Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(4)
The sharp edge of lust dulled.
And then she removed her sark.
His stomach clenched and his breath came out in a hiss. Every muscle in his body went taut with the strain of curbing his reaction. Heat and heaviness tugged at his groin. His body wanted to thicken, but he fought it back. He had only one use for her now and it wasn't to satisfy his baser urges.
Lust and emotion would never defeat him again.
To prove it he forced himself to study her—coldly, dispassionately, as a man might admire a good piece of horseflesh. His gaze slid down the curve of her spine, over the soft flare of her round bottom, and down the firm muscles of her long, shapely legs, taking in every inch of creamy bare skin.
Aye, she was beautiful. And more desirable than any woman he'd ever known. Once he would have given his life for hers. Hell, he had. Just not in the way that he'd ever anticipated.
His eyes lingered and then shifted away, satisfied. Whatever was between them once had died long ago. Her considerable charms were no threat to him now.
Focused on the task at hand, Duncan realized that he could turn her nakedness to his advantage. He had her on the defensive and he knew that with Jeannie that was a good place to start.
Eyes hard, steeling himself for the unpleasantness of what was to come, he stepped around the tree.
Jeannie didn't think. She heard the crack of a twig behind her, the sound of a footstep, and reacted.
Instead of grabbing the sark, her fingers closed around the cold brass handle of her puffer pistol. She murmured a silent prayer of thanks for the foresight she'd had to leave it primed.
She swung around, leveling the gun in the direction of the noise. All she could see was the gigantic shadow of a man so tall and heavily muscled he made her heart jolt in a moment of sheer panic.
She'd learned only too recently the extent of her vulnerability at the hands of the Mackintosh scourge who'd tried to abduct her. She was strong, but even the strongest woman was no match physically for a fierce Highland warrior—and this one certainly qualified.
He started to say something, but she didn't give him a chance. She wouldn't be taken again. Squeezing the trigger, she heard the wheel lock click, smelled the burning, and then a few seconds afterward, the kick of the blast sent her stumbling back.
The brigand let out a vile curse and slid to his knees, cradling his stomach. Her recent instruction paid off, her aim true.
He had his head down, but vaguely it occurred to her that his clothing was far too fine to be that of a brigand.
“A knife in the back wasn't enough?” he groaned. “You've decided to finish the job?”
Every muscle, every fiber, every nerve ending curled on end—an instinctive reaction of self-protection. The rich, deep sound of his voice resonated, probing the farthest reaches of her memory. In the dark forgotten place she'd locked away forever.
The blood drained from her face, from her body. Her heart constricted with a dull throb.
It couldn't be …
Her eyes shot to his face, taking in the hard square jaw rough with dark stubble, the wavy jet-black hair, the firm nose and wide mouth. Handsome. But hard—too hard. It couldn't be him. Then she looked at the eyes beneath the steel of his knapscall. Crystal clear, as blue as the summer sky, they bored into her with an intense familiarity that could not be denied.
Her chest tightened to the point of burning. She couldn't breathe.
The shock was such that she could have been seeing a ghost. But this was no ghost. The prodigal son had returned. Duncan Dubh Campbell had finally come home.
For one ludicrous moment her heart leapt and she stepped forward. “You came back!” she cried before she could call the words back, all the hope of the innocent young girl who didn't want to believe that she'd been deserted by the man she loved in her voice. At one time, she would have given anything to see his face again.
At one time. She jerked back.
That was before he'd broken her heart. Before he'd taken her innocence, promised to marry her, and left her without a word. Before she'd sat by the window for days on end, staring at the horizon, praying with every fiber of her being for him to come back to her—for him to believe in her … in them. Before she'd wept and wept until every last bit of love for him had been purged from her soul.
Her heart twisted as the memories came flooding back. Not one word for ten years. Only the first had hurt. The other nine had been spent alternating between hatred and self-recrimination.
Duncan Campbell was the last man she ever wanted to see again.
Many times she'd dreamed of putting a lead ball in his stomach, she'd just never thought it would actually happen. Her first instinct was to rush and help him, but she forced herself not to move. Once she thought she'd known him better than anyone else in the world, but this man was a stranger to her.
Her mouth fell in a tight line, refusing to think about the blood rushing between his fingers as he tried to staunch the bleeding that flowed into a crimson pool at his side. He wouldn't die … would he? She shook off the fear and found her voice. “What do you want?”
Despite the pallor of his skin, his gaze burned as his eyes slid over her, lingering on her br**sts and between her legs.
All of a sudden she realized why. Dear lord, she was naked.
Her cheeks burned more with anger than with embarrassment as she quickly yanked a dry sark over her head. Eager to shield herself from his eyes, she left the kirtle in the pile and grabbed the plaid she'd brought to lie on, wrapping it around her in a makeshift arisaidh.