The Campbell Trilogy (111 page)

He stilled, then let out a bark of laughter. Something she would wager he did quite a bit of. His rough, ruddy countenance seemed prone to joviality—a foil to Duncan’s dour darkness. “Aye, lass, you’ve a wicked sense of humor.” He shook his head. “Hurt him?” He laughed, then turned to Duncan for confirmation.

Duncan nodded. “Go. See to the horses. I’ll be fine.”

The men moved slowly. The blond one turned to her at the door. “You’ll let us know …”

“As soon as the healer has looked at him,” Jeannie assured him.

He nodded and the two men left. The room seemed infinitely larger—and blessedly cooler.

Mairghread, the healer, was already at work. She examined
him for a few minutes before looking up at Jeannie. “I’ll need to remove his cotun and sark, my lady.”

His men must have helped him remove the leather plated cuirass he wore over his chest. Knowing he was watching her, Jeannie held her expression and tone even. “I’ll help you.”

She pursed her lips together, steeling herself for the unpleasantness.
It’s nothing you haven’t seen before
, she told herself. If only he wasn’t watching her so intently, those cool, unforgettably blue eyes leveled on her—unflinching and unnerving.

Her hands shook as her fingers worked the leather buckles of one side of his quilted leather cotun studded with bits of metal as Mairghread worked the other. Furious, she forced herself to steady and focused on the task at hand, not on the man, and certainly not on the intimacy of the act to which she was involved. But leaning over him like this, his scent reached out to grab her in its familiar hold. Beyond the warm leather and the faint coppery hint of blood, she caught the sea and the wind—and the elusive masculine spice that had always been uniquely his.

It was really him. All these years and he’d finally returned. A hard wave of longing washed over her, dragging her back.

But she pushed the memories aside. He’d lost the right to affect her.

If it was any consolation—and it was—the removal of his clothing didn’t seem to be any more enjoyable for him. He stiffened and clenched his teeth in pain when they tried to move it past his shoulders. A task that was proving impossible. “Cut it off,” he said tightly.

Jeannie’s brows wrinkled. “Are you sure?” It was a fine garment, expertly worked, and by the look of it costly. Now that she thought about it, everything about him bespoke wealth. From the weaponry his men had
removed and set beside him when they laid him down on the bed, to the gold scabbard at his waist, to his clothing. He’d done well for himself—very well. She’d never doubted he would.

“ ’Tis no matter,” he dismissed without a second thought. “And the sark as well. It will be easier than trying to lift it over my head.”

Jeannie reached down and slid the jewel-encrusted dirk from its scabbard, surprised by its weight. She turned it around in her hand, marveling at the workmanship. A weapon like this was fit for a king. Carefully, holding the dirk to his neck, she prepared to score the leather.

“Remember your promise,” he said. She eyed him quizzically. “To Conall.”

Not to hurt him. Her mouth quirked in spite of herself. “I’ll do my best, but the temptation might prove too difficult to overcome.”

And then, as if to emphasize her words, she held the edge of the blade to just below his jaw and in one decisive stroke, sliced from the neck to the edge of his shoulder.

To his credit he didn’t flinch. Not once. Not even when she slowly slid the blade along the opening at the neck of his shirt. Nor when her fingers accidentally brushed his bare skin.

But she did. The moment her fingertips met smooth, hot skin, she felt the jolt from head to toe. The intense awareness. The full body reaction. The sensation that every nerve ending had come alive. The same thing she’d felt all those years ago.

The weakness infuriated her—her body’s reaction seemed the ultimate betrayal. She could, however, control what she did with that reaction. She was no longer an innocent girl with stars in her eyes. So she buried it
under years of hurt and disappointment where it belonged.

She could feel his eyes on her, and knew that he’d sensed her reaction, but she kept her focus on the task at hand. She continued wielding her blade through the material and after a few more minutes of struggling and cutting, the cotun and sark lay in shreds at his side.

She stood back to admire her handiwork and choked on the involuntary gasp. The bottom of her stomach dropped to the floor. She’d like to claim that it was from the bloody hole a few inches left of his right hip, but it wasn’t the wound that knocked her senseless.

