The Campbell Trilogy (113 page)

Having been in similar circumstances with her mother and realizing this might take a while, Duncan did what any wise man would do. He decided to get comfortable, laying back down on the bed and settling in for the long haul.

Jeannie forced herself not to check on Duncan first thing in the morning. Instead, she went about her duties, going over the accounts with the seneschal and planning the day’s meals with the cook as if the man who’d walked out on her and left her heart in shreds ten years ago hadn’t suddenly returned and threatened to destroy everything.

Mairghread had checked on Duncan earlier and had been pleased to find him still asleep. Rest was the best thing for him now, the healer assured her, which Jeannie in turn told the two brutes who cornered her in the hall when she was breaking her fast. The Irishman and Norseman had been none too happy about her refusal to let them see him, but Jeannie had not let those broad chests and arms the size of tree trunks intimidate her. If their leader was much improved by the afternoon, then they might be permitted to see him. She would let them know. Apparently being told “no” was new to them and she took advantage of their surprise, leaving them staring after her.

It was near noontime before Jeannie climbed the stairs from the kitchen vaults with a tray of food. She crossed the hall to the tower staircase. It was just her luck that the Marchioness happened to be descending from her chamber at the same time.

“Where are you going with that tray?” the older woman demanded.

“I was hoping the guardsman had wakened and would feel well enough to eat.”

The Marchioness’s eyes narrowed. “Surely there are servants capable of carrying trays. Unless there is another reason for your attentiveness?”

Jeannie’s face flushed with anger, she was tired of her mother-in-law’s domineering ways. She was only bringing him a tray for heaven’s sake. “There are, but I shall see to this myself. It is my fault he is injured and my responsibility to see to his care.”

“Do you think it is a good idea? What do you really know of this man?”

Jeannie felt a prickle of alarm. Though the Marchioness couldn’t possibly have guessed who Duncan was, curiosity on her part could be dangerous. “He is a guardsman sent by my brother, what more should I know?”

“He doesn’t look like a guardsman,” the Marchioness said flatly.

Jeannie cursed inwardly, for once in agreement with her mother by marriage. Duncan did not look like a typical man-at-arms—not just because of his wealth, but because of his bearing. She should have made him a king, it would have been more believable. She thought quickly. “He’s a mercenary.”

The Marchioness’s mouth pursed in distaste. “I see.” She gave Jeannie a shrewd smile. “I’m only trying to think of you, daughter. A woman in your position can never be too careful to avoid talk.”

Jeannie bristled at the innuendo. “What position is that exactly? I’m the lady of the keep, why should anyone talk about whether I bring an injured man a tray of food.”

“You’re right, of course. No doubt, I’m just being
overly cautious. I worry about you and Helen out here alone when I leave.”

Jeannie hadn’t seen Ella—a nickname that had stuck when Dougall couldn’t say Helen—all morning. She shuddered to think about what kind of mischief her daughter had gotten in today. Jeannie was trying to be patient, but the little minx had become even more obstinate since her father’s death, refusing to heed her at all. She had a mind of her own and unfortunately shared her mother and grandmother’s tendency toward impulsiveness. Stubborn and impetuous was not a good combination.

Jeannie turned back to her mother-in-law. “Are you returning to Castle Gordon, then?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too eager.

The Marchioness eyed her shrewdly as if she knew exactly what Jeannie was thinking. “I’ve received word from the Marquis that he has agreed to the king’s demands and will sign the confessions of faith.”

Again, Jeannie thought. And probably with just as much sincerity as the other few times he’d renounced his Catholicism. “Then he will be released from Stirling Castle?”

“Soon, I hope.” Her mouth fell in a hard line. “Though Argyll is looking for reasons to prevent it.” One more reason why Duncan’s sudden reemergence could prove troublesome. “Have you given any more thought to the Earl of Erroll’s son?”

Jeannie shook her head. “I’m not yet ready to think about marrying again.” And when she did it would not be to a man so firmly under the Marquis’s thumb. The Gordons were less than subtle in their desire to see her son’s inheritance under their control; they’d already appointed Francis’s cousin as Tutor.

The Marchioness nodded. She’d loved her second son
and that fondness was the only thing that tempered her desire to see Jeannie remarried immediately.

