of them had died in a battle a few years back, but there were a few others that Jamie would look into, including a man who Duncan had ordered punished for dallying with a lass when he was supposed to be watching the gate and Padraig—one of his father’s most trusted guardsmen—who thought he should have been named captain instead of Duncan.
The one name neither of them wanted to consider was Colin, but it lay between them like a beached whale rotting in the sun.
Duncan sensed that Jamie wasn’t telling him something. “Tell me about Colin. Where is he?”
Jamie’s mouth fell in a grim line. “Keeping himself out of sight if he’s smart.” At Duncan’s quirked brow, Jamie explained. He told him of the recent troubles with the MacGregors and of the circumstances of his own marriage—how Colin had led a battle against Caitrina’s father for harboring the MacGregors, during which her father and brother had been killed and her home destroyed. How Jamie had convinced her to marry him, Duncan couldn’t imagine.
“It wasn’t easy,” Jamie said, guessing his thoughts.
Then Jamie told him what had happened afterward—how the MacGregors had risen in revolt following the execution of their chief, Alasdair MacGregor, and how Colin had exacted revenge for the rape of a Campbell lass by ordering the rape of a MacGregor lass.
Duncan grimaced—not just because he found the act abhorrent, but at the thought of the brother he remembered doing something so dishonorable.
But it was worse: The MacGregor lass was not only Lizzie’s sister by marriage, but also the beloved of Niall Lamont—Caitrina’s brother. And Niall Lamont was scouring the Highlands for Colin right now with justice on the mind.
The question of how Lizzie had ended up married to a MacGregor would have to wait. “You’re sure?” Duncan asked. The rash attack on Caitrina’s family sounded like the hot-headed brother he remembered, but to order the rape of an innocent lass … ’twas a dark side of Colin that he found difficult to reconcile. “That doesn’t sound like Colin.”
Jamie nodded. “There’s no mistake. You’ve been gone a long time. We’ve all changed, including Colin.”
“You can’t think it was Colin who did this to me?”
Jamie shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d like to think not, but I no longer know what he is capable of.”
“But it doesn’t make sense. Colin is the heir; he had nothing to fear from me.”
“He was jealous of you, or rather of father’s favoritism toward you.”
“Perhaps,” Duncan conceded. But could Colin really hate him that much? Would he have put their clan in that kind of danger because of a grudge? It seemed a stretch, despite the dark side of Colin’s temperament, of which he’d just learned.
“What about the lass? Wasn’t Colin betrothed to Lady Gordon? Yet you had a …” Jamie hesitated. “Relationship with her?”
Duncan shook his head. “Colin didn’t know about my involvement with Jeannie.”
As the hours passed, Duncan grew steadily more hopeful of Jamie’s support. Argyll’s Enforcer was reputed to be a man of uncompromising adherence to the law. By all rights, Duncan was a convicted traitor and should be arrested on sight. That Jamie was willing to hear him out at all was more than he expected. And Jamie did not appear to be immune to Duncan’s claim of innocence. If anything he seemed to believe him.
“But why didn’t you stay and defend yourself?” Jamie asked. “When you ran it made you look guilty.”
“I’d been tried and convicted. No one would listen to reason. Everyone seemed ready to believe the worst of me—Archie, Colin—and father was dead.”
“I would have listened,” Jamie said quietly.
Duncan nodded. But they both knew the word of a lad of seven and ten would not have held much weight.
Duncan finally asked the question that had brought him here. “Will it be enough?”
Jamie shook his head, a grim look on his face. “I doubt it. Archie still flies into a rage at the mere mention of your name or of Glenlivet. It will take more than a map and vaguely worded letter to convince him of your innocence.”
The surge of hope that had filled his chest deflated. Duncan had his answer. He didn’t need any more disappointment, but he couldn’t prevent himself from asking, “And what of you, little brother, do you believe me?”
A corner of Jamie’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. “It won’t matter if our cousin gets his hands on you, but aye, I do.”
But Jamie was wrong. It mattered. Quite a lot in fact. With Jamie and Lizzie’s belief in him, maybe Duncan wasn’t quite as alone as he’d thought.
But one question haunted him. He’d dreamed of clearing his name and proving his innocence for ten long years, thinking it would be enough. But would it?
On the continent he’d achieved everything he’d ever wanted—satisfied his ambition twice-over. But no win on the battlefield could fill the emptiness inside him. He feared only one person could do that.
