Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(104)

The lady would see them.

Duncan arranged for horses and not long afterward, he, Jeannie, and the two Gordon guardsmen were riding up the hill through the landward gate of Dunyvaig Castle, or Dun Naomhaig as it was known in the Highlands.

The castle, once a stronghold of the Lords of the Isles, was situated high on a rocky promontory along the eastern edge of the Bay of Lagavulin, overlooking the sound and, on a clear day, the coast of Kintyre.

It was an impressive fortress with a seven-sided walled enclosure, encompassing the entire hill. The castle was two levels—the sea gate and outer courtyard below, the tower keep and inner courtyard above—joined by stairs. A large bastion overlooked the bay, giving the guardsmen clear warning to all who approached.

Duncan had ordered Leif, Conall, and the other guardsmen to stay outside the gates to keep watch of any messengers coming or going from the castle. If something went wrong, he'd rather have his men safe on the outside where they could help.

While Jeannie's guardsmen waited outside, they were led into the great hall, located on the second floor of the tower keep. Jeannie sat in a chair before the fireplace. Duncan stood behind her.

He was too restless to do otherwise. For years he'd refused to think about the woman who'd abandoned him, but now that the moment when he would meet her was upon him, he couldn't deny the increased pounding in his chest or the anxiety building in his stomach.

Sensing his tension, Jeannie put her hand on his and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

At that moment the door opened. Jeannie stood, and Duncan went completely still as the woman walked into the room.

She was small and thin to the point of frailty, with snow-white hair partially visible beneath the black velvet French hood popular with the prior generation when Mary had been queen of the Scots. Her skin was as wrinkled as a dried apple.

She had to be at least seventy years—far too old to be his mother. Some of the tension dissipated. But why had the nurse—his mother—not come?

The old woman had focused on Jeannie, but eventually her eyes lifted to him. Her skin grew sickly pale and her eyes widened in shock, as if she'd seen a ghost. She wobbled a little and both he and Jeannie reached out to steady her.

She didn't faint, but they carefully lowered her to the chair. Jeannie retrieved a fan she carried in the purse at her waist, the heat from the fire making the room warm and stuffy. The woman appeared too overcome by emotion to speak.

“I apologize,” Jeannie said. “We didn't mean to cause you any distress.”

The old woman shook her head and seemed to collect her senses. She stared at Duncan. “You've the look of him—and her. She had the blackest hair, like a raven's wing they said. With eyes as blue as the Irish Sea.”

Duncan's stomach sank. He hadn't missed her usage of the past tense.

“There appears to be some misunderstanding, my lady. We were here to see the chief's old nursemaid.”

“Forgive me, Lady Gordon,” the woman said. “I am Mary MacDonald. Sister to the old chief, aunt to the present. It was I who received your note. I'm afraid you can't see, Kathrine.” She gave Duncan an apologetic look. “She died, ten years passed now.”

It was what Duncan expected, but it didn't stop him from feeling as if he'd just taken a blow to the chest. He'd never wanted to know his mother, but to know that he couldn't was surprisingly difficult to hear. Kathrine. It was the first time he'd ever heard her name.

Jeannie put her hand on his arm. The old woman noted the gesture and looked back and forth between them.

“What happened?” Duncan asked, his voice emotionless.

“She slipped and fell off a cliff onto the rocks below. It was a terrible tragedy.”

Ten years ago. “About the same time as my father died,” he noted.

The old woman nodded. “Aye, we'd just heard that he'd fallen in battle. News of your troubles had not reached us.” He heard the implied “Thank God.” “When did you return?” she asked.

“A couple months ago.”

“You've been exonerated?”

He and Jeannie exchanged a look. “Not exactly,” he explained. “That is why we are here.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about her?” Jeannie asked.

A slight wariness appeared in Mary MacDonald's eyes. “Why don't you tell me what you know.”

Duncan answered. “That she was a nursemaid to the present laird's children, that she had an affair with my father, and that she left me with my father not long after I was born,” he couldn't quite keep the edge from his voice.

“Do not judge your mother too harshly, lad. ‘Twas not easy for her to do what she did. My brother would have killed you had he discovered what she'd done. The MacDonalds and Campbells were locked in a vicious blood feud.”

The vehemence in her voice took him aback. But from what he'd heard of the old laird he did not doubt her. The old MacDonald chief had a well-earned reputation as a harsh and merciless leader. “She must have been a favored nursemaid.”

A strange look crossed her face. “Aye. Your mother was a special lass. Everyone loved her.”

Yet she'd given away her child and never looked back.

Jeannie seemed to sense his thoughts and moved to get them back on course. “Can you think of any reason why Duncan's father would send him to find her? It was his dying wish.”