It was the wide span of tanned chest and arms. Forsooth, he was incredible. As imposing a specimen of masculinity as she’d ever seen.

His countenance wasn’t the only thing that had changed with maturity. The lean build of youth had given way to thick slabs of finely chiseled, heavily built muscle. It was as if he’d been chipped from stone, each cut precise and honed to perfection, without an ounce of spare flesh on him. From the tight bands layered across his stomach, to the smooth round curves of his arms, he was built for one purpose: battle. And if the numerous scars that lined his chest and arms were any indication, he’d seen his fair share.

Heat spread over her, her limbs suddenly heavy. She couldn’t seem to look away.

She wasn’t the only one to notice. Mairghread might be approaching three score in years but she wasn’t blind, and such a display of masculine strength and power could only be admired.

He was no longer a boy, but a man. A warrior. Jeannie felt a pang in her chest. A stranger. This was not the boy she’d foolishly given her heart to, but a man who’d lived a life that she knew nothing about. The years
stretched between them, separating, snapping any connection they’d once shared.

Her gaze fell.

For the next hour Jeannie worked alongside the healer, trying to undo the harm caused by her pistol and overeager trigger finger. When it became clear that they would need to dig out the ball, Jeannie started to call for one of his men to hold him down, but he stopped her.

His fingers circled her wrist. She fought a gasp, but the big, callused hand felt like a brand on her skin. She was at once cognizant of his strength. He could crush her bones with one squeeze.

“It won’t be necessary,” he said.

Jeannie eyed the healer, having some familiarity with recalcitrant patients of the Highland persuasion. Mairghread rolled her eyes and mumbled something about stubborn laddies.

“Are you sure?” Jeannie asked, carefully pulling her wrist free. Her skin tingled, and she had to resist the urge to rub the warm imprint of his touch away.

“Aye,” he replied grimly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had a bit of lead in me.”

She had to bite her tongue to prevent further questions, though when Mairghread began digging with her dirk, Jeannie doubted he would have been able to answer. His jaw locked, and every muscle in his neck and shoulders clenched against the pain that the knife must be causing. Sweat gathered on his brow, but he held perfectly still and said nothing—not one cry, not one grunt.

But his eyes burned into hers, holding her gaze the entire time. Jeannie’s pulse raced, her heart pounded in her too-tight chest through every agonizing minute, feeling as if she was seated on the edge of a precipice. When it was over, she was sure she was more exhausted than he was.

Mairghread assured her that the ball would not kill
him—and as long as fever did not set in, he would recover well enough. Jeannie shuddered at the thought of fever. Now that the initial shock and anger of seeing him had faded, she didn’t want him dead, just gone.

After cleansing the wound with water and giving Jeannie a piece of linen with which to hold against the bleeding, Mairghread left for a few minutes to retrieve some herbs and salves from her storeroom near the kitchens.

Jeannie kept her gaze focused on the wound, but was deeply conscious of being alone with him. Of the uncomfortable silence broken only by the even sound of his breath and the erratic beat of her heart that not even her strong will could tame.

“Why didn’t you turn me in?” His voice was flat, emotionless.

She schooled her features in a similar fashion, giving no hint to the turmoil unleashed by his question. By him.

Why indeed when he could do her such harm? She didn’t know. Every minute he was here increased the risk of discovery of her secret. And there was her family to consider. Duncan’s reemergence would not bode well for either the Gordons or the Grants.

But when the time came to speak against him, it seemed as if every instinct in her body had revolted. Perhaps she wasn’t as hard-hearted and vengeful as she’d like to think. But she suspected her reasons went deeper than that. She’d had so many questions after he’d left: Why did he not try to defend himself, why had he been so quick to damn her, why did he leave without saying good-bye? Why did he wait ten years to come back? Questions that needed answering. Maybe then she could finally put the past behind her and have a chance at finding happiness.

She’d failed her husband, never being able to give him
the love he so selflessly gave her; she would not do that to another man.

But she could hardly tell that to Duncan. He was watching her closely—too closely—his gaze hard and unrelenting. Just like the man himself. This stranger who could still make her feel like she was jumping out of her skin with one deep, penetrating gaze.
Fool.

