The Campbell Trilogy (114 page)

She returned to the original subject. “Ella has been a trifle headstrong of late, I will make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”

He seemed about to object, but then appeared to reach the same conclusion as she had—better not to encourage an acquaintance.

But he wasn’t quite done yet. “You have a son as well?”

She tensed, but quickly masked the visceral reaction to the danger posed by his question. She spoke carefully, feeling as if each word somehow held the potential to
explode. “Yes, he is being fostered.” She didn’t want to tell him anything, but knew it would be better to be as honest as possible. He would sense any caginess on her part.

His reaction moments ago only solidified what she already knew. He would insist on claiming his son, even if it meant labeling him a bastard and destroying everything she’d done to protect her son from the scandal Duncan had left in his wake. She couldn’t risk it—not when it was her son who would suffer. Duncan had lost any claim on Dougall when he’d left her.

She felt his eyes on her, watching intently.

“How old is he,” he asked, “your son?”

She met his gaze, her expression betraying none of the raging panic inside her. She had gone to a great deal of trouble to protect her secret, she could not allow him to suspect anything.

The Battle of Glenlivet had turned out to be her salvation. The Gordons had been forced into exile. Francis hadn’t gone with his father to the continent, but they’d removed to a remote castle up north with only a few trusted servants. They hadn’t returned for almost two years and by then Dougall’s true age was easy to hide. Moreover, there was no reason anyone should question his age. Only one person could do that.

“He just turned nine.” She phrased her next words for maximum impact. “He was born over a year after Francis and I were wed.”

She thought something in his gaze might have flickered at the mention of her marriage.

“Where is he being fostered?”

Even though every instinct in her body urged her to say nothing more, she forced herself to appear as if she had nothing to hide. “Dougall is at Castleswene with your brother.”

“With Jamie?” He didn’t hide his surprise.

It was one more reason she had to be grateful to her husband. Dougall would never know that he was being fostered by his uncle, but Francis had found a way for him to be tied to his kin. “The battle of Glenlivet was a long time ago, Duncan. Old feuds have mended.”

“My cousin hasn’t forgotten,” Duncan pointed out.

“Perhaps not, but there is no reason for Argyll to renew old hostilities.”

His gaze hardened. “You mean unless I make him remember.”

“Yes.”

“Why does this matter so much to you? Your father and husband are both dead, not even my cousin can reach them where they are.”

Jeannie’s breath caught, her eyes widening in sudden understanding.
Francis.
That was why he’d come to her. “Am I to understand that it is not just my father and me you have envisioned in this conspiracy against you, but my husband as well?” The hard look on his face was all the answer she needed. “Francis had nothing to do with what happened to you.”

She thought he flinched, but his even voice gave no hint to his thoughts. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because he would never do something so dishonorable as to frame another man for treason.”

“And your father would?”

Her mouth tightened, anger stained her cheeks. “I didn’t say that.”

“Grant had to be in contact with someone in the Gordon camp and your quick marriage certainly suggests that it was your husband.”

Her gaze shot to his, hearing the sharp bite in his tone. The speed of her marriage had bothered him. She felt the strange urge to laugh. If he only knew the reason why. The man who Duncan sought to drag through the mud had given his bastard not just a name, but an inheritance.
Francis had known she was pregnant when he married her. Not many men would do what he’d done—claiming, raising, loving her child as his own.

Her husband had done so much for her and yet she’d never been able to give him the one thing he wanted.

Because of Duncan.

Guilt rose inside her. She might not have been able to give Francis her love, but she could damn well give him her loyalty. She wouldn’t let Duncan embroil him in this mess.

“You can’t deny that your father was working with your husband?”

“No.” It had been Francis who’d met her father that day in the solar. “But encouraging my father to change sides in battle is an entirely different proposition from framing a man for treason. What reason could he have?”

His eyes burned into her. “The same reason as your father. You. He would not be the first man to act ignobly for a woman.”

She shook her head. “You are wrong. Francis left Freuchie Castle
before
I told my father about us. My husband had nothing to do with what happened to you.”

Remembering the conversation she’d overheard a few days later about the map and gold, she ignored the twinge of uncertainty.

His eyes bored into her with a strange intensity. “Prove it. Let me look through his things.”

“I don’t need to prove it. I knew him, and I know he wasn’t involved.”

Her impassioned defense of her husband seemed to enrage him. His mouth drew into a sneer. “All men can be made fools for a beautiful woman.”

Including him. That’s what he meant. She flushed at the scorn in his voice. “Look somewhere else to prove
your innocence, Duncan. I will not allow you to besmirch my husband’s good name.” She owed Francis that at least for all he’d done.

But she had an even greater reason. It wasn’t only the discovery of Dougall’s parentage that she had to fear or even the trouble that the reminder of Glenlivet could pose for her family. By casting suspicion on Francis and labeling him a traitor, Duncan could put her son’s inheritance in jeopardy and risk all she’d done to protect him.

Her eyes turned as hard as glass. Whatever sympathy she had for his plight dissolved in the face of the danger he posed to her son.

I should have turned him in when I had the chance.

Duncan could barely think from the anger pounding through his blood. How did she get to him like this?

It had been a mistake to touch her. His skin still burned from where she’d pressed up against him. For one treacherous instant his body had surged with lust, with visceral memories of pleasure almost too powerful to resist. Almost.

He hated weakness of any kind, but he had to admit she did something to him. She got to him the way no other woman ever had.

She was so damned beautiful. Standing there with her eyes flashing, cheeks flushed, her hair shining like copper in the sunlight.

