Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(38)

His gaze lingered on her face, her delicate features almost angelic in repose—were it not for the naughty mouth. Even sleep couldn't hide the decidedly sensual curve of her lips.

His chest tightened, moved beyond words that she was his.

Forcing his gaze away, he squinted into the darkness trying to locate his belongings, which in his eagerness—or frenzy—had been strewn around the room.

Instead he was surprised to see everything folded in a neat pile. He frowned. When had she done that? He shook his head. He must have slept deeper than he'd realized. Given what they'd been doing—and that he'd found release three times in about an hour—it probably wasn't all that surprising. He should count himself fortunate that he woke at all from such a sated slumber.

He dressed quickly and pressed one more kiss on her temple before quietly leaving the room. Less than an hour later, after leaving instructions with the ale woman to rouse the guardsmen at dawn, he pushed back the flaps and entered the dark tent.

He was glad Colin was asleep—he was far too tired for explanations. With only a few hours left until daybreak, he didn't bother to remove his clothes, tossing off only his weapons and sporran beside him before crawling onto his pallet. He was so damned tired.

And morning would come soon enough.

Chapter 8

Duncan's eyes and throat burned from the acrid smoke of gunpowder that hovered like a shroud over the bloody battlefield. Sweat poured from every inch of his body. He was exhausted, dirty, and bleeding from too many places to count. It was a rout all right, just not the way his cousin had planned.

“Fall back!” he yelled to a party of men advancing before him. But it was too late. The cannon ball exploded right in front of them, taking two men with it. Five more explosions followed in quick succession down the line with similar deadly results.

Initially, the sight of limbs torn apart and flying body parts had startled him just as it had the rest of the Campbell forces. It had taken all of Duncan's command to prevent half the troops from deserting at the first blast of the strange, terrifying weapon that attacked with a devastating power never before encountered.

That first cannon shot had proved a harbinger of things to come. By no accident it had been aimed right at his cousin's position, claiming not the intended target, Argyll, but Campbell of Lochnell who rode at his side.

Now, hours later, with the rest of the army deserting all around them, all that was left of the vanguard were his father's men and the right wing under the command of MacLean of Duart.

It wasn't only Huntly's cannon that had decimated them, however, but treachery.

His mouth fell in a grim line. Jeannie's father, the Chief of Grant, had betrayed them, retreating at the first cannonade, taking the entire left position with him, and irretrievably crippling the vanguard from the start.

Had Jeannie known what her father intended? Throughout the long day, the question—or more specifically, the answer he knew—haunted him.

When the smoke from the latest barrage cleared he looked around for the earl. This time his damned cousin would bloody well listen to him: Argyll needed to retreat. It was too dangerous this close to the line, and it had become too difficult to protect him. Their numerical advantage was gone. The men who'd eagerly answered the call, hoping for spoils, had second thoughts at the first sign of difficulty. They had about two hundred fifty mounted men and perhaps a thousand foot soldiers to Huntly's fifteen hundred cavalry, though those who remained with them were mostly trained warriors. But hagbuts and swords, even in the hands of trained soldiers, could not defeat cannon. All that had prevented the center vanguard from collapsing was their superior position upon the hill and the fact that the sun was behind them.

He turned his mount around from where he'd ridden ahead to try to warn the men, and then scanned the line behind him, relieved to see Argyll at his father's side.

His cousin could shoot a musket well enough, but in close combat, skill with a sword was preferable—a man could be skewered before he had a chance to reload. Duncan's father wielded a sword with enough skill for them both.

As had occurred all day, a force of Huntly's men had charged forward after the cannon fire, taking advantage of the gaps in the line created by the explosions. But right away, Duncan could see that this time something was different. There were more men, more horses, and more guns—all aimed directly at his father and Argyll.

He shouted a warning, but it was swallowed up in the clash and clatter of the battle. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the reins and clapped his heels to urge his horse to a gallop, but the distance to close was too great. His pulse raced. He wasn't going to make it.

Dread rose up inside him.

Through the smoke, through the tangle of moving limbs and mail of fighting soldiers, Duncan saw the barrel of the gun pointed right at Argyll.

Time suspended. It felt like he had one foot dangling over the edge of a cliff, tottering as he fought to pull back. Duncan knew what was going to happen. He could almost see the bullet strike his cousin, and every instinct, every fiber of his being, rushed up to try to prevent it. But time wouldn't stop long enough for him to catch up.

The Gordon soldier pulled the trigger.

He saw the spark. Felt the delay. Heard the blast.

He must have shouted again because his father looked up, caught sight of him barreling toward them, and quickly discerned the reason why. With his sword raised, he threw his body into Archie's with enough force to knock them both from their horses. Stumbling to the ground, his father managed to strike a blow, splaying open the man who'd just fired the gun.