Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(110)

The maid bobbed. “Aye, my lady. I'll go find Davy right now.”

“Before you do, if I could trouble you for one more thing?”

The girl nodded.

“Might I borrow a plaid?”

The maid hardly blinked—Jeannie suspected she was not the first person to sneak out of this inn. “Of course.”

A short while later, Jeannie tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the main room where she knew the men were and passing into the kitchen instead. The maid led her out the back door, past a well and small garden to the stables.

Her brother—Davy—was a few years older than his sister and as thin as the girl was round. He stood waiting for her with a sturdy Highland pony. Knowing that Duncan would have a guardsman stationed outside, Jeannie adjusted the borrowed plaid over her head like a hood and kept her face down. Though her “disguise” wouldn't hold up under scrutiny, she hoped the guard would take a quick glance and think her a woman from the village.

It must have worked because no one stopped them. They made quick work of the three mile or so journey, arriving at the castle just as the c**k had begun to crow.

Once inside the courtyard, they tethered the ponies near the stables and Jeannie went to beg her second audience with Lady MacDonald, praying that this time it proved more fruitful.

Colin Campbell had waited until dark before landing in a small inlet just north of Leodamas, using the night to shroud his arrival on Islay. If reports of his brother's battle skills held true, which he did not doubt—Duncan had always been annoyingly accomplished at everything—he would need the benefit of surprise to capture him. Just to be sure, however, another birlinn waited outside the bay to cut off any attempt at escape.

Colin knew Duncan was here. As soon as his men had seen the boat leave Castleswene and head down the sound, Colin guessed where his brother was heading.

The spy he had in Dunyvaig amongst the MacDonalds’ guardsmen confirmed it. They were on Islay—at an inn at the village. They'd left the castle yesterday after a short meeting with Mary MacDonald.

The fact that Duncan was here meant he was too close. Though Colin was certain he'd taken care of everything, there was always a possibility he'd missed something. He'd hoped this wouldn't be necessary, but he couldn't take the chance.

But Colin wasn't without filial sentiment, the thought of what he had to do held no enjoyment for him. He'd always looked up to Duncan—had wanted to be just like him—which he supposed had always been the problem. He was destined to fall short.

It's either him or me, he reminded himself. On some level he'd always known that.

That damn map. He'd just wanted to make Duncan look foolish, instead it was he who'd been fooled. Grant had used him. Used his jealousy against his brother. And Colin had trusted him, thinking himself engaged to Grant's daughter. The devil's spawn Grant had betrayed them both, and Colin had been forced to hide the gold to cover up his part in the debacle.

The note had been the last straw. Colin had recognized the feminine lettering and known that it was from her. My betrothed. Duncan knew they were engaged, but he'd gone to meet her anyway. He'd f**ked his bride, damn him. Like he was probably f**king her now. Anger dulled any sympathy he might have felt for his brother. Duncan deserved exactly what he got.

Unlike their father. He'd never wanted his father to be hurt, but with what he'd threatened after Colin admitted to knowing about Duncan's feelings for Jean Grant before proposing the betrothal, perhaps it was better that he did. I should have made Duncan my heir. Colin had been outraged. Humiliated. But he hadn't believed he would actually do it—not until his deathbed ramblings sent any icy chill down his spine.

Colin buckled the scabbard at his waist and tucked the two brass-handled pistols into his belt as his men finished clearing the camp on the small forested hill above the village where they'd slept. It was about an hour before dawn—the perfect time to catch them unaware. He knew Duncan had only a handful of men with him, but he did not underestimate his brother. Duncan did, however, have a weakness. Colin just had to get his hands on her.

Why couldn't Duncan have stayed away? The moment Colin had heard his brother was back on Scottish soil he'd known what he would be forced to do. He hoped Duncan gave him a reason. He didn't want to have to shoot his brother in the back.

Duncan walked the short distance to the inn from the beach, trying to shake the water from his hair. But the frozen clumps snapped against his cheeks, releasing little—if any—of the icy sea water. Overnight the mist had settled low around the island in a damp, bone-chilling fog that the dawn had yet to thaw. But cold had never bothered him. He'd been raised in the Highlands near the sea; he was used to it. Though admittedly, not all Highlanders swam in the sea in the middle of winter. Perhaps he had more Norse blood in him than he realized.

The village was quiet, but showing the first signs of life as he approached. Gentle swirls of smoke billowed out of the rooftops as the servants lit the morning fires.

It had been a long night. When he'd left Jeannie he'd joined his men in the public room below. He'd been wound tight, looking for a way to unleash the dangerous emotions swirling inside him. It was either fight or drink, and as he did not trust himself not to kill someone, he chose the latter.

Gauging his dark mood, Conall and Leif gave him a wide berth. A handful of tankards of the innkeeper's best cuirm, however, had barely taken the edge off his anger or the gnawing burning in his chest.