Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(28)

Duncan frowned, realizing he hadn't considered that his brother might have feelings for the lass. He would have to do what he could to ensure that Colin understood that there was never an intention to hurt him.

But he knew Colin. His quick-tempered younger brother would be furious.

“So this problem with the lass,” Argyll said. “Is that why you are not riding beside your father?”

Duncan looked over his shoulder, through the dust and throngs of soldiers, catching sight of Colin and his father riding side-by-side near the rear of the clan. Aye, he'd purposefully avoided both of them, exchanging only a few words since the feast yesterday. The chill between him and his father had not waned the last two weeks. He raised a brow. “Do you not enjoy my company, cousin?”

“Better than most, I suppose,” Archie said wryly. All jesting, however, fell by the wayside with his next words. “Whatever problems you have with your father, keep it away from the battlefield and do not let it interfere with your duty.” His dark eyes gleamed hard, like two pieces of polished onyx. “I won't let anything get in the way of seeing Huntly brought to heel—especially not a disagreement over a lass.”

Duncan gave him a hard glare, forgiving his cousin for the slight only because he knew of the treacherous circumstances in which Archie had recently found himself, at the center of an assassination attempt by men he'd trusted. Duncan knew how the betrayal still ate at him—and probably always would. “You should know me better than that.”

Argyll didn't answer right away. “There is no one I trust more, but there is no one I trust completely.” The look in his eye was one of bitter melancholy. “It is a lesson you should take to heart, cousin. It might save you from making a painful mistake.”

Watching Duncan ride away, when every instinct clamored to stop him, was one of the most difficult things Jeannie had ever had to do.

When her mother had left, it had been in the dead of night. Jeannie never had the chance to stop her. To beg her not to leave. To tell her that if she left she would never come back.

If only Jeannie had been older, she might have realized what was going on. She might have been able to stop her.

But she was old enough now. Standing at the window in her tower chamber, watching as the last of the Campbell soldiers and the bold yellow standard of the Earl of Argyll faded from view, she clenched a damp, lace trimmed square of linen in her hand.

It will be all right, she told herself.

Duncan is not my mother. He will return in a few days and we will be married.

Nothing will go wrong. Even her father had agreed to side with Argyll and the king. To go against Huntly, his lord, her father must be certain of a victory.

Tucking the cloth in the sleeve of the embroidered green silk doublet she wore over her French gown, Jeannie sighed and started to turn from the window, stopping when something caught her gaze. A movement in the copse of trees north of the castle. A rider emerged, almost as if he'd been waiting for the last of the Campbells to leave, and rode hard across the moors, up the small rise, and under the iron castle yett.

She wrinkled her nose, thinking it strange, but giving no more though than that. After washing the sadness from her eyes with some water she'd poured into a basin, Jeannie emerged from her chamber refreshed to head downstairs. Her father and his men would be leaving soon to join the others at Drumin Castle and she must see to the preparations.

Father …

She forced herself not to think about it. He would come back. He always came back.

She crossed the hall, teaming with servants still busy cleaning the mess from the celebration the night before, and stopped outside the door to the laird's solar.

It was partially open and she could see a man standing before her father. Tall and broad shouldered, if a bit gangly, he looked vaguely familiar. It took her only a moment to realize he was the rider she'd seen emerge from the trees a short while ago. But the quality of his clothing and the costly mail coat were far too fine to be that of a messenger.

She raised her hand to knock, hesitating. The rider had turned slightly and removed his steel bonnet, revealing thick waves of golden blond hair damp with sweat. Jeannie smothered a gasp with her hand.

She recognized him. Francis Gordon, the Earl of Huntly's second son. They'd met a few times over the years before the feuding had begun. She'd thought him handsome, in the way that a young girl fancies a lad half-a-dozen years older. Now, compared to Duncan's dark masculine beauty, he seemed almost pretty. But Francis had always been kind to her, making it a point to smile and wink when he caught her staring at him.

Her heart pounded. What could he be doing here? Looking around furtively, seeing that no one was paying attention to her, impulsively she slipped into the shadows behind the door.

“You took a risk,” she heard her father say. “What if someone had seen you?”

“I was careful,” Francis said, his tone dismissive.

“You came alone?”

“I thought it best. My men are waiting for me in the forest.”

“Aye, the fewer people who know the better. I don't want to take a chance of Argyll or the king getting word before it is done.”

Before what is done? Jeannie feared that she didn't want to know. Francis Gordon's presence did not augur well.

“So we are agreed,” Francis said. “You will wait for our signal. When the first cannon shot is fired, you and your men will retreat.”