Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(32)

Cognizant of his cousin's warning to focus on the task at hand, he stayed silent. But one day he would prove himself worthy of Grant's daughter … one day.

Sizing up the situation, his father distracted Grant with a question and drew him away from Duncan. Gradually the men dispersed, leaving the great hall to see to their men before retiring for the night. Duncan would have joined Colin in doing the same, but his cousin held him back, insisting on going over the battle plan in the laird's solar one more time. By the time they rose from the table, it was near midnight.

With so many men having descended on Drumin, the great hall and outside barracks were jammed to the rafters. His father had decided to sleep in tents outside the castle gates with their clansmen. It was quiet as Duncan wound his way through the rows of sleeping men. The night was pleasantly cool, a gentle wind blew from the north.

He was surprised to find a candle flickering and Colin still awake when he pulled aside the canvas flap and ducked inside the small tent.

Colin's face was half cast in the shadows. For a moment, Duncan thought he saw raw hatred gleam in his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“I was just coming to find you,” Colin said cheerfully. Duncan realized he must have been mistaken as to what he thought he'd seen. Colin handed him a folded missive. “This came for you a few minutes ago.”

Duncan frowned and turned it over in his hand, seeing his name written in bold, but distinctly feminine, strokes. He stilled. It couldn't be.

“Who is it from?” Colin asked casually. “It looks to be a woman's writing.”

“I don't know,” Duncan said, but feared he did.

He tore it open and read. Each word fell like dry leaves on flames. His mouth drew in a tight line. He was going to kill her.

Colin sensed something was wrong. “What is it? Is there a problem?”

“Not for long,” Duncan said darkly. “There is something I must attend to.”

“Now?”

He nodded. “I'm afraid it can't wait.”

“But the attack …”

“I'll return in a few hours. Get some sleep.”

“Should I go with you?”

Duncan shook his head and said grimly, “Nay, this is something I must do alone.”

Chapter 7

Jeannie sat on a rickety chair before a small window nervously tapping her foot on the wood floor. The sound, however, was dulled by the thick layer of dirt and dust covering the wide planks. She glanced around the decidedly rustic chamber, trying not to look too closely, but unable to prevent a reflexive grimace. No fireplace, a couple of waxed stubs for candles, a thin bed with a mattress that was probably twice as old as she was, a table with a green pitcher and basin, which at one time might have been copper, dust clouding every surface, and cobweb-strewn beamed ceilings.

Cobwebs meant spiders.

A shiver ran up her arm and down her neck, as if she were feeling them crawl across her skin. She inched forward in her seat away from the wall, sitting a bit more upright on the chair.

What did she expect? She was fortunate to have found any kind of private accommodation this close to Drumin Castle, but nearly every village had an alehouse. The room—or, more accurately, alcove—above this one would have to do.

The guardsmen who'd escorted her on her “emergency” journey to her cousin's would be sleeping in the stables.

She felt a twinge of guilt for the elaborate lies she'd concocted, and a bigger one for the ease with which it had come—it wasn't just the guardsmen, but her brother she'd lied to. She'd thought about confiding in John—the girls were too young—but didn't want to force him to choose between his love for his father and his love for the sister who'd been like a mother to him. So she'd invented a message from their cousin Margaret, the new Lady Lovat, requesting her immediate presence at Castle Fraser. Then, when they'd neared Drumin she'd feigned illness, forcing them to find the nearest accommodation. A little gold had gone a long way in persuading the ale woman to overlook the gentleman who would arrive later, ensure the guardsmen had plenty to drink, and to send her son with a message for Duncan at Drumin.

She wrinkled her nose, looking at the old wool plaid covering the bed. Perhaps the guardsmen had the better end of the bargain; straw might be an improvement. But at least in here she and Duncan would be alone. That is, if he ever showed up.

She peered out the window into the darkness as if willing him to appear. Where was he? She'd sent her note hours ago. What if he didn't come?

Panic pinched her chest. He had to come.

She had to warn him. Though what she was going to say, she didn't know. She could hardly tell him what she'd learned—to do so would not only betray her father, but put his life in jeopardy. She bit her lip. It wasn't only worry about what she was going to say, but she suspected that Duncan wouldn't exactly be pleased to see her. But as Huntly's stronghold of Strathbogie was still some distance, she wasn't in any real danger.

The toe-tapping didn't seem to be easing any of her anxiety so she stood and began to pace, which meant taking only a step or two in each direction in the tiny room.

The sounds of loud, off-key singing, interspersed with laughter filled the night. It was well past midnight, but from the noise below you would never know. The raucous sounds of merrymaking only seemed to increase as the evening wore on, which spoke well for the ale, but not so well for the prospect of sleep.