The Campbell Trilogy (106 page)

His soft breathing sounded in her ear, filling her with contentment such as she’d never known before. She smiled, her fingers toying with the smattering of fine hairs that formed a triangle on his chest. He’d earned his sleep.

So had she. He was here, with her, safe.

She sighed, nuzzling deeper into the crook of his arm, and closed her eyes. Everything was going to be all right.

It was her last coherent thought before sleep dragged her under.

It was still dark when Duncan jerked awake.

He swore, furious with himself for falling asleep. He needed to get back to camp before he was missed. Carefully he untwined himself from Jeannie’s naked limbs and eased from the bed.

It creaked loudly with the removal of his weight and Jeannie stirred, but did not wake. It was probably for the best. He hated leaving like this, without explanation, but neither did he have time for another scene.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He’d only meant to comfort her, to calm her fears with a gentle kiss. But he’d tasted her need, felt her urgency in the sweet press of her body against his, and desire had reared up inside him like a wild angry beast demanding to be set free. Would it always be like this between them? Hot and explosive, almost desperate in its urgency?

Even after the first time, his efforts to slow the pace and tease out her pleasure were for naught. Their emotions were too raw, their passion too fiery, their need too violent. He lost his mind when he was with her. A small part of him questioned whether he was equipped to handle something so intense. He’d never thought something like this could happen to him. He’d always felt his destiny lay on the battlefield; love had never seemed part of it. Love only complicated things. He need only look as far as the old tales of Arthur or Tristan to see that.

His gaze lingered on her face, her delicate features almost angelic in repose—were it not for the naughty mouth. Even sleep couldn’t hide the decidedly sensual curve of her lips.

His chest tightened, moved beyond words that she was his.

Forcing his gaze away, he squinted into the darkness trying to locate his belongings, which in his eagerness—or frenzy—had been strewn around the room.

Instead he was surprised to see everything folded in a neat pile. He frowned. When had she done that? He shook his head. He must have slept deeper than he’d realized. Given what they’d been doing—and that he’d found release three times in about an hour—it probably wasn’t all that surprising. He should count himself fortunate that he woke at all from such a sated slumber.

He dressed quickly and pressed one more kiss on her temple before quietly leaving the room. Less than an hour later, after leaving instructions with the ale woman to rouse the guardsmen at dawn, he pushed back the flaps and entered the dark tent.

He was glad Colin was asleep—he was far too tired for explanations. With only a few hours left until daybreak, he didn’t bother to remove his clothes, tossing off only his weapons and sporran beside him before crawling onto his pallet. He was so damned tired.

And morning would come soon enough.

Duncan’s eyes and throat burned from the acrid smoke of gunpowder that hovered like a shroud over the bloody battlefield. Sweat poured from every inch of his body. He was exhausted, dirty, and bleeding from too many places to count. It was a rout all right, just not the way his cousin had planned.

“Fall back!” he yelled to a party of men advancing before him. But it was too late. The cannon ball exploded right in front of them, taking two men with it. Five more explosions followed in quick succession down the line with similar deadly results.

Initially, the sight of limbs torn apart and flying body parts had startled him just as it had the rest of the Campbell forces. It had taken all of Duncan’s command to prevent half the troops from deserting at the first blast of the strange, terrifying weapon that attacked with a devastating power never before encountered.

That first cannon shot had proved a harbinger of things to come. By no accident it had been aimed right at his cousin’s position, claiming not the intended target, Argyll, but Campbell of Lochnell who rode at his side.

Now, hours later, with the rest of the army deserting all around them, all that was left of the vanguard were his father’s men and the right wing under the command of MacLean of Duart.

It wasn’t only Huntly’s cannon that had decimated them, however, but treachery.

His mouth fell in a grim line. Jeannie’s father, the Chief of Grant, had betrayed them, retreating at the first cannonade, taking the entire left position with him, and irretrievably crippling the vanguard from the start.

Had Jeannie known what her father intended? Throughout the long day, the question—or more specifically, the answer he knew—haunted him.

When the smoke from the latest barrage cleared he looked around for the earl. This time his damned cousin would bloody well listen to him: Argyll needed to retreat. It was too dangerous this close to the line, and it had become too difficult to protect him. Their numerical advantage was gone. The men who’d eagerly answered the call, hoping for spoils, had second thoughts at the first sign of difficulty. They had about two hundred fifty mounted men and perhaps a thousand foot soldiers to Huntly’s fifteen hundred cavalry, though those who remained with them were mostly trained warriors. But hagbuts and swords, even in the hands of trained soldiers, could not defeat cannon. All that had prevented the center vanguard from collapsing was their superior position upon the hill and the fact that the sun was behind them.

He turned his mount around from where he’d ridden ahead to try to warn the men, and then scanned the line behind him, relieved to see Argyll at his father’s side.

His cousin could shoot a musket well enough, but in close combat, skill with a sword was preferable—a man could be skewered before he had a chance to reload. Duncan’s father wielded a sword with enough skill for them both.

As had occurred all day, a force of Huntly’s men had charged forward after the cannon fire, taking advantage of the gaps in the line created by the explosions. But right away, Duncan could see that this time something
was different. There were more men, more horses, and more guns—all aimed directly at his father and Argyll.

He shouted a warning, but it was swallowed up in the clash and clatter of the battle. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the reins and clapped his heels to urge his horse to a gallop, but the distance to close was too great. His pulse raced. He wasn’t going to make it.

Dread rose up inside him.

Through the smoke, through the tangle of moving limbs and mail of fighting soldiers, Duncan saw the barrel of the gun pointed right at Argyll.