She gave him a hard look. “I assure you my motives were purely selfish and had nothing to do with any fond memories or sentimentality toward you.” He had no reaction, not that she expected him to. If she’d ever harbored a girlish fantasy that he’d longed for her, that one day he would realize how he’d wronged her, it had fizzled that first moment she’d looked into his eyes. He was not here to fall at her feet and beg forgiveness. He was here because he wanted something. She gave him a pointed look. “What do you want from me?”

“Information. Access.”

Her skin prickled with alarm. “Nothing would be gained by resurrecting events that are better left in the past.”

Anger glinted in his hard blue eyes. That was one thing that hadn’t changed. His eyes were still a startling deep blue—a striking contrast to his black hair. She’d always thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen. That hadn’t changed either.

“Easy to say when it’s not your name that has been blackened and dragged through the mud for the past ten years. What of justice? Would that not be served?” His gaze narrowed at her accusingly. “What you mean is that it’s better for you and your family if the treachery done that day is forgotten.”

Heat flared in her cheeks, but she met his gaze defiantly. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean.” He was right. Trouble was the last thing her clan needed right now; their situation was precarious enough. With her father-in-law,
the Marquis of Huntly, excommunicated and imprisoned in Stirling Castle for once again failing to convince the Kirk that he no longer adhered to the Popish faith, the name of Gordon was not exactly a welcome one at court. Nor did Jeannie want to bring trouble for her brother John, the new Laird of Freuchie, by reminding the Earl of Argyll of her father’s treachery at Glenlivet. The king may have forgiven her father his trespasses, but Argyll never had—not even her father’s death two years ago had cleansed his sin. Duncan’s sudden return would open up all the old hatred. Her eyes locked on Duncan’s. “Please, just leave it be.”

But her pleas had never had any effect on him. She would never forget the last time she’d seen him. The humiliation was imprinted on her mind. When she’d clung to him like a lovesick fool, begging him to believe her, and he’d coldly—heartlessly—pushed her away and never looked back. He had the same hard, unyielding look in his eyes then as he did now. And she felt the same foolish urge to break through.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he said, his face a mask of steely determination.

Dread washed over her, knowing that he would not be swayed. He’d set a course and nothing would get in his way—no matter who he hurt along the way. Certainly not her. If she’d ever meant anything to him that day was long past.

She stared at him, searching in vain for an opening, but there was not a weak bone in his body. Even laying in bed wounded, having lost a good amount of blood, he still managed to reign supreme—his authority and raw physical strength undeniable. The promise he’d shown as a youth had been more than fulfilled.

If only it were just physical, but his strength permeated his character as well. And once he was resolved, he
was immoveable. Trying to break through to him would be like trying to throw herself through a stone wall.

Only once had she changed his mind, she thought, recalling the night at the alehouse. But then her seduction had been unconscious, not cold and calculated, were she tempted, which she wasn’t, to use that particular tool in her depleted arsenal to stop him.

And in the end, even her body hadn’t been enough. He’d left her anyway.

The healer’s prompt return prevented further discussion and Duncan was grateful for the reprieve. Being with Jeannie again after all these years set off a multitude of conflicting feelings firing inside him. In his mind he might have relegated her to an unfortunate mistake in his past, but he wasn’t as immune to her as he wanted to be.

He hadn’t breathed the entire time she’d had her hands on him as she’d removed his clothes. Not just because he was steeling himself against reacting to her touch, but because at the very first whiff of her delicate scent he’d felt like he was jumping out of his damned skin.

And the feathery brush of her fingers … a woman’s hands hadn’t provoked such an intense reaction in him in years. His mouth fell in a grim line. Ten years to be precise.

He was not unused to women casting admiring glances in his direction. But when her eyes had fixed on his bare chest, widened in feminine appreciation, and then gone a little soft and hazy, it had done something to him altogether different. His body had reacted to a look as if she’d stroked his cock with her tongue. He’d gone as hard as a damned spike, blinded by a flash of lust so strong it had shocked the hell out of him. He thought he’d lost the capacity to feel like that. He’d forgotten
how desire could drown everything else in its black hold.