He thought back to last night, regretting more than ever what had happened. He should have been falling to his knees, begging her forgiveness, and instead he’d walked out on her and threatened to destroy all she’d done to protect their son.
He supposed he wouldn’t blame her if she had left.
But he swore he would make it up to her—if he had the chance.
Wisely, Colin had separated him from his men. But Duncan wasn’t interested in escaping—not yet. Not until he had a chance to question his brother. Colin, however, did not seem eager to renew their bonds of brotherhood and had situated himself well away from Duncan on the boat. He’d have to wait until they landed at Tarbert. From there they would carry the birlinns (Colin’s second boat had joined them as soon as they’d left the harbor) across the narrow one mile long slice of land that joined Kintyre and Knapdale to Loch Fyne which would take them north to Inveraray.
On the boat, Duncan took the opportunity to watch his brother’s interactions with his men, and what he saw bothered him. Colin was quick to temper and hard of fist. There was little talking amongst the men, and none at all with Colin. The lack of conviviality didn’t seem to bother his brother. In fact, he seemed to relish the detachment provided by his position as chieftain.
The wind was against them as they sailed north around the Isle of Gigha and the men took to the oars. The skies had darkened and the wind was cold and damp with the coming storm. The high, choppy seas made for perilous travel and Duncan could only hope that Jeannie was safely tucked away in Dunyvaig.
As the weather worsened, so too did his brother’s temper. Colin had never been much of a seafarer and the turbulent seas made him even less of one. His skin had taken on a distinct green tinge. By time they sailed into the harbor at west Tarbert, night had fallen and the rain drizzled through the soupy dark mist.
Not eager to take to the stormy seas in the dark, Colin ordered his men to arrange for horses. They would travel the remainder of the journey to Inveraray by land. If the weather did not worsen, they should reach the castle before midnight.
As his men were being unloaded from the boat, Duncan was able to exchange a quick glance with Conall, telling him to do nothing—not unless necessary.
It soon became apparent, however, that escape was exactly what his brother wanted him to do. Colin seemed to be giving him every opportunity. More than once in the confusion of the boats being unloaded and the men readying the horses for their journey, Duncan was left with only a single young clansman guarding him. The boy barely had whiskers on his chin. Duncan had to be at least a head taller and three stone worth of muscle heavier. He could have overpowered the lad with both his hands and feet tied together.
At one point, Colin even sat him down against a tree, right next to a sharp rock. Duncan could have cut through the rope around his wrists in minutes.
He wished he could think it was a measure of brotherly devotion, but he feared a far more nefarious purpose. He suspected that Colin wanted him to try to escape so he had an excuse to kill him.
As they rode along the tree-lined road that would take them north, Duncan became even more convinced of his brother’s intentions. Rather than toss Duncan over a horse and lead him, Colin had ordered Duncan’s ropes loosened enough for him to be able to ride. Though the road was wide enough to travel three abreast, Colin ordered two columns with Duncan in the rear, but Colin always stayed close enough to get a shot off. His brother was doing his best to feign inattention, but Duncan sensed his constant watchfulness. He was like a serpent, coiled and waiting for that first move to strike.
Indeed, as the journey drew on and the night darkened, his brother’s edginess only increased. He flinched at sounds. Shot furtive glances into the darkness, his eyes constantly shifting—almost as if he was expecting a ghost to jump out.
Perhaps he was. Duncan recalled what Jamie had said about the MacGregors and Niall Lamont. Colin’s unease wasn’t unfounded. More than once, Duncan had the distinct sensation that they were being stalked.
When Colin quickened the pace and ordered the man riding beside him to fall back and scout behind them, Duncan took the opportunity to fill the gap in the line and rode up beside him.
“Are you so anxious to see me to Inveraray or are you simply eager to get off the road?”
Colin didn’t look pleased by the observation. He didn’t like that Duncan had seen his weakness. “You by contrast, brother, seem surprisingly relaxed for a man hours away from a noose.”
Duncan shrugged. “I’m ready for the truth to come out.”
He didn’t miss the sudden flash of alarm in his brother’s gaze. “What truth?”
“I didn’t betray our clan. Someone else stole the map and gave it to Grant.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“What proof do you have?”
“None but my word.”
Colin laughed—was it with relief? “And you think that will be enough to spare your life? You’ve forgotten what our cousin is like. If I were you I’d be planning for something other than your word to get me out of this.”
Duncan gave him a pointed look. “If I didn’t know better, brother, I would think you wanted me to escape.”
Colin didn’t blink. “Now why would I want to do that?”
“You tell me. What’s in this for you, Colin? What do you hope to gain by bringing me in?”
He flushed an angry red in the hazy moonlight. “I don’t hope to gain anything. I’m doing my duty to our cousin that is all. I take no pleasure in this.”
“Don’t you?” He wished he could believe it. “You know I didn’t do what they accuse me of.”
“I know you’ve been tried and found guilty.”
“What reason would I have to betray our clan?”
“Jealousy. You were angry about my betrothal. Angry that father wouldn’t let you marry the girl you loved.”
