The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  She jerked her arm out of his hold and shoved him away from her. “It was you who left us, Duncan. You left me pregnant and alone.” His head jerked as if she’d slapped him, but she didn’t care. He wanted the truth, he would hear it. “I swallowed my pride after you’d so cruelly accused me of betraying you and went to Castleswene to tell you that I was carrying your child only to discover that you’d left. How do you think I felt? What was I supposed to do?” Her voice shook with emotion. “I was terrified of what would happen if anyone found out. I couldn’t bear to think of the scandal my mistake would bring down on my innocent child. I knew what it would be like for him—as I’m sure you do.” He flinched, but she didn’t care. “So when Francis Gordon asked me to marry him I did what I had to do. Don’t you dare judge me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You deceived him, too.”

  She balled her fists, for the first time in her life close to striking someone. “I told him everything. Every ugly bit of it. The man you sought to blame for your predicament, who you wanted to destroy, knew the child I carried was yours, but vowed to love and raise him as his own. A vow he kept.” That stopped him for a moment, but it did not stop her. Anger erupted inside her. Anger that had been contained for a very long time. “And what did he get in return? A pitiful excuse for a wife. A woman who could not love him, because her heart still foolishly longed for the man who’d broken it.”

  “You never loved him,” he said flatly.

  She turned away, removing the plaid from the bed to wrap it around her. Suddenly she felt naked and cold. “Nay, I couldn’t even give him that. To both our great disappointment.”

  Duncan didn’t want to hear about the saintly Francis Gordon—the man who’d raised his son. He didn’t want to hear her bloody excuses.

  The betrayal cut deep and raw. My son, damn her. How could she keep something like that from him? He’d convinced himself to believe in her, and she’d been lying to him the entire time.

  He’d known. Part of him had known the boy was his, but he’d chosen to believe her. Fool. “How did you do it?” he asked stonily. “How did you hide his birth?”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, weary, as if her impassioned defense had taken everything out of her. “After the battle, Huntly and most of the high-ranking clansmen involved were forced into exile. Francis didn’t go with his father to the continent, but we removed to one of the Gordon’s remote castles up north. We took only a few trusted servants with us and didn’t return for two years. There was no reason for anyone to question our story.” She paused. “I think my father suspected, but he never voiced his suspicions.”

  “How convenient for all involved. Gordon stole my son and no one ever questioned it.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “He gave your son everything you denied him when you left.”

  Knowing that there was an element of truth to what she said didn’t make it any easier to hear. Duncan was so angry he didn’t trust himself to stay another minute—he might say something he would regret. That they both would regret.

  “That will change.”

  Her face paled. “What do you mean?”

  He met the panic in her gaze with determination. “What do you think? I intend to claim my son.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  He laughed, throwing the words she’d once said to him back at her. “How are you going to stop me?”

  She grabbed him, holding the blanket tight around her neck with one hand and his arm with the other. “You can’t do this. Don’t you see? You’ll destroy everything I’ve done for him.”

  Duncan stilled as the impact of what she’d said hit him. His stomach turned, the truth tasting as bitter as bile. If he claimed his son, he’d make him the very thing that had haunted him his entire life: a bastard. Not just any bastard, but the bastard of an outlaw. And, if he didn’t, he would allow his son to bear another man’s name and to inherit land and property that did not belong to him.

  What kind of hellish choices were those? It was like choosing to die by a gun or a knife—either way, he was dead.

  His eyes burned as he stared at the woman he’d held in his arms not an hour ago and made love to. Who he’d thought loved him. If she’d wanted to hurt him, she could not have chosen a more painful way to inflict her pain.

  He’s my son. I want him.

  Never had he blamed anyone for the brutal card that had been dealt him, but he did now. Cursing God, cursing his father, cursing Jeannie, cursing himself for the injustice. Had he reached too high again? Reached for happiness only to be shoved roughly back down to the ground.

