Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(35)
She looked back at him, eyes wide and pained, and opened her mouth, but said nothing.
“Very well then.” The look on her face tore at his chest. He knew he had to get out of here. He strode toward the door. “At first light you will ride for Freuchie and await my arrival.” He gave her a long look, not immune to the fear in her eyes. “I will come for you, Jeannie. Of that I promise.”
I've failed.
Jeannie stared helplessly at his back, watched as he put his hand on the latch, taking in every heart-wrenching detail of the man who'd claimed her heart from the first moment she'd seen him, as if by doing so she could hold on to him forever. Her eyes scanned the tall, powerful frame, the wide shoulders, narrow waist and long muscular legs, the big callused hands, and the silky black hair that curled at his neck.
He was a fortress of masculine strength—seemingly indestructible.
Seemingly, there was the rub. He might look like a rock, but he was flesh and blood.
Fear, panic, and desperation conspired in one final attempt to make him see what she could not explain: That if he left now, he might never return. “Duncan, wait, you can't go. I …”
Dear God, what can I say? How could she make him understand without betraying her father and putting his life—and the lives of her clansmen—in danger?
The politics of who was right and who was wrong in the religious dispute between Huntly and the king meant nothing to her. All that mattered was that two men she loved were on opposite sides—how could she protect them both?
If she told Duncan what she'd learned, she knew him well enough to know that he would consider himself duty bound to inform his cousin of her father's perfidy. He could not stand aside and allow a wrong to go unchecked. Betrayal such as her father intended to a man of integrity like Duncan would not be worthy of understanding or mercy. Duncan would always do what was right and just, no matter the personal cost. She knew that about him.
But if she didn't tell Duncan—or somehow stop him from leaving—her father's treachery would put Duncan in grave physical danger. No matter what she did, Jeannie knew all hope of their family being persuaded to make a match between them was gone. It was the other match that worried her—the one her father had arranged to Francis Gordon and which she'd unwittingly agreed to. She felt a twinge of guilt. Her father had invoked a powerful weapon: duty. She wanted to be a good daughter and defying him would be extremely difficult.
She was caught in an impossible quandary, torn between two conflicting loyalties. Either way she lost.
Somehow she had to convince Duncan to heed her warning, but she had to be careful. He was too astute—he might guess what was happening if she said too much.
He looked back at her over his shoulder, his handsome face set hard against her with cold determination.
It was the way he looked at other people—not her. His ability to shut off his emotions so completely, so easily, unsettled her.
“I need to do this, Jeannie. Don't make it harder than it already is.”
Hard? What a prodigious understatement. He had no idea how this was tearing her apart.
She ran toward him and put her hand on his arm, tears of fear and frustration streaming in hot rivulets down her cheeks. She gazed up at him, imploring him with all the love in her heart. “Please, you can't leave like this.”
He stood very still and didn't say anything, but the edges of his mouth turned white. He was fighting something. Me, she realized. Denying her was hard for him. It was a small crack in an otherwise impenetrable façade. Gently, he unlatched her fingers from around his arm and turned away from her.
Her heart twisted with a fresh spike of panic. He's going to leave. Stop him. Hold on to him. Not knowing what else to do, she flung herself against him, putting herself between him and the door.
She clung to his mail-clad chest, but he wouldn't look at her. His expression stony and unreadable, only the tick below his jaw betrayed his effort. She couldn't bear that he was holding himself apart like this. “Please, don't be angry with me,” she begged, tears choking her voice. “I know you think I'm being silly and was foolish to have come here like this. I can explain.” Her chest heaved as she fought to breathe between the sobs. “I'm just so scared.”
Perhaps it was the honesty of the emotion that finally penetrated, but suddenly his arms were around her and she felt the comforting security of being held against him. He stroked her hair and murmured soothingly, “I know, my love, I know. But have faith in me.”
I do. But I've no faith in treachery.
He gazed down at her and their eyes locked. She couldn't breathe, waiting, hoping. Her mouth quivered as he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. The tenderness in his eyes gripped her heart. She loved him so much. The thought of life without him was too horrible to contemplate. “Please.” She lifted her mouth to his, needing the reaffirmation—needing him.
His fingers tightened around her chin as if he was trying to resist the pull, but the desire and the indelible connection between them was stronger than them both.
He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his, his kiss achingly soft, achingly tender, comforting her with the caress of his warm, silky lips.
Her heart rose up to her throat, the relief to her frayed emotions acute. In the safety of his embrace she knew that everything was going to be all right.