Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(15)
Playing with fire …
All of a sudden she seemed to become aware of their position—of their very intimate position. And there could be no doubt of his very prominent state of arousal. Her eyes widened and he heard the erotic little catch of breath in a small gasp. But she didn't move. The innocent curiosity in her gaze only fanned the flames of his desire—and his agony.
“You cheated,” she said, her voice husky.
He was intensely conscious of the heavy rise and fall of her chest against his. Of her soft br**sts crushed to his chest. Of the hard point of her ni**les branding him. He forced his attention back to their conversation. Cheated … he arched a brow. “How so?”
“You grabbed my ankle.”
He shrugged. “There are no rules in warfare. A good warrior takes advantage of any opportunity.”
She bit back a smile. “And what of honor?”
He smiled wickedly. “Overrated.”
“Wretch.” She giggled and tried to push away again. This time he let her go. He didn't know how much longer he could hold her like that and not kiss her.
She swam to the edge of the loch and levered herself up to sit on a long flat rock that served as a ledge over the water. Planting his hands on the edge of the rock, he pulled himself up beside her. He caught her staring at his flexed arms, but she quickly turned away, embarrassment staining her cheeks. He fought a grin. Apparently, the prominent muscles in his arms developed from the constant sword training served another function other than dispatching enemies.
She'd brought her knees to her chest, hiding her nakedness from his view, but he wouldn't have trusted himself to look at her anyway. They sat in contented silence, the exertion of their swim seeping from their bodies as they watched the reflection of the silvery moon bob on the rippling black water.
“You'll be leaving soon?” she asked.
He nodded. “Aye, the situation with Huntly has deteriorated. I need to return to Castleswene to report back to my father.” He wasn't sure how much she knew of their reasons for being at court.
King James was furious with the recalcitrant Earl of Huntly and intended to rein the Great Lord in. Not only had Huntly refused to either renounce his Catholic faith or leave the country as required by last year's decree, but he'd also been accused of conspiring with the king of Spain to restore the papist religion to Scotland. Huntly's continued defiance was an embarrassment to King James who was trying to assert himself as heir—a Protestant heir—to the aging English queen.
“There will be war?”
Apparently she knew enough. “It seems unavoidable—unless Huntly agrees to the king's demands to renounce his faith.”
“Which he won't do.”
“Probably not,” he admitted.
“And you will fight?” She couldn't keep the trepidation out of her voice.
“Aye.” She looked like she wanted to say something, but he cut her off. “It's what I do, Jeannie.” There was something inside him that drove him and he couldn't give it up—not even for her.
She gave him a long look but didn't respond. Instead, she asked, “And what is my father's part in all of this?”
He shrugged. “That's up to him. But the king hopes he will be persuaded to see the virtue of our side.”
Jeannie considered him thoughtfully. “In other words, King James is hoping to take advantage of the current feuding between my father and Huntly.”
It was an astute observation. Her father had been furious with Huntly's role in the murder of the Earl of Moray—enough to break his vassal duty and feud with his lord. The king hoped to drive the wedge even further between the two. “Aye,” Duncan admitted.
She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose it's possible, but the feud with Huntly has waned. The fighting was severe and I doubt my father would like to see it renewed. I would think it more likely that he would stay neutral—it's not his battle. The Grants repudiated the Catholic religion years ago.” She untucked her feet from under her and dropped them back down into the loch, kicking carelessly on the surface of the water. Even her tiny arched feet were adorable.
Duncan gave her a measured look, for all her naïveté she was more aware of the political situation than he'd realized. She'd echoed her father's response to Duncan's appeal almost verbatim. “Your father says much the same, but he might be forced to chose a side whether he wants to or not.” And sooner than he realized. The king had given a royal commission to Argyll—his lieutenant—to march against Huntly before the month was out. “You are close with your father?”
She gave him a wry smile. “Probably more than is typical for a daughter. We're all close—my father, brother, sisters, and I. Circumstances …” her voice dropped off. She sighed deeply. “Well, suffice it to say, there is strength in numbers. A unified front is an easier position from which to defend.”
He knew she referred to her mother's scandalous past. They'd never spoken of it directly. Such conversations were not easy on the dance floor.
She spoke matter-of-factly, yet somehow Duncan sensed that it was only a façade. “It must have been very difficult for you. You are the eldest, are you not?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“How old were you when she left?”