  He didn’t bother to finish dressing, just grabbed his boots and weapons and went for the door.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  He heard the fear in her voice but it didn’t penetrate. He sensed her move up behind him but kept his back to her—looking at her hurt too much. “Anywhere but here,” he said tonelessly. And before she could say anything else he left, the door slammed hard behind him.

  Chapter 22

  Jeannie stared at the door for hours certain that he would return. He needed time to think, then he would realize that there was nothing else she could have done.

  But he’d been so angry. He’d looked at her as if she’d hurt him unbearably, as if she’d destroyed him. She wondered if he’d even heard her explanation.

  The sick feeling in her stomach rose and rose. As the hours passed, she was forced to accept what she’d known the moment the words blurted from her mouth: Once again her impulsivity had led her to make a huge mistake.

  But was it a mistake?

  She was so confused, she no longer knew what was right. But she did know that Duncan wasn’t ever going to see it her way, not when it meant perpetuating a lie. And that’s exactly what she’d been doing—good intentions or not. She would have gone right on doing so, too, for the sake of her son, if Duncan hadn’t returned.

  For so long she’d fought to protect Dougall, thinking only to save him from living under the shadow of scandal and the difficulties inherent to being labeled a bastard. But in protecting him, it also meant she was denying him a chance to have a father again. Did she have that right? Francis was dead, but Duncan was not.

  Hadn’t she once told Duncan that it wasn’t his birth that made him a bastard, it was his actions? Had she truly believed that or were they just words? If she believed in Duncan, didn’t she have to believe in her son?

  She hated the thought of the pain it would cause him, but Dougall was strong and with their help he would weather the storm. Jeannie would never forget what Francis had done for her, but couldn’t deny Dougall a chance to know his father.

  And she would tell Duncan as much if only he would come back. In another hour it would be dawn, surely he would return by then?

  He wouldn’t just leave her … would he?

  The sound of a knock startled her. Her heart leaped. She jumped from the chair, raced to the door and tore it open. “Dunc …”

  The word died in her mouth. It wasn’t him. It was only the innkeeper’s daughter with a tray of food. The flare of hope that had soared crashed to the ground in a fizzled, gnarled heap. The girl was about seven and ten with dark hair and a pleasant round face consistent with her figure. In addition to serving food and ale in the public room below, she was also apparently the inn’s maidservant.

  “Is it too early, my lady?” Jeannie could see the concern on her face. “I can come back? I heard you moving around and thought you might wish for something to break your fast.”

  “Thank you,” Jeannie said, opening the door and letting her in. The steaming bowl of beef broth and fresh bread smelled delicious, but she wasn’t hungry. “I thought you were one of my guardsmen.”

  The maid shook her head. “They’re still sleeping off my mother’s ale before the fire. Except for the leader—the tall black-haired man.” She gave Jeannie an uneasy look. “He left a short while ago.”

  Left? Jeannie swallowed the lump in
her throat. “Do you know where he went?”

  “To the docks, I think. He was heading off in that direction.”

  Jeannie nodded and tried to stay calm. He was probably just readying the boat to leave. He wouldn’t leave without her. The girl set the food down on the side table and offered to bring some fresh water for the basin, which Jeannie declined.

  “I can help you with your gown,” the girl suggested, seeing that Jeannie was wearing only her linen sark.

  Though Jeannie was in no mood for company, she knew she could not get dressed on her own and accepted the girl’s help rather than wait for Duncan. It might be some time before he decided to come for her.

  “You had business at the castle, my lady?” the girl asked conversationally, lacing Jeannie’s stays.

  Jeannie nodded. “I’d hoped to see the old nurse, Kathrine.”

  The young maid looked at her in surprise. “Katy?”

  “Yes, I was sorry to hear of her passing.”

  She nodded. “Aye, it was a horrible tragedy.” She lowered her voice. “Poor Katy must have slipped on the cliffs while walking home. She washed ashore a week after she went missing. The only way they could identify her was by her hair. Like spun gold it was, twisted with the kelp.”

