The Campbell Trilogy (103 page)

“The Laird of Auchinbreck’s eldest son.”

“Colin Campbell?”

She shook her head. It took him a moment to figure out what she meant.

“Duncan Dubh, the bastard?” he asked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

Jeannie lifted her chin. “The manner of his birth is of no import—”

“It’s of every importance,” he shouted, standing and lifting her harshly to her feet. His fingers dug into her arms as he shook her. “You’re a fool if you think I would ever agree to such an arrangement.” His face was livid with rage. “I expected more of you.” The disappointment in his voice cut her to the quick. “You are so like your mother.”

He said it as if there could be no worse comparison. Yes, her mother had made mistakes—but she wasn’t all bad … was she?

He was studying her face too intently. “Just what have you done?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone.

Jeannie shrank back. “N-nothing,” she lied.

He stared at her face as if not sure whether to believe her. “So quick to fall in love are you? But what do you really know about Auchinbreck’s bastard?”

“I know all I need to know. Surely you can see what kind of man he is? He will make a name for himself. Already he is greatly esteemed by his father and cousin. I love him and I know if you just give him a chance—”

He slammed his glass on the table with such fury the amber liquid sloshed over the edge of the glass. “I will hear no more of this. The betrothal has been agreed upon. Return to your room and if I find you have been lying to me, I will see you locked in the tower like your Great-Aunt Barbara. It’s what I should have done with your mother.”

Jeannie’s eyes widened. Her great aunt had been locked in the tower when she refused to marry any other than the man she loved. She’d died there and even
today “Barbie’s Tower” was said to be haunted by her ghost.

She gazed up into the cold, hard eyes of a familiar stranger. The transformation in him couldn’t have been more extreme. God, he meant it. What happened to the man who’d taken her on his lap when her mother left, wrapped her in his big, strong arms, and dried her tears?

But she’d never defied him before. She’d always been the dutiful, biddable girl, trying to atone for the mother who’d left him—who’d left them all. He might love her, but it was not without boundaries—and she’d just crossed them.

She shivered to think what he would do if he ever found out about what she’d done with Duncan.

He must have seen the fear in her eyes. His gaze softened, and he took her hand. “I’m sorry, lass, I should not have said that. I know you aren’t like your mother. You’ve always been a good girl. I know I can count on you to do what’s right. To do your duty to your clan, can’t I?”

She’d hit a nerve, more raw than she’d realized. He would never have spoken to her so otherwise. Her mother’s betrayal had cut deeply. What would it do to him if she did the same? “Y-y-yes, father.” Her voice shook.

His face brightened and he managed a smile. “There’s a good lass. Now we’ll forget all this unpleasantness. I won’t hear another word about a Campbell in this keep. Francis Gordon is a good man, you’ll come to care for him.”

But she’d never love him like she did Duncan.

Jeannie fled from the solar, running across the hall and up the stairs, not stopping until she’d reached her tower chamber.

For hours, she stared out the window, shivering despite the warm day and the plaid she’d wrapped around
her shoulders. Long after her father and his men had gone, she stood up, knowing what she had to do.

I can’t let him die.

Her attempt to make her father see reason had not worked. She prayed she faired better with Duncan.

“I am of the opinion …”

Duncan hoped to never hear those words again. They seemed to ricochet back and forth in his head like a musket ball, leaving him with a splitting headache. The raised voices were all starting to run together.

If this was what a council of war was like, Duncan would stick to fighting. He’d rather take his chances against a claymore and hagbut any day over listening to the same argument go round and round for hours.

Gathered in the great hall of Drumin Castle were the elite of King James’s Highland forces: chiefs, chieftains, and a few trusted captains like Duncan—each of whom insisted on putting forth their opinion. Like a room full of competing cooks who each added seasoning to the pot, all they’d ended up with was salty gruel.

Duncan had been listening to the arguing for the better part of three hours now, and the other men were finally coming to the realization that he’d made hours ago—Argyll could be as stubborn as an old mule.