“You mustn’t wait too long,” her mother-in-law said. “Helen is in need of a man’s influence.” Jeannie heard the subtle criticism and bristled. “Just this morning I caught her hiding under the bread table, listening to the servants’ gossip again.”

Jeannie bit her lip, knowing she should act properly horrified, but remembering all too clearly her own hiding spots where she’d listened to the kitchen maids lusting over the latest handsome—

Oh, no!
Her stomach crashed to her feet and she almost dropped the tray along with it. Ella wouldn’t. But Jeannie knew she would. Muttering some pithy excuse to her mother-in-law, she walked calmly to the stairs when every instinct in her body urged her to run. To tear her daughter away from him.

She heard their voices at the bottom of the stairs. Her heart jumped to her throat. Panic welled up inside her. She told herself to calm. Ella couldn’t say anything to make him suspicious and Duncan would never hurt her. Not intentionally at least. Her chest tugged. But Ella was so sensitive, so vulnerable since her father’s death. And Duncan was so cold and remote—hard to the bone. Ella wouldn’t understand his aloofness.

Jeannie clambered up the steps and heard Ella say, “No, this is my brother’s room.”
Dougall. Oh, God!
Ice filled her veins.

Then Duncan’s voice. “Where is your brother—?”

Jeannie’s sudden appearance in the doorway stopped him. He took in her wide, panic-filled eyes and shortness of breath.

“Ella!” she shouted.

Her daughter turned uncertainly, the abruptness of Jeannie’s voice putting her on alert.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Ella said automatically.

Jeannie took in the scene: her daughter sitting on the trunk with her feet tucked underneath her and Duncan relaxed, lying on the bed with his arms crossed behind his head—an indulgent look in his eye. For a moment her mind flashed to the loch. He’d lain just like that after …

Stop.
She shook off the memory.

Feeling some of her fear subside, she forced a smile to her face as she addressed her daughter. “I know,” she said, conscious of Duncan’s eyes on her. Hands shaking, she carefully set the small wooden tray on the table. “But Duncan needs to get some rest. And it’s almost time for your lessons.”

Ella gave Duncan a glance of longing that made Jeannie’s blood chill. Had her daughter fallen into the same trap as she had, becoming immediately captivated by him?

“Do I have to?” she whined, giving her mother a much put upon look.

Jeannie nodded, not swayed by those big pleading blue eyes. “Gather the others; I’ll be down shortly.”

Ella hopped off the trunk and bounded out of the room, auburn curls dancing behind her. Only then did Jeannie breathe a sigh of relief. She turned back to Duncan. His gaze was as frosty as the snow tops of the Cairngorms.

He stood, seemingly unhampered by his injury. “You couldn’t actually think I’d hurt her?”

She straightened, not shying from his angry rebuke. But as he walked toward her, she felt the sudden urge to flee. She didn’t know where to look, uncomfortably aware of his powerful naked chest. Her body heated, flushing with awareness.

How was it possible that after ten years he could still make her feel so strongly? It didn’t make sense, she’d only known him for such a short time. Why after so
many years did her body respond? Why did remembering still hurt? She’d almost half convinced herself that she’d never really loved him—that like her mother she’d gotten carried away by the moment.

Why couldn’t she be like him? Stony faced and indifferent. He looked at her with exactly the right amount of familiarity—as someone he’d known a long time ago who betrayed him. If he remembered their intimacy he did not show it—even when she’d been standing naked before him he hadn’t betrayed even a flicker of desire. A sharp contrast to the way his eyes used to smolder with heat at every glance. Now he looked at her the same way he did everyone else. If there had ever been anything special before, it was gone.

“I wasn’t sure,” she said, dropping her gaze.

It was a mistake. Her eyes fell on his shoulder at precisely the spot she’d used to love to bury her face against. She stood transfixed for a moment, her heart rising to her throat. Pain welled up from a forgotten place. Her breath was forced—hard and uneven. If she closed her eyes she could remember the warmth flooding over her as she’d pressed her cheek to his skin and curled into the curve of his body. The contentment. The security. The feeling that with him at her side nothing would ever hurt her again.

God, will I ever forget?

“Look at me, Jeannie.”

The hard clip of his voice snapped her out of it. Her mouth fell in a tight line, furious at her weakness. It was illusory. He hadn’t protected her. He hadn’t loved her. He’d left her.