  Jeannie grimaced, not needing the gory details. But wait—she frowned—gold? “I understood her to have black hair.” Like her son.

  Maid shook her head. “Nay, mistress. Katy’s hair was as bright as the sun. ’Twas her pride and joy, those curls.”

  Jeannie felt a prickle of excitement and tried to tamp it down. Hair “like a raven’s wing,” Lady MacDonald had said. Perhaps Jeannie had misunderstood. But she hadn’t. Maybe the old woman had been confused. That must be it.

  But she hadn’t seemed confused.

  The niggle at the back of her neck that something was wrong wouldn’t leave her. Had Lady MacDonald lied to them?

  All her instincts—

  She stopped. Instincts. That alone should prevent her from going any further. She already felt foolish for insisting on dragging Duncan on this journey in the first place.

  It was probably nothing, an innocent mistake.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  She couldn’t let it go. If there was a chance that Lady MacDonald knew something she had to take it. But Duncan was eager to leave. And the way he felt about her right now, she wasn’t sure he’d be willing to listen to anything she said. She turned to the maid who was watching her with an expectant look on her face. “Could you arrange for someone to take me to the castle?”

  “Aye, my brother Davy could take you, but don’t you want to wait until your guardsman returns?”

  “Actually, I’d rather he not know that I’ve gone.” At least before he could order her not to go. This way, if she was wrong, he need not ever know. “If he comes to look for me …” She thought quickly for an explanation. Seeing the small fan she’d used to help revive Lady MacDonald peeking out of her purse, she shoved it down and tied the bag around her waist. “Tell him that I forgot my fan yesterday at the castle and have gone to retrieve it. I will return as soon as I can.”

  The maid bobbed. “Aye, my lady. I’ll go find Davy right now.”

  “Before you do, if I could trouble you for one more thing?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Might I borrow a plaid?”

  The maid hardly blinked—Jeannie suspected she was not the first person to sneak out of this inn. “Of course.”

  A short while later, Jeannie tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the main room where she knew the men were and passing into the kitchen instead. The maid led her out the back door, past a well and small garden to the stables.

  Her brother—Davy—was a few years older than his sister and as thin as the girl was round. He stood waiting for her with a sturdy Highland pony. Knowing that Duncan would have a guardsman stationed outside, Jeannie adjusted the borrowed plaid over her head like a hood and kept her face down. Though her “disguise” wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny, she hoped the guard would take a quick glance and think her a woman from the village.

  It must have worked because no one stopped them. They made quick work of the three mile or so journey, arriving at the castle just as the cock had begun to crow.

  Once inside the courtyard, they tethered the ponies near the stables and Jeannie went to beg her second audience with Lady MacDonald, praying that this time it proved more fruitful.

  Colin Campbell had waited until dark before landing in a small inlet just north of Leodamas, using the night to shroud his arrival on Islay. If reports of his brother’s battle skills held true, which he did not doubt—Duncan had always been annoyingly accomplished at everything—he would need the benefit of surprise to capture him. Just to be sure, however, another birlinn waited outside the bay to cut off any attempt at escape.

  Colin knew Duncan was here. As soon as his men had seen the boat leave Castleswene and head down the sound, Colin guessed where his brother was heading.

  The spy he had in Dunyvaig amongst the MacDonalds’ guardsmen confirmed it. They were on Islay—at an inn at the village. They’d left the castle yesterday after a short meeting with Mary MacDonald.

  The fact that Duncan was here meant he was too close. Though Colin was certain he’d taken care of everything, there was always a possibility he’d missed something. He’d hoped this wouldn’t be necessary, but he couldn’t take the chance.

  But Colin wasn’t without filial sentiment, the thought of what he had to do held no enjoyment for him. He’d always looked up to Duncan—had wanted to be just like him—which he supposed had always been the problem. He was destined to fall short.