His cousin had set his course and would not be swayed. No matter how vehemently the council argued otherwise.

On arriving at Drumin Castle, they’d been surprised to learn that Huntly had moved his forces to Auchindoun—only a few furlongs away. Argyll wanted to strike a quick blow against his nemesis and attack on the morrow, before the king and the other clans from the south arrived with their horses. His cousin believed their advantage of position and numbers would be enough.

His chief advisors argued against it. Duncan’s father,
Cawdor, MacLean, and MacNeil, all agreed that it would be precipitous to attack now. Only Grant and Lochnell sided with Argyll.

“We should wait for the king’s orders,” his father reiterated, ever the steady voice in a sea of discontent. “And for the additional cavalry support.”

“By time the king arrives my yellow standard will be flying high atop the tower of Strathbogie,” Archie boasted boldly. “We have all the men we need. Our scouts have put their forces at no more than two thousand. We have five times that many.”

“But most of Huntly’s men are mounted,” his father pointed out, much as Duncan had earlier.

“Our numbers will outweigh any advantage of their horses. We have them where we want them.” Argyll glared at the chiefs defiantly. “I will not sit back and squander this opportunity.”

Duncan knew how important it was to his cousin to prove himself. If they attacked now, Argyll could claim victory for his own. Privately, Duncan was inclined to agree with his cousin. Perhaps the more prudent course would be to wait for the king’s men, but if the men held their positions, they would win without them.

“The earl is right,” Jeannie’s father, the Laird of Freuchie, interjected. “It may take days for the king’s men to arrive. With Huntly’s men here,” he marked a small “x” on the rough map of the area they’d been poring over, “if we move south we can position ourselves here,” he pointed to a small hill above Glenlivet. “From there we will have the high ground from which to attack.”

All of a sudden, from his seat at the opposite end of the table, Duncan felt his cousin’s gaze settle on him. “What do you think, cousin?”

An unnatural quiet descended over the room. Duncan
knew what the men were thinking. What did it matter what the bastard son of Auchinbreck thought?

It was the first time his cousin had made public what many no doubt suspected occurred in private—the earl’s reliance on his counsel. A reliance Duncan knew the others resented. Especially their cousin Lochnell, chief of the senior branch of Clan Campbell behind Argyll.

Archie had put Duncan in an awkward position, forcing him to choose between his father and his cousin. If Duncan sided with his father, and Archie followed Duncan’s advice where he’d ignored that of more important men, the other men would be furious. If he sided with Archie, as he was inclined to do, he would be seen as pandering to his powerful cousin.

His father had obviously reached the same conclusion. Before Duncan could answer, he deflected the question—and the attention—away from Duncan. “My son is eager to fight by your side whether it’s tomorrow or two weeks from now. As are the rest of us, but we do not want to act precipitously.”

“I think we should do as the earl says and attack tomorrow,” Colin offered out of turn, but no one paid him any mind.

The arguing continued back and forth for almost another hour, but eventually Argyll had his way: They would march tomorrow.

Using a map to delineate their positions, they planned their course. It was decided that the vanguard of four thousand men—mostly on foot—would be divided into three sections. The left flank, including the MacNeils and MacGregors, were to be commanded by Grant. The Campbells, commanded by Duncan’s father and Loch nell, would take the center. The right flank would be under the command of MacLean of Duart.

Behind the vanguard Argyll would command the remainder of the army of six thousand men, this time divided
in two divisions. “Cawdor will take the left,” Argyll said, “and the right …”

He looked at Duncan, clearly wanting to give the command to him. Duncan’s heart pounded, anticipating the coup. It would be a great honor to be given such a command at his age—no matter what his station.

Again the room fell quiet. The resentment toward Duncan was palpable. Palpable enough for his cousin to sense it.

He saw the flicker of regret in his cousin’s eyes before Archie shifted his gaze.