Time suspended. It felt like he had one foot dangling over the edge of a cliff, tottering as he fought to pull back. Duncan knew what was going to happen. He could almost see the bullet strike his cousin, and every instinct, every fiber of his being, rushed up to try to prevent it. But time wouldn’t stop long enough for him to catch up.

The Gordon soldier pulled the trigger.

He saw the spark. Felt the delay. Heard the blast.

He must have shouted again because his father looked up, caught sight of him barreling toward them, and quickly discerned the reason why. With his sword raised, he threw his body into Archie’s with enough force to knock them both from their horses. Stumbling to the ground, his father managed to strike a blow, splaying open the man who’d just fired the gun.

With a fierce battle cry, Duncan arrived at full gallop, cutting down two more. His father’s guardsmen rallied behind him, and with a burst of renewed ferocity, fought back the charge.

When it was done, and the Gordons had retreated to prepare for the next volley, Duncan jumped off his horse and plowed through the circle of men who’d surrounded his father and Argyll.

His path was blocked by his cousin. His relief at seeing
Archie alive was replaced by anger. Now maybe he would listen. “Damn it, Archie, you need to move back. You could have been killed.”

“Duncan, I’m sorry …” Archie’s expression filled Duncan’s veins with ice.

He held his cousin’s stare for a long heartbeat and then pushed passed him, knowing what he would see.

No.
His chest clamped down so tightly that he couldn’t breathe.

His father lay prone on the ground. One of his guardsmen knelt beside him, holding a cloth to staunch the blood gushing from his side. The ball had avoided the plate mail, instead finding a narrow gap of unprotected flesh.

“Father.” Duncan fell to his knees.

“I’m fine,” his father said, his voice clenched as if even breathing added too much pain.

Duncan’s throat tightened. They both knew he lied.

Another cannonball exploded nearby, sending a spray of dirt, rock, and smoke in all directions. He needed to do something before they were all killed. He wanted to go with his father and see him to safety, but as long as men were fighting his duty lay on the battlefield.

“We need to get you back to the castle.” He stood and quickly issued instructions to a few nearby men.

“Colin?” his father gasped.

The heir.
Something twisted in his chest.

“Safe,” Duncan assured him, ignoring the hurt. “I sent him back to get more ammunition. I’ll send him to you when he returns.”

“Watch … over … will … need … you.”

Duncan wanted to argue against the implication, refusing to accept that his father was dying, but nodded instead. His father needed all his strength to battle his injury.

Panic suddenly widened his father’s gaze. “Must … tell … you … sorry …” Another explosion cut off what he’d been trying to say, and the effort proved too much for him as he fell unconscious.

The men hustled his father away and Duncan turned to Argyll, steel in his eyes. “Go with them.”

This time the earl didn’t argue, but his cousin’s face was twisted with hatred. One day Archie would be a great leader, but he did not yet possess the age or maturity to weather a blow of this magnitude to his pride with grace. His face flushed red and his eyes bulged with rage. “It’s not fair. Were it not for treachery this would be my moment of triumph.” Tears of humiliation streamed down his cousin’s cheeks. “This is all Grant’s fault. I’ll destroy him.”

Duncan nodded grimly, but he wasn’t thinking about Grant—he had no doubt the Laird of Freuchie would get what he deserved. He was thinking about Grant’s daughter. Jeannie’s father’s betrayal had cut off any possibility of a match sanctioned by their families.

But it might have done more than that. His chest tightened.
She knew.
It was the only explanation for why she’d come for him last night.

And now his father lay dying.

His jaw clenched. He didn’t have time to think about the ramifications. Huntly’s clansmen from the next charge were just breaking over the rise in front of them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of brass and silver. His father’s sword was right where he’d left it, staked like a cross impaled through the chest of the man who’d shot him. The enormous two-handed great sword—almost six feet in length—had been handed down to the Chiefs of Campbells of Auchinbreck since the time of the Bruce. Engraved on the blade was one word:
steadfast.

Clasping the horn grip with one hand, he slowly
pulled it from the dead Gordon and, brandishing it before him, turned to face his attackers. They were almost upon him.

He fought like a man possessed. Perhaps he was. Bastard or no, his father’s blood ran through him, and he could feel the strength of his ancestors behind him as he wielded blow after deadly blow, crushing all who came in his path.

They repelled the attack with ease and were waiting for the next when he noticed one of the MacLean’s guardsmen riding hell-bent toward them. The guardsman looked around, obviously searching for a leader. Duncan stepped forward. With his father gone from the field, as captain he was in charge of what was left of his clansmen.

“What is it, Fergus?”

If the MacLean clansman was surprised by Duncan’s assertion of command he didn’t show it. “It’s the Mackintosh. He and his men are surrounded. My laird is doing all he can to hold off the Earl or Erroll.” Erroll was Huntly’s loyal cohort and fiercest warrior. MacLean had to hold him; if Erroll broke through they were done. Someone else would have to go to Mackintosh’s aid.

Duncan didn’t hesitate. “Where?”

Fergus pointed to the gap in the ridge on the other side of the burn.

Through the haze Duncan could just make out the skirmishing warriors. Perhaps a dozen men had been separated from the rest of the force and were trapped in a narrow gully between the two hills—completely surrounded by Huntly’s forces who were descending on them like vultures.

A quick reconnaissance of the situation proved grim. Any rescuers seemed just as likely to be slaughtered as the men they were trying to reach. Their only chance was to strike hard enough at Huntly’s left vanguard, creating
enough of a diversion to give the Mackintoshes time to retreat through whatever gap they could create. With a big enough force it wouldn’t be as difficult, but Duncan knew he could not afford more than a few men—they were having time enough of it as it was defending their own position. If they lost the hill, they lost the battle.