The Campbell Trilogy (115 page)

Her skin still tingled with heat, sensitive to the touch. Her body stirred with restlessness, craving release.

She’d forgotten what it was like to feel passion. What it was like to kiss a man and have her body explode with pleasure so intense it took her breath away. But as the memories had hit, so too did the subtle differences. There was a confidence and strength to his movements that hadn’t been there before. He was no longer a youth, but a man. And he kissed like one. A very big, very strong, very possessive man.

She’d gone without passion for so long, but one day in his presence and it all came rushing back.

What if …?

No, she was being ridiculous. Still dreaming. But girlish dreams had no place in her life now. She had responsibilities. Staying wasn’t an option. She needed him gone by daybreak.

She heard another knock—this one more insistent.

Alarmed and suddenly wide awake, Jeannie slid from bed and tiptoed to the door, careful to avoid the pallet of the other occupant of the room who was (thankfully) still asleep.

Holding one hand flat on the wall, she cracked open the door. It was Mairghread, holding a candle to her face. Even in the shadows, Jeannie could see that something was wrong.

“I’m sorry for waking you, my lady, but you said to let you know immediately. It’s the guardsman.” Jeannie’s heart stopped beating. “He’s taken a turn for the worse.”

For a moment she forgot her anger. “A fever?”

The old woman nodded.

Fear cut down her spine. Just like Francis. It had only been a small slice—an errant slip of a blade during sword practice—but it had festered. Within a week he was gone.

Jeannie felt as if the floorboards had just been yanked out from under her feet. How had this happened? Only a few hours ago he’d kissed her. She’d felt his strength, his passion, the life radiating inside him.

“I’ll be right there,” Jeannie said. She grabbed a plaid to cover her nightraile and slid her bare feet into a pair of soft leather slippers.

Turning back into the room, she knelt down beside the small pallet and kissed the velvety cheek, inhaling the sweet baby-soft scent. Ella wasn’t a baby, not any longer, but she still smelled like one. She’d had another nightmare and Jeannie had allowed her to sleep in her room, knowing it wasn’t the bad dream, but the death of her father that haunted her child. Besides, with the little termagant sleeping beside her, she was easier to keep an eye on.

Within a few minutes, Jeannie was following the healer along the narrow corridor to the stairwell and up the winding stone stairs to the garret above.

Mairghread had already woken Beth, the young nursemaid who slept in the mural chamber, to keep watch on him. Poor Beth seemed to be having a devil of a time doing so, and Mairghread rushed forward to help her.

Duncan had kicked off the bed linens and was writhing back and forth as the maid did her best to keep a damp piece of cloth pressed to his brow. But with his size and strength it was virtually impossible for the two women to keep him down and still. Jeannie should go to help them, but she was frozen.

Not from the cold. The room was hot—stiflingly so—though only a single candle burned. The heat was coming from Duncan, and her chill was from fear. Steeling herself, she forced herself to take a few steps closer.

Oh, God.
She made a muffled sound in her throat and clenched her fist to her mouth.
I can’t do this.

His face flickered in the candlelight, enough for her to see the sickly telltale scarlet flush on his cheeks. His mouth was already white, soon she knew his lips would be cracked and chapped with thirst that could not be sated.

Instinctively she recoiled, taking a step back.

Mairghread read the horrified expression on her face. Their eyes met in shared understanding. The old woman knew how hard she’d fought for her husband’s life and knew what the failure had cost her.

Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Be happy, Jeannie. I’m sorry.”
It was the last thing Francis had ever said to her, as if he’d failed her and not the other way around.

“You don’t need to be here, my lady. Beth knows what to do.”

Jeannie nodded. It was what she wanted to hear. It had almost killed her to watch the man she
should
have loved die, she couldn’t watch Duncan do the same. Duncan, the man she’d once loved but now hated.

At least she wanted to. But as she stood here with fear in her throat and a vise around her chest she felt the veneer crumble. It wasn’t hatred that had ripped open the scar on her heart, revealing the raw and still bleeding wound underneath. It was the memories—the yearning for a past that could never be. He’d ruined her, not of her maidenly virtue but of something far more important—her heart. Seeing him again brought it all back. Kissing him …

She didn’t want to think about this. God, why had he come back?

His body seized and he cried out as the demons of the fever possessed his body, clutching him in their fiery hold.

I could just let him die and it would all be over.

She recoiled from the thought almost as quickly as it had sprung. The malevolent impulse shocked her. Dear
God, where had that come from? It hinted of anger far deeper than she’d realized. Of wounds buried but far from healed.

I have to go.
But her feet remained planted to the floor.

“My lady?” Beth asked, her eyes wide with concern.

Jeannie took a deep breath and tore her gaze from the man on the bed. “I’m fine,” she answered, the terror suddenly releasing its hold. Her mind cleared. He might have left her, but she would not do the same to him. She couldn’t just let him die and do nothing to save him. Not when it was her fault.

She might not be able to help him clear his name, but she could not completely turn away from him.

Squaring her shoulders, she readied for the battle ahead. With quick, determined strides she reached the bed and took Beth’s place at his side. She dunked a cloth in the bowl of cool water, wrung it out, and placed it on his head, holding it to his brow and murmuring soothing words while Mairghread attended to the infected wound.

He settled at the sound of her voice. His eyes fluttered open and locked on hers for a long heartbeat before closing again. He was blinded by the haze of the fever, yet somehow she wondered whether he’d known it was her.

For two long days and nights she stayed at his side, battling the inferno that tried to consume him, not knowing whether he was going to live or die.

She wouldn’t leave his side. Not Mairghread, not her mother-in-law, not even Ella’s worried little face, could drag her from the room. It was no more than she would do for anyone, she told herself. It was her duty.