“Only because you got to him first. Why’d you do it, Colin? Why did you arrange that betrothal even though you knew I loved her?” Colin’s mouth thinned, a mulish look on his face. “Did you hate me so much?” Duncan asked.
Colin’s eyes flashed an angry blue in the darkness. “Yes,” he snapped. The burst of animosity surprised them both and Colin quickly regained control. “No. You should have known your place.”
Colin rode ahead and Duncan lost the opportunity to learn anything more. Perhaps he’d learned enough. Colin’s resentment of him had been far deeper than he’d realized—far deeper than he suspected even Colin realized.
Colin drove forward in the darkness and rain, pushing the horses to the limit, but eventually they had to stop.
The men Colin had sent back to scout had returned with the news that they could find nothing, but still his brother was taking no chances. He set up a perimeter with half his men while the others saw to the horses.
Duncan had been separated from the other prisoners and sat along the water’s edge, his back to a tree. He hadn’t eaten anything all day and was surprised when the young guardsman offered him a piece of dried beef and ale. He thanked him and accepted it gratefully.
The boy looked around. “Is it true what they say about you?”
“Which part,” Duncan said dryly. “They say quite a bit.”
The boy tried to hide his embarrassment—unsuccessfully. “That you are the man known as the Black Highlander. That you are the greatest warrior—”
“That’s enough, Gillis.” Duncan heard his brother’s irritation. “Whatever this man’s reputation on the continent, in the Highlands he is an outlaw convicted of treason.”
“Aye, chief,” Gillis said nervously. “Sorry, chief.”
“See to the horses,” Colin said. “It’s time to go.”
Duncan’s senses flared. This was it. No one was watching—the men were all slightly ahead of them, preparing to move on.
“Get up,” Colin said.
Duncan stood slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw h
is brother’s hand move toward his belt, reaching for his pistol.
The knowledge that his brother hated him enough to try to murder him ate like acid, but he was ready. Hands still bound, he spun and kicked as hard as he could. His booted foot connected with Colin’s arm just as he’d raised it, knocking the gun to the ground. Before Colin could recover, Duncan kicked him again, this time in the head as he instinctively bent over his injured arm. It stunned him long enough for Duncan to ram into him with a fierce battle cry, taking them both to the ground.
Conall responded to his signal with a cry of his own and the battle was on. Though with two against nearly two score, it remained to be seen how much of a battle it would be—despite rumors to the contrary, there were limits to his abilities. Their odds would improve some if Conall managed to free the Gordon guardsmen.
Colin grunted with pain as Duncan jabbed his elbow low in his stomach, reaching for the hilt of his brother’s dirk. He grabbed it and managed to slice his hands free just as Colin recovered enough to land a blow to his temple. Though Duncan wore a studded leather cotun and chest plate, his steel knapscall had been left at the inn and his brother connected hard enough to make his head ring. Whatever his brother’s shortcomings, he did not lack in strength.
Duncan returned the blow to Colin’s jaw, hearing the satisfying crunch.
Holding the knife in one hand, Duncan sprang to his feet—he could hear the sounds of fighting closing in and wanted to make sure he was in position to fend off any attackers.
It was dark and foggy, but he could just make out the shadows of approaching men.
Colin struggled to his feet, facing him. “Damn you,” he said, massaging his jaw.
“I wasn’t the one trying to murder my own brother,” Duncan bit back through clenched teeth.
But the ugly truth only seemed to infuriate him more, sending Colin reaching for his second pistol. He swung it around to fire and Duncan got his arm up just enough to send the shot careening over his shoulder and not through his heart. Colin swore and reached for the sword—their father’s sword. But before he could pull it from the scabbard, Duncan surged forward, pinning him to a tree with one arm across his shoulders, the other holding the long, sharp dirk to his throat.
Colin struggled to break free, but Duncan was immoveable—every muscle flexed. Blood pounded through his body as he fought to control the urge to strike back at the man who’d just tried to kill him—twice. His own brother.
“Why?” he asked, the edge of the dagger biting into Colin’s neck.
If he hoped for a confession, he was to be disappointed. Duncan knew his brother would go to the grave with his secrets. “You won’t do it,” Colin sneered.
Duncan glanced in the direction of the fighting and hesitated. He realized why no one had come to Colin’s aid. The men that he’d sensed approaching moved out of the shadows. The leader looked enough like his sister for Duncan to recognize him.
He turned to his brother, feeling an overwhelming sense of sadness. “You’re right,” he said. “I won’t.”
“But I will,” the other man said.
Colin’s head jerked around to the sound of the voice. He paled.
Duncan stepped back, releasing Colin from his hold. “Lamont?” he asked.
The man who’d become an outlaw to seek vengeance for the rape of the woman he loved bowed his head in acknowledgment, but his predatory gaze never once left Colin. Though it was dark, the force of the rage and hatred that radiated off the Lamont warrior was palpable.
The two men drew their swords and squared off to face each other. Lamont raised his two-handed great sword over his head and attacked with a ferocity that seemed superhuman. The shatter of steel upon steel reverberated like a thunderclap. Lamont came at Colin again and again. Unrelenting. Landing blow after herculean blow that his brother couldn’t even begin to fend off. He fought with a force behind him that was undeniable.