Jeannie sat on a boulder in a secluded corner of the courtyard along the south wall, her chin in her hands, content to sit and watch her son for hours. She was so proud of him. Dougall had taken to his training with enthusiasm, blossoming under Jamie Campbell’s tutelage. With his shock of dark auburn hair, big blue eyes, and handsome boyish features, he still resembled the child she’d held in her arms more than the man he would become. It had always bothered her son that he was smaller than the other boys of his age—more so if taking into account his real age—but she was happy to see he’d gained confidence in the short time he’d been here.
This was the first opportunity they’d had since she arrived three days ago for her son to demonstrate his progress. Winter had relented long enough for her to sit outside. It was still cold, but the snow that had stormed down upon them for the last week had abated, revealing the sun that had seemed forgotten behind the thick curtain of gray.
Dougall drew back the bow, aimed at the butt about fifty paces away and let the arrow fly.
He let out a whoop and turned to face his mother. “Did you see that?”
Jeannie laughed and clapped her hands. “Of course I saw it. It was a magnificent shot, right in the middle. You’ve obviously been practicing.”
He seemed to grow five inches, his narrow shoulders stretched as wide as they could go. “Every day.” He made a face. “It’s the only real weapon we’re allowed to use.”
Thank God! The thought of her nine-year-old son with a steel blade in his hands made her stomach queasy. But try explaining that to a boy who’d been waiting to hold a sword in his arms since the age of two when he’d toddled over to Francis and managed to pull his dirk from its scabbard.
Dougall was much like his father: Warfare was in his blood.
Her chest pinched at the thought of Duncan. He’d seemed so distant and angry on their journey, and it had only gotten worse after the incident with the Campbell soldiers at the inn. That had been close. Too close. Her skin still crawled when she thought of that soldier’s eyes on her. But the distraction had worked. She pursed her lips. Not that she’d get any thanks from Duncan. Instead of gratitude, he acted as if she were the whore of Babylon. Well, next time, she thought angrily, he could save himself.
Duncan’s mood hadn’t improved any since their arrival at Castleswene. Despite her efforts to avoid him, he watched her with a hot, predatory intensity that augured a reckoning. From across the hall she would feel his eyes on her, and her body would prickle with awareness. Suddenly self-conscious, her hands would start to flutter, her laugh would turn high-pitched, and her mind would start to wander from her conversations.
He had her completely on edge and unnerved. The way she always was around him. You think she’d be used to it.
She realized Dougall was waiting for her to respond. Ah yes, swords. “I’m sure you will be allowed to practice with steel as soon as the captain determines you are ready.”
Hopefully Jamie Campbell would find that day a very long time in coming.
“Wooden swords are for bairns. All the other boys use steel.” Never one to complain for long, Dougall added, “But the captain says as soon as I can hit the target nine out of ten times from fifty paces with my bow, I can learn to use a gun.”
Mother Mary. Jeannie repressed a shiver, while her son’s eyes lit up with excitement. She knew there was no fighting it. Guns had steadily made their way into the Highlands over the last generation and anyone who could afford one needed to learn to use it. Even she had learned to use a pistol—with nearly deadly results.
Dougall frowned. “I don’t see why I can’t start practicing now. In a few more years, no one will be using swords and bows anymore anyway.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
Jeannie’s heart stopped at the sound of his voice, and then suddenly rushed with panic. She looked over her shoulder to see that Duncan had come up behind her. He was staring at Dougall, an enigmatic expression on his face.
She wanted to jump up and throw her arms around her son, to cover him up, to protect him. But she forced herself to calm. But how could she when everything she’d struggled for hung in the balance?
She’d known this meeting was inevitable—they were bound to cross paths at some point—but the moment she’d been dreading since she first realized it was Duncan who she’d shot was upon her.
Chapter 17
Duncan didn’t look at her, but took a few strides toward Dougall. “A warrior must learn to use any weapon at his disposal. But the first weapon of choice to a Highlander will always be his sword.” He took a pistol out of his belt and handed it to Dougall. “Take it.” Jeannie opened her mouth to object, but he cut her off. “Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.”
Dougall practically tore it from his hands. Duncan stepped back a few paces. “Try to shoot me.”
The boy looked at him uncertainly before lifting the pistol and pointing it right at his chest. Duncan moved with the speed of lightning. Before Dougall could cock the gun, he’d reached over his shoulder, pulled the two-handed great sword from its scabbard, and landed a blow on Dougall’s arm hard enough to make him drop the gun.
Dougall made a sound of pain and held his upper arm where the blow had landed. Jeannie leaped to her feet, but her son’s expression of horror checked her and kept her from running to him. He wasn’t hurt and didn’t need his mother treating him like a bairn, especially in front of another warrior.
Dougall reached down, picked up the pistol, and handed it back to Duncan. “How’d you do that? I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.”
