Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(3)

This place was in his blood. It was part of him, and he'd be damned if he'd be forced from here again.

Whatever it took, he would clear his name.

Duncan flexed his jaw, steeling himself for what lay ahead. His controlled expression betrayed none of the fierce turmoil surging through him as he neared the reckoning ten years in the making.

Anger that had taken years to harness returned with surprising force. But emotion would never control him again and he quickly tamped it down. For many years now, Jeannie Grant—nay, he reminded himself bitterly, Jeannie Gordon—had been nothing to him but a harsh reminder of his own failings. He'd put her out of his mind in the way that a man wants to forget his first lesson in humility. Rarely did he allow himself to think about her, except as a reminder of a mistake he would never make again.

But now he had no choice. As much as he would like to keep her buried in the past where she belonged, he needed her.

The splashing grew louder. He slowed his step as he wound through the maze of trees and brush, taking care to stay well-hidden as he drew closer. Even in the heavy thicket of trees, his height and breadth of shoulder should make hiding impossible, but over the years he'd become adept at blending into his surroundings.

He stopped near the rock where she'd left her clothes, keeping hidden behind a wide fir tree.

Every muscle in his body tensed as he scanned the dark mossy-green waters of the loch …

He stilled. There. The pale oval of her upturned face caught in the sunlight, illuminating the perfectly aligned features for only an instant before she disappeared under the water.

It was her. Jean Gordon, née Grant. The woman he'd once been foolish enough to love.

He felt a hard jerk in his chest as the memories flooded him: the disbelief, the hurt, the hatred, and finally, the hard-wrought indifference.

His name wasn't all that she'd destroyed. She'd taken his trust, and with it, the idealism of a lad of one and twenty. Her betrayal had been a harsh lesson. Never again would he allow his heart to rule him.

But that was a lifetime ago. The lass wielded no power over him now; she was merely a means to an end.

His gaze intensified on the stretch of water where she'd disappeared. A frown betrayed his unease. He knew she was a strong swimmer, but she'd been under a long time. He took a step toward the loch, but was forced to step quickly back when she suddenly exploded out of the water like a sea nymph in a spray of effervescent light. She'd surfaced near the shore, perhaps only twenty feet separated them now, enabling him to see her clearly.

Too damned clearly.

Hair slicked back, and water dripping from her face, she emerged from the loch like Venus rising from the sea and headed straight toward him. He'd forgotten how she walked … the gentle sway of her hips seduced with every step. The air between them fired with a familiar charge, the sharp, full-bodied awareness that he'd felt from the first moment he'd seen her across the crowded hall of Stirling Castle all those years ago.

His entire body went rigid. The sark she wore was completely transparent, clinging to br**sts fuller than he remembered, but just as tantalizing. The cool air against her wet skin only made things worse. Her ni**les beaded into two tight buds like berries waiting to be plucked.

He swallowed, trying to clear the taste from his mouth. Ten damned years and he could still taste her on his tongue, still remember the sweet press of her breast against his teeth as he'd sucked her deep into his mouth. His nostrils flared. He could still smell the fragrant honeysuckle of her skin.

Not even his steely control could prevent the sudden rush of blood surging through his veins. He swore under his breath, the lack of control infuriating him. But the vile oath didn't begin to summarize his anger at the realization that no matter how he felt about her, he was only a man, and for all his vaunted control, a hot-blooded one at that.

And Jeannie had a body that would tempt a eunuch.

But his earlier allusion to Venus—the goddess born in sea foam from the castrated genitals of Uranus—was a well-placed, brutal reminder of what this woman could do.

Even as an innocent girl, she'd possessed an undeniable sensuality. A primitive allure that was deeper than the mere physical beauty of dark flame-red hair, bold green eyes, ivory skin as smooth as cream, and soft pink lips. It was something in the tilt of her eyes, in the curve of her lush mouth, and in the ripe sensuality of her body that spoke to a man of one thing: swivving. And not just any swivving, but gritty, mind-blowing, come-until-you-pass-out kind of swivving.

With her youthful curves ripened into the full blush of womanhood the effect was even more pronounced.

Worse, he knew from experience it wasn't all for show. She was every bit as wanton as she looked.

Jeannie was one massive cockstand—sex and carnality personified.

He knew seeing her again after all these years would be unpleasant, but he was unprepared for the fury of emotions unleashed inside him by the undeniable pull of the very thing that had been his downfall: desire.

He didn't know what he'd expected to feel: anger … hatred … sadness … indifference? Anything but lust.

Years ago he'd wanted her, been foolish enough to think he could have her, and been firmly put in his place.

But he wasn't a lovesick lad anymore, seduced by words of love and a body more deadly than any weapon he'd ever faced in war. He was a man hardened by the harsh blow of disappointment.