This battle had only one possible outcome. Duncan knew it, and from the look in Colin’s eyes, he knew it as well.
Not wanting to watch the inevitable, Duncan turned and walked away. He wished he could feel sorry for him, but Colin had forged his own destiny, and now was the time for his reckoning.
Colin was dead.
Lamont and his band of MacGregor outlaws disappeared into the darkness as quickly as they’d come—their battle, it seemed, had been with one man.
Before they could be rounded up again, Duncan sent Conall and the Gordon guardsmen back to Islay to find Jeannie. The big Irishman wasn’t happy about it, but understood what Duncan had to do. Like Colin, the time for Duncan’s reckoning was here. He hoped his had a better outcome.
He did not grieve for the brother who’d tried to kill him, but for the boy who’d trailed after him when they were young, who’d laughed with him, wrestled with him, and trained beside him.
Duncan might have had difficulty convincing the remaining clansmen not to kill him on the spot were it not for Gillis. The young warrior had happened to look back just as Colin had tried to shoot him. The lack of honor in their chief did not sit well with any of the Highlanders and given Duncan’s willingness to submit to their authority the danger of immediate execution passed.
After tending to the wounded and gathering the dead, it was near dawn by the time the somber procession passed through the barmkin gate of Inveraray Castle, the Earl of Argyll’s formidable Highland stronghold.
Half expecting to be tossed into the pit prison, Duncan was surprised instead to be lead into the laird’s solar.
It had been a long time since he’d been at Inveraray and he’d forgotten his cousin’s penchant for extravagance and luxury. The castle was fit for a king—one with rather garish taste, to his mind. Heavy velvets, thick brocades, ornate furnishing and fixtures, silver plate and candelabrum, and just about any surface that could be gilded had been.
His pulse fired as he considered what he would say to the man who held his life in his hands. Coming here had been a risk—no doubt a rash one—but one he had to take. He had to trust that the truth—justice—would win. Though, he had to admit, he did wish he had more to go on than his word and a loosely worded note.
He stiffened when the door opened and turned. His heart caught, stunned. “Jeannie?”
She bit her lip and took a few cautious steps into the room. She seemed to be waiting for him to make a move. He did, closing the gap between them in two long strides and pulling her into his arms.
She sagged against him, her relief palpable. He pressed a kiss atop her head and inhaled the soft floral fragrance in her hair, savoring the feel of her in his arms.
Holding her back, he looked at her, needing to make sure that she was real. “How did you get here—”
He stopped himself. Leif. His face darkened. The Norseman’s damned never-ending pride could have killed her. Leif thought he could sail through anything—a storm, a gale, no matter how treacherous the seas.
Reading his mind, she said, “Don’t blame Leif. We had to come.” She gave him a pained look. “If it wasn’t for him, I might still be swimming.”
He winced, remembering his cruel words. “You heard that, did you?”
She nodded.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said. “I was trying to steer Colin away from you.”
“I know.” She smiled tentatively. “Or at least I hoped. But after what I told you, I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me at all.”
The wounded look in her eyes struck him to the core. His chest tightened and he drew her into his arms again, holding her, cherishing her, knowing that if it were up to him he would never let her go. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. I should never have walked out on you like that. I was angrier at myself than at you.” He cupped her chin and stared deep into her eyes. “I know what you did to protect our son and I’ll never do anything to change that.”
Her eyes scanned his face. “What are you saying?”
He took a deep breath. The words were not easy to say
. “I lost the right to claim my son when I left you ten years ago.”
Her eyes widened. “You would do that for me … for us?”
“Aye.”
The radiant smile that lit her face was one of pure happiness. She threw herself into his arms. Unable to resist a moment longer, he covered her mouth with his. Kissing her tenderly. Lovingly. Knowing that the memory of his kiss might have to last him a very long time.
Her lips were so soft and sweet under his.
His chest tugged. God, he loved her.
He wanted nothing more than to sink into her and loose himself in her sweetness. But now was not the time. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss and met her gaze. “I love you, Jeannie.”
“And I love you,” she replied. “But you don’t need to sacrifice your son. Hiding the truth will only lead to more pain. Dougall deserves to know his father.”
It was his turn to be surprised. “Are you sure?” Then he sobered. “We need not decide anything right now. You may think differently if my cousin is not persuaded of my innocence.”
An even bigger smile broke out on her face. “But he is—”
She didn’t finish because as if on queue the door opened and his cousin, Archibald “the grim,” the seventh Earl of Argyll strode into the room.
Instinctively, Duncan spun Jeannie around behind him, blocking her with his body from his cousin’s view.
As happy as he’d been to see her, he hadn’t realized what her presence could mean. If Archie thought he’d take his anger out on her, he better damn well think again.
He met his cousin’s cold stare, noting how his dark, angular features had sharpened with age. Though they were close in years, Archie looked far older. His face was lined, his hair thinned and receding at the temples, and patches of gray dotted his dark pointy beard. The stress of the intervening years had taken their toll. Duncan took in the elaborate court costume, observing that his cousin’s penchant for extravagance extended to his clothing as well. At least the silk was black, he supposed, and not peacock blue.
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