Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(12)
But he'd nearly scared her half to death.
She turned on him, with every intention of giving him a piece of her mind for startling her like that, but he gestured for her to be quiet with a finger to his lips. The amusement dancing in his eyes, however, told her that he was very much aware of her intentions.
The hint of roguish mischief charmed her like nothing else. It was so different from the way he normally was. Over the past two weeks she'd watched him—closer than was proper, no doubt. Duncan's serious, no-nonsense reputation was well earned. What he'd been denied by birth, he made up for with ambition and industry. But with her he was different. When he smiled, it felt as if he was giving her a special gift—a secret gift—meant only for her.
As if it were the most natural thing to do, he took her hand and led her through the tunnel of the North Gate into the Nether Bailey below, avoiding the Guard House. The warmth and strength in the connection was both comforting and intimate. She'd become far too used to it.
He'd exchanged his court attire for a leine and breacan feile. It was the first time she'd seen him in the traditional Highland garb and she was surprised how much it suited him, though she suspected that even dressed in rags he would look like a king. The inherent nobility in his bearing and proud visage could not be denied. But the simple shirt and belted plaid emphasized his raw masculinity, giving her a glimpse of the fierce warrior he was reputed to be.
When they reached the postern gate in the curtain wall, he whispered for her to keep her head down and tucked her under the crook of his arm. When he made a ribald jest to the guard at the gate about going on a “wee ride” with his “lady friend” she knew why. Heat blasted her cheeks.
“It's Argyll's cousin, let him pass,” the guard said. “Where's your companion tonight, Campbell?”
Duncan laughed and mumbled something about his new countess.
When they were clear of the gate and he released her, she turned to him accusingly, “You let him think I was one of your doxies!” Her eyes narrowed. “Just how often do you do this, Duncan Campbell?”
“‘Tis the first,” he said with an apologetic twist of his mouth. “My cousin and I often partake of the ale in the village, that's all.” She was still trying to decide whether to believe him. “I'm sorry to embarrass you, but I thought it would prevent questions. It did.” There was an awkward silence as they navigated the path down the rock upon which Stirling Castle sat. Finally he said, “You came,” as if he didn't quite believe it.
She gave him a sidelong glance from under her lashes, unable to read his expression. The implacability that she found so frustrating was no doubt what made him such a prized negotiator by his cousin—he gave nothing away. He would make a fortune gaming, she thought wryly. “Did you think I would not?”
Duncan Campbell gazed down at the lass all but hidden by the hooded cloak beside him, not quite believing that she was real. In truth, he'd wondered that every minute he spent with her over the past two weeks.
Jeannie Grant had enchanted him. It wasn't just the fiery hair, emerald eyes, and ivory skin so smooth and luminous as to invoke allusions to goddesses and other heavenly creatures—even to a man utterly unfamiliar with such romantic notions. Nor was it the tall, lithe figure and soft round swell of what appeared to be a very generous bosom beneath the stiff fabric of her stomacher. (Although, as any man of one and twenty, he did occasionally find his gaze dropping.)
It was her vibrancy, the spirit that seemed to bubble inside her, despite her obvious efforts to contain it behind a staid and decorous manner. He, better than anyone, understood the reasons why she fought so hard to repress her natural exuberance. Living under a black stain was something they had in common—he for his birth and she for her mother's scandal. Abandonment, he supposed, was also something with which he was familiar.
Yet despite what she'd been through, it had not put a damper on her spirit. And for the serious Duncan that vitality was an elixir. Like a moth to the flame, he was drawn to her in a way that he'd never been drawn to a woman before.
He knew she wasn't for him, but he couldn't keep away.
Of certain, no lass had ever made him lose focus like this—a war with Huntly was looming for God's sake and here he was sneaking around for a midnight swim just to have the opportunity to be alone with her.
Before meeting Jeannie, Duncan's sole focus had been making a name for himself and earning the future that would have otherwise been his were it not for one thing: legitimacy.
But he'd never been forced to confront the inherent limitations of his birth. Marriage had seemed something in the future. Another means to advance himself. Never would he have dreamed of reaching so high. But from the first moment he'd seen Jeannie Grant he'd wanted her, wanted her in a way that he'd never wanted anything—or anyone—before. Knowing that his birth might prevent him from having her was a bitter draught to swallow and for the first time he felt something akin to bitterness.
Making it all the more surprising when Jeannie made it clear his birth didn't matter to her. She returned his attentions so wholeheartedly he'd actually allowed himself to believe that a future between them might be possible.
To that end, when he returned to Castleswene, he intended to broach the subject of an alliance with his father. But he hadn't been able to resist seeing her alone before he did.