All that passion, all that emotion … for another man.

He wanted it for himself. The primitive urge to drive away all thoughts of another man surged inside him. His fists clenched at his sides as he fought for control. His gaze met hers, hot with challenge. “How do you intend to stop me?”

Her absolute refusal to help him, to consider that her husband might have had a part in what happened to him ate through the walls of his indifference like acid.
The sanctity of her husband’s name mattered more than his freedom. Mattered more than right or wrong.

What had he expected? Nothing had changed. Misplaced or not, her loyalty to her family still hung between them.

Once again the line had been drawn in the dirt and she’d chosen to stand on the opposite side. To prove his innocence he needed to investigate her family—possibly uncovering some ugly truths—and she would do everything she could to prevent it. It seemed their interests would always be at odds.

“I could call the guards,” she threatened.

And she looked angry enough to do it. “But you won’t,” he said with more confidence than he felt. She held his gaze for a long beat and he wondered if he’d miscalculated. He used to be able to read her emotions so easily, now she was cool and controlled. Her indifference riled him. But it was her unquestioning loyalty to her damned husband that egged him to recklessness.

He took a step toward her, letting his body tower over hers, forcing her to acknowledge him, wanting to prove that it had meant something, that he wasn’t the only one to remember. He could see her tense, see her pulse beating faster at her neck, see the way her senses flared. She wanted to retreat, but her pride wouldn’t let her. “Because no matter what you claim, Jeannie, I think you still remember how good it was between us.”

“Youthful fumblings? You forget I was married for ten years and have learned the difference.”

White hot rage flashed inside him. God’s wounds, she pushed too far. Just thinking about—
imagining
—her with another man drove him insane.

He pulled her into his arms, crushing her body to his. He heard her gasp, and felt the shudder ripple through her and wanted to roar with satisfaction when her nipples hardened against his chest.

God she felt good. His body exploded with hot, heavy sensation. Desire pounded through his body, so hard that he shook with it.

“I think it’s you who forget,” he challenged, lowering his mouth. Youthful fumblings? Inexperienced they might have been, but he remembered only too well how good it had been between them. His skills no doubt had improved over the years, but passion like they shared could not be learned. It was something in the blood, in the senses, a visceral connection that defied description.

Damn her.

He crushed her lips to his and kissed her with all the passion she’d unleashed inside him with her taunts. He groaned at the first taste of her. At the honey sweetness he’d never been able to completely forget.

Her lips were softer than he remembered; her skin and hair more fragrant. Everything was
more.

His kiss was punishing. Hard and deep. Starving. One hand slid behind her neck, winding through her silky hair as the other moved over the round curve of her bottom to lift her against him.

He needed pressure. He needed to release the tension that had been coiled inside him from the first moment he’d seen her.

She froze as if too stunned to respond. For a moment he felt her body sag, felt her relax and open to his kiss …

Suddenly she made a strangled sound and jerked away, pushing against his chest and breaking free of his hold. She stared at him, cheeks flushed, breath heaving, eyes hard as emeralds, mouth swollen a deep pink. “You’re wrong, I don’t want you.”

Her barb struck with the opposite effect than the one she intended. It didn’t dissuade him, rather only made him more intent on proving her wrong. She wanted him
every bit as badly as he wanted her, he knew it with every bone in his body.

He took a step toward her, lust and anger coiling inside him ready to strike. Her eyes widened.

The flash of fear stopped him cold.

It wasn’t him she was afraid of, but of how easily he could prove her wrong. But it was fear all the same.

He took a step back, and forced his blood to cool. God, what the hell did she do to him? One taste of her and he turned half-crazed. His desire was too close to the surface, ready to flare at the first scent of her. He’d never had a problem controlling his base impulses, except with her.

He’d spent part of his manhood trying to ease the stain of treason and his bastard birth, gaining fame and fortune as the “Black Highlander.” Honor, nobility, duty—those were what he believe in. But one day in her presence and he was acting like a damned barbarian, ready to press his point to satisfy his damned masculine pride.

He’d let her keep hers—this time. But if she pushed him again …

Perhaps sensing her narrow escape, Jeannie said, “One more day, Duncan. That is all. I want you gone in the morning.”

And without another word she turned and left.

She was right; he needed to get the hell out of here. This place was too dangerous for him. It wasn’t the threat of calling the guards that worried him, but the memories—the very sharp and visceral memories.

Jeannie’s body was drenched with sweat as she writhed in bed, the cool linen sheets rubbing uncomfortably against her sensitive skin. She was so hot. So heavy. So ready. Her body soft and throbbing.

She could feel his mouth on her lips, on her throat. Feel the rough calluses of his palms as his hands slid over her possessively.

His tongue was in her mouth, probing, sliding, twisting against hers. She could taste him on her lips. Feel the scratch of his beard against her skin. Feel the weight of his muscled body pressing down on hers.

Her body swelled, her breasts heavy, her skin too tight.

His hand slid between her legs. Her heart pounded. Her breath caught … anticipating. She wanted to cry out in pleasure at the first touch. The first stroke of his finger sliding inside her bringing exquisite relief. Her hips lifted against the heel of his hand, her thighs squeezed. She could feel the pressure building …

A soft rap on the door startled her awake. Jeannie opened her eyes to darkness. Her body sagged with disappointment.
It had only been a dream.
Groggy with sleep, she closed them again, rolled over, and dragged the pillow over her head. That kiss had not only shattered her peace of mind it had penetrated her dreams, rousing feelings she’d thought long since forgotten.