  It’s either him or me, he reminded himself. On some level he’d always known that.

  That damn map. He’d just wanted to make Duncan look foolish, instead it was he who’d been fooled. Grant had used him. Used his jealousy against his brother. And Colin had trusted him, thinking himself engaged to Grant’s daughter. The devil’s spawn Grant had betrayed them both, and Colin had been forced to hide the gold to cover up his part in the debacle.

  The note had been the last straw. Colin had recognized the feminine lettering and known that it was from her. My betrothed. Duncan knew they were engaged, but he’d gone to meet her anyway. He’d fucked his bride, damn him. Like he was probably fucking her now. Anger dulled any sympathy he might have felt for his brother. Duncan deserved exactly what he got.

  Unlike their father. He’d never wanted his father to be hurt, but with what he’d threatened after Colin admitted to knowing about Duncan’s feelings for Jean Grant before proposing the betrothal, perhaps it was better that he did. I should have made Duncan my heir. Colin had been outraged. Humiliated. But he hadn’t believed he would actually do it—not until his deathbed ramblings sent any icy chill down his spine.

  Colin buckled the scabbard at his waist and tucked the two brass-handled pistols into his belt as his men finished clearing the camp on the small forested hill above the village where they’d slept. It was about an hour before dawn—the perfect time to catch them unaware. He knew Duncan had only a handful of men with him, but he did not underestimate his brother. Duncan did, however, have a weakness. Colin just had to get his hands on her.

  Why couldn’t Duncan have stayed away? The moment Colin had heard his brother was back on Scottish soil he’d known what he would be forced to do. He hoped Duncan gave him a reason. He didn’t want to have to shoot his brother in the back.

  Duncan walked the short distance to the inn from the beach, trying to shake the water from his hair. But the frozen clumps snapped against his cheeks, releasing little—if any—of the icy sea water. Overnight the mist had settled low around the island in a damp, bone-chilling fog that the dawn had yet to thaw. But cold had never bothered him. He’d been raised in the Highlands near the sea; he was used to it. Though admittedly, not all Highlanders swam in the sea in the middle of winter. Perhaps he had more Norse blood in him than he realized
.

  The village was quiet, but showing the first signs of life as he approached. Gentle swirls of smoke billowed out of the rooftops as the servants lit the morning fires.

  It had been a long night. When he’d left Jeannie he’d joined his men in the public room below. He’d been wound tight, looking for a way to unleash the dangerous emotions swirling inside him. It was either fight or drink, and as he did not trust himself not to kill someone, he chose the latter.

  Gauging his dark mood, Conall and Leif gave him a wide berth. A handful of tankards of the innkeeper’s best cuirm, however, had barely taken the edge off his anger or the gnawing burning in his chest.

  He’d spent a few restless hours before the fire, before giving up on sleep and deciding to try to clear his thoughts in the sea. But the clarity he’d hoped to find in the icy waters had eluded him.

  I have a son. It was still difficult to comprehend. But what the hell was he going to do about it? Make him a bastard? He better than anyone knew what that was like. He’d come to terms with his birth, but it hadn’t been easy. Could he foist that kind of black mark on his son?

  Why hadn’t she told him earlier? Because she didn’t trust you. Why should she? You left her.

  He shook off the annoying voice. He didn’t want to see her side, his anger was still too damn raw.

  He turned the corner around the empty market stalls and the inn came into view. As always, he scanned his surroundings. Something was wrong: The Gordon guardsman he’d left was not in position.

  Senses honed, he realized it was too quiet. Too still.

  He looked down at the muddy ground and saw the unmistakable signs of footprints coming from all directions around the building. A score of men—at least. He suspected there were others positioned in and around the building, hidden in the backdrop of trees. Too many for the handful of men he had with him, particularly since Leif had left early this morning to scout the castle. He took a few steps back out of view, but they’d already seen him. His skin prickled with the sensation of being watched.