Duncan understood his cousin’s predicament, but couldn’t mask his disappointment. The day would come when Duncan’s right to lead could not be denied, but that day would not be today. He was still too young, too unproven for his cousin to chance giving a bastard such a position of importance above the more senior clansmen.

Colin glanced at Duncan then back to Argyll. Duncan sensed his brother’s anxiousness, anxiousness that seemed to be manifesting itself in unusual—even for Colin—brashness. Before Duncan could stop him, Colin volunteered, “I will take the right, cousin.”

“You?” Argyll scoffed, not bothering to hide his amusement. “You’ve barely earned your spurs, boy. Glengarry will take the right.”

Colin turned so red in the face, Duncan thought he might burst a blood vessel in his temple.

Damn.
Their cousin had about as much tact as a charging boar. Archie didn’t have to humiliate Colin like that. Eagerness—even misplaced—should be encouraged.

Duncan half expected their father to intervene, but instead of moving to pacify his son as he often did in these situations where Colin’s rash tongue got him in trouble, his father stayed silent, studying Colin with a disturbed
look on his face. Something was going on between his father and Colin, but Duncan had been so caught up in his own troubles he hadn’t realized so until now.

Colin stewed angrily while the final details of the plan were worked out, and at long last the men stood up to go. Jeannie’s father folded the map and started to slip it into his sporran, but Argyll stopped him with a distracted wave of his hand. “No, no. Let my cousin hold the map.” Both Colin and Duncan stilled, but it was Duncan who he spoke of. “He will be at my side tomorrow should I have need of it.”

His father looked as if he wanted to argue, no doubt assuming as Duncan had done, that he would fight beside his father.

Grant handed it over, giving Duncan a hard look, and for the first time acknowledging Duncan’s presence. “If you think that is best, my lord.” It was clear he didn’t; there was no mistaking the slur in his voice.

Duncan took the map and tucked it into his sporran, meeting the other man’s anger and condemnation full force.
Grant knew
, Duncan realized. Any hope that he would be persuaded to the match faded.

Cognizant of his cousin’s warning to focus on the task at hand, he stayed silent. But one day he would prove himself worthy of Grant’s daughter … one day.

Sizing up the situation, his father distracted Grant with a question and drew him away from Duncan. Gradually the men dispersed, leaving the great hall to see to their men before retiring for the night. Duncan would have joined Colin in doing the same, but his cousin held him back, insisting on going over the battle plan in the laird’s solar one more time. By the time they rose from the table, it was near midnight.

With so many men having descended on Drumin, the great hall and outside barracks were jammed to the rafters. His father had decided to sleep in tents outside
the castle gates with their clansmen. It was quiet as Duncan wound his way through the rows of sleeping men. The night was pleasantly cool, a gentle wind blew from the north.

He was surprised to find a candle flickering and Colin still awake when he pulled aside the canvas flap and ducked inside the small tent.

Colin’s face was half cast in the shadows. For a moment, Duncan thought he saw raw hatred gleam in his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“I was just coming to find you,” Colin said cheerfully. Duncan realized he must have been mistaken as to what he thought he’d seen. Colin handed him a folded missive. “This came for you a few minutes ago.”

Duncan frowned and turned it over in his hand, seeing his name written in bold, but distinctly feminine, strokes. He stilled. It couldn’t be.

“Who is it from?” Colin asked casually. “It looks to be a woman’s writing.”

“I don’t know,” Duncan said, but feared he did.

He tore it open and read. Each word fell like dry leaves on flames. His mouth drew in a tight line. He was going to kill her.

Colin sensed something was wrong. “What is it? Is there a problem?”

“Not for long,” Duncan said darkly. “There is something I must attend to.”

“Now?”

He nodded. “I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

“But the attack …”

“I’ll return in a few hours. Get some sleep.”

“Should I go with you?”

Duncan shook his head and said grimly, “Nay, this is something I must do alone.”