But it didn’t feel like duty, it felt like an exorcism. The hotter he burned, the deeper her unraveling. Emotions long since buried bubbled to the surface like a volcano
waiting to erupt. She spun back and forth between cursing him to the devil and praying with all she had for his life.

Then, in the wee hours of the second night, he woke. Delirious with fever, he cried out her name, before falling suddenly still. Dead still. Just like Francis.

Panic gripped her heart. “No!” she cried, shaking him. “Damn you, Duncan. You’ve no right to die. I’m not done with you yet.” She’d never got a chance to tell him how much he’d hurt her. How it had felt to know she was pregnant and alone. How her heart had been breaking for him, how all she wanted to do was curl in a ball and cry, but she’d had to be strong. How she’d been forced to marry a man she didn’t love to protect her child from her folly.

She shook him again and again, but he moved lifelessly in her hands. The healer woke at the sound of her voice, and rushed to his side. Mairghread placed her hand on his heart and lowered her cheek to his mouth. When she stood, Jeannie knew from the old woman’s expression that it was bad. “I’m sorry, my lady. The fever has weakened his heart and lungs.”

Jeannie shook her head stubbornly, refusing to believe that this indestructible man could be defeated. Deep in her bones, she knew he would not die. He couldn’t leave her. She wouldn’t let him.

She stared at the once beloved handsome face gray with sickness, a tumult of emotions pressing inside.
I hate you, damn you.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pressed her lips gently to his.

God, I loved you.
She’d loved him with all her girlish heart. And that was what she thought of now. Laying her head on his shoulder, in that warm place she remembered, she wept, mourning the loss of the girl and of the love. She wept for the treacherous circumstances that
had forced them apart, for her lost innocence, for dreams disappointed, and for her son who would never know his father. She wept until she had nothing left.

“There is nothing more you can do for him, lass,” the healer said gently.

Maybe not, but she would try. Duncan was strong—stronger than any man she’d ever known. The fever that had struck with such potent destruction had weakened him, but she knew if anyone could weather such an attack it would be him.

Mairghread left her to her solitary vigil. And on the third morning Jeannie’s belief was rewarded. As the first light of dawn crested over the horizon, Duncan opened his eyes—the blue cobalt every bit as clear and vibrant as she remembered.

His gaze locked on hers, weak and confused but lucid. “How could you marry him, Jeannie? How could you marry someone else?”

The emotion in his voice clamped around her heart. He didn’t know what he was saying, but it didn’t diminish the honesty of his feelings.

He had cared for her. Perhaps not enough to trust her, but she hadn’t been the only one to suffer at their parting. Her throat tightened, moved by the unexpected revelation. “I didn’t have a choice.”

But he didn’t hear her; he’d already slid back into sleep’s healing embrace.

She stared at him for a long while, wondering what it meant.

Exhausted, Jeannie stood, legs shaky, and walked slowly across the room.

It was over. She felt as if she’d been freed from ten years of purgatory. Duncan would live, and she’d finally made some peace with her past.

Maybe now she could have a future.

Duncan woke the next morning feeling as if he’d just made it through hell’s gauntlet. His body was battered, bruised, and weak, but he was alive.

It wasn’t the first time he’d taken fever from a wound, but if the way he was feeling right now was any indication, it was the nearest he’d come to death.

“You’re awake.” The old healer must have been sitting in the corner and heard him stir.

He frowned, feeling a strange stab of disappointment. He’d thought …

Had he only dreamed of Jeannie’s presence at his side?

“You’ll be wanting something to drink,” the woman said, passing him a cup of water.

“Aye,” he said. “And a bath when one can be arranged.”

The woman chortled. “Feeling a wee bit gritty, are you?”

To put it mildly.

“The lady anticipated your request and has ordered a bath to be brought to your room when you are ready. Beth will see to your needs.”

“And Lady Gordon?” he found himself asking.

“Which one?” Duncan lifted his brow in question and the old woman explained. “The Marchioness has been in residence since the death of the young laird.”

Huntly’s wife … here?
Hell.
He’d met her once, years ago. Though it was unlikely she would remember the bastard son of a Campbell, he would do his best to avoid her. The old battle-ax was every bit as formidable as her husband and dealt with enemies swiftly and brutally. Not long before Glenlivet when the Chief of Mackintosh who’d been feuding with the Gordons had thrown himself upon her mercy—and with foolish bravado offered to lay his head on the executioners block in submission—the Marchioness had accepted his
grandiose offer and had him beheaded. “The Mistress,” he clarified.

The healer’s eyes narrowed. “Getting some well-deserved sleep. She didn’t leave your bedside for three days. I’ll not have you disturb—”

“Nay,” Duncan cut her off. “I’ve no wish to disturb her.” He couldn’t deny the swell of pleasure. He hadn’t dreamed it. Jeannie
had
been here. He knew better than to put too much weight to the fact, but perhaps she wasn’t as hardhearted toward him as he’d thought. For some reason that mattered.

The healer was watching him closely. Almost as if she were reading his thoughts, she said, “ ’Tis no more than she would do for any man.”

Duncan heard the implicit warning that echoed his own thoughts—don’t put too much store in her devotion.

The old woman frowned. “Though it was difficult for her after losing the master so recently.”

Duncan tensed. He didn’t want to think about Francis Gordon, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How did he die?” Lizzie hadn’t been specific in her note.

“The fever,” she said bluntly. “He took a cut on his arm, during practice one day, and it festered. The sickness nearly took the lady along with it, so hard did she fight for his life.”

His chest tightened. Jeannie must have loved her husband something fierce for such devotion.