“You know me better than that,” he said.

She met his gaze, feeling the strange urge to laugh in his face. “Do I?” She let the question hang between them. “Actually, I don’t know you at all. Ten years ago I thought I knew you, but it turns out two months isn’t
long enough to know anyone.” Though it was long enough to have your heart broken. And the pain was still there, buried in a shallow grave that his return had unearthed. She couldn’t allow herself to forget it. “You weren’t half the man I thought you were.”

Her barb struck. His hand wrapped around her wrist and he swung her to him, the tips of her breasts skimming his chest. She gasped at the force of the connection. At the shock as her body exploded in sensation. Her pulse raced, her breath quickened, her blood rushed, and every nerve ending flared. Desire, hot and heavy, possessed her from head to toe.

“You knew me well enough,” he said, the husky burr in his voice seeping under her skin. “Well enough to give me your body.” His finger traced a path down the curve of her cheek to her chin. She was too stunned to move. Too overcome by sensation to turn away. Her heart tugged when his gaze met hers.

She wanted to kiss him, could almost feel the warmth of his lips on hers. The impulse came on with the force of a lightning bolt, but she fought it. She was no longer a girl to allow lust to cloud her judgment. But she couldn’t completely erase the desire from her eyes.

“What’s wrong, Jeannie? Remembering?” His hand slid down her throat. “Was some of it real after all?”

She heard the edge of mockery in his voice and tried to pull away. “Let go of me.” But his hand gripped her wrist like a steel manacle. Their eyes met and for the first time she saw an ember flickering in his gaze. He was not completely unaffected.

Jeannie fought to catch her breath. From somewhere buried deep inside her, she felt an old spark of recklessness, an impulsive urge to provoke him right back. Heedless of the danger, she shifted her body closer, nestling her hips to his and pressing her breasts to his chest. Their bodies slid together, locking together from
memory. She felt the hard column of his erection against her stomach. Heat drenched her with the force of a tidal wave. She looked up at him, letting her eyes settle on his mouth. “I think ’tis you who are remembering. Is what you came back for? Is that it, Duncan? Do you still want me?”

Every muscle in his body tensed and Jeannie wondered if she’d made a mistake. She’d wanted to prove that he was not as indifferent as he pretended, but Duncan was not a man to toy with—he was the most feared warrior on the continent for heaven’s sake. The flare of heat in his eyes frightened her.
He
frightened her. She wasn’t a naïve girl anymore; she knew how dangerous it was to play with fire.

He released her as if she’d suddenly scalded him. He didn’t answer her question, but they both knew the answer. Instead, he returned to the original subject. “I would never harm a child, Jeannie,” he said quietly. “Then or now.”

A horrible thought crept into the back of her mind. She knew nothing about him. Nothing about what his life had been like the past ten years. What if she was not the only woman to fall prey to his undeniable masculine allure? “And you have plenty of experience with children?”

He gave her a hard look. “I’ve never married.”

The twinge of relief disappeared when she recalled her own circumstances. “You better than anyone should know that is not a prerequisite.”

His eyes darkened dangerously. “Just exactly what are you accusing me of?”

She shrugged. “I wonder how many black-haired, blue-eyed bairns are strewn across the continent?”

She’d pushed too far. He grabbed her by the arm and brought her toward him. She gasped, the barely restrained fury in his eyes made her heart race.

“Do you really think I’d consign a child to my burden?”

He had.
She bit the words back and said instead, “Unmarried parents don’t make you a bastard. Your actions do.”

She saw the muscle in his neck tic and knew her barb had struck.

His mouth tightened. “I would never allow a child of mine to go unclaimed.”

Her blood chilled, his words giving voice to her fears. He could never find out about Dougal. Duncan’s birth had always been his Achilles tendon and he would not be rational about it. He would see her lie for what it was and his blasted nobility would never allow him to stand aside.

All she wanted was an explanation and then his swift departure. Gathering up the tattered remnants of her emotions, she pulled herself together. How did he manage to get to her like this? Couldn’t they simply have a rational conversation? Must there always be this strong undercurrent crackling between them, this fierce awareness that made her feel like that foolish, impetuous girl again ready to believe in white knights and faerie tales. She was an adult now, a mother. She should know better.