“Practice,” Duncan said, returning the weapon to the belt at his waist. “Hours and hours of practice. Even if you had managed to get the shot off with a gun you have only one chance. My sword will be faster than your ability to reload every time. The Highland sword is a noble weapon, a part of our history. A symbol of our past, passed on through each generation.”
Dougall was listening to him with ill-concealed awe, no doubt having heard the speculation of Duncan’s true identity. Jeannie just wanted to bury her head in her hands and cry at the look of rapt adulation on his face.
The thought of what might have been tore her apart. The bitterness she’d held for so long resurfaced for a moment before she tamped it down. Blaming Duncan would not help, and one look at the two of them together told her that his lack of trust in her had cost him far more than her broken heart. Being part of Dougall’s childhood could never be replaced.
For one moment she wanted to tell him. But she knew she could not take the chance. He would insist on claiming his son and Dougall would be the one to suffer for both their mistakes.
Duncan placed the blade flat in his hands and held it out for Dougall to examine. The enormous sword had to be at least a few inches taller than her son. “This belonged to my father and before that his father—passed down from father to son all the way back to my ancestor who fought alongside King Robert the Bruce at the great Battle of Bannockburn. It’s stained with the blood of freedom.” There was a deep, reverent tone in his voice that Jeannie had never heard before.
Dougall stared up at him, eyes wide with awe, hesitating.
“Go ahead,” Duncan said with a smile. “You can touch it.”
Dougall traced his finger over the bone carving. “What are these designs? It looks like a spider web.”
“It is,” Duncan said, but didn’t elaborate. “Maybe one day, I’ll tell you about it. Would you care to hold it?”
Would a wolf like a juicy leg of lamb?
Dougall didn’t need to be asked twice. He reached out and grasped the horn handle in his small hands. When Duncan released it, the tip of the blade dropped almost to the ground before Dougall managed to get it under control. He tried to swing it around, but it was clear that the sword was too big for him. His cheeks mottled with color. “I hope my ancestors weren’t quite so tall.”
He meant it as a joke, but Duncan must have discerned the embarrassment behind the comment. “How old are you?”
Jeannie sucked in her breath so sharply, she was glad Duncan was focused on her son. “I was nine last Michaelmas.”
Only when Duncan nodded did she exhale. “I was smaller than the other boys at that age, too,” he said.
Her moment of relief vanished in the immediate jump of her pulse. There was no reason for him to make the connection. Her son had her features and the dark auburn hair of—
His uncle. Dear God, why had she never noticed before? Dougall had the same color hair as Jamie Campbell. She felt the panic closing around her and forced herself to breathe evenly. There was no reason for him to suspect, she kept telling herself.
Then why was her heart racing as if she’d just run a marathon?
“You were?” Dougall asked, his eyes narrowing skeptically.
Jeannie didn’t blame him. She found it hard to picture Duncan as anything less than the rocky mountain of a man he was now herself.
“Aye. It made me work harder to prove myself. Find your strength here first,” he pointed to his head, “and you will know how to use
the other when it comes. There are other advantages to being small.”
“Like what?”
“I can show you if you’d like.”
No! Jeannie thought with barely concealed horror.
“When?” Dougall asked, unable to hide his eagerness. He broke into a wide smile, the dimple in his cheek an exact mirror of the man standing before him. They looked nothing alike, but the signs were there if you looked closed enough. She prayed no one did.
Duncan chuckled. “You’d best check with Jam”—he stopped to correct himself—“the captain first.”
“I’ll do it right now,” Dougall said and ran off toward the keep. Jeannie opened her mouth to stop him, but snapped it shut again, deciding to let her son go. The way Duncan was looking at him made her uneasy. He couldn’t guess. But saying it over and over did not stop the panic from eating at her.
In Dougall’s eagerness, he’d neglected to return the bow and arrows he’d been practicing with to the armory. Jeannie walked toward them, but Duncan cut her off. “You don’t want me around your son, why?”
The suspicion in his voice chilled her blood. He was too damned observant. She forced her gaze to his, holding it steady and unflinching. No reaction. No emotion. “What good can come of it?” she said brusquely. “In a few days you will go your way and I will go mine. It is better that way.”
“A clean break, is that it?”
There was a dark edge to his voice that made the hair on her arms stand up straight. Jeannie didn’t think of herself as a coward, but her first instinct was to turn and run. That dangerous energy she’d sensed in him on their journey was right there, just under the surface, threatening to break free.
His fingers wrapped around her wrist and brought her toward him. “Do you really think that is possible, Jeannie?”
She wrenched her arm away. “Yes.” It had to be. But her heart called her a liar. And he knew it.
The Campbell Trilogy Page 95