Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(46)

Colin nodded. They were both silent for a few minutes, paying respect to the father they both loved. “I came to warn you,” Colin said. “They've found your horse. They know you're here.”

Damn. He hoped they hadn't also found his cache of weapons. He would have to wait until nightfall for the chance to retrieve them.

“It's not safe,” Colin said. “You have to go.”

Duncan didn't bother arguing. He'd just lost the one man who might have believed in him enough to prevent this gross miscarriage of justice. “Aye,” he said. “I'll go.”

“The Highlands are not safe for you.”

The truth hit him hard. He would have to leave Scotland. The only home he'd ever known. But with his father gone and Jeannie lost to him, there was nothing left for him. He thought of his brothers and Lizzie. They would be better off without him. If he stayed he would only be a source of shame.

He was truly alone.

He made his decision. He hardened his heart against regret, against sadness, against loss. “Ireland,” he said. In Ireland there was always room for another hired sword. As a gallowglass mercenary he would have a chance to make his way—on the battlefield.

Colin reached in his sporran and retrieved a handful of coins. “Here, you'll need this.”

Duncan took it with a nod. “Take care, Colin. You've been a loyal brother to me. I'll not forget it.”

“Safe travels, brother.” Something flickered in his brother's gaze—regret? “I'm sorry.”

Duncan swallowed the hot ball in his throat. Ignoring the throb in his chest, he bid final farewell to his father and brother.

He left Drumin Castle, left the Highlands, left his home and family, without looking back. His destiny, it seemed, lay elsewhere. But he knew one day he would return. To clear his name and to have a final reckoning with the person who'd destroyed it.

Two days later, he stood at the stern of the boat taking him from Kintyre, his father's sword safely at his side, gazing longingly at the fading coastline. His last thought as it slipped from view was not of the soaring rocky shores, green hills, or crystalline waters, but of emerald eyes and auburn hair—and the woman who'd cost him everything.

Two more weeks had come and gone, and Jeannie knew she could not delay any longer. Her father and Francis had been busy making amends to the king, but soon she knew the subject would once again turn to her marriage.

And Duncan still had not come for her.

Though the humiliating scene when he'd left her was still painfully fresh in her mind, when she'd calmed down, she'd convinced herself that once his anger dulled he would see the truth.

She'd hoped that he would recognize his error on his own, but she was no longer in the position to wait. Swallowing her pride, Jeannie decided to go after him.

With her father occupied in Inverness, she conscripted a couple of guardsmen to take her to Castleswene, the ancient royal stronghold on the west coast of Knapdale. The Campbells of Auchinbreck were the traditional keepers of the castle, and she knew it was the place Duncan considered home.

A sharp, icy wind from the north bit down on them as they approached the formidable stone castle near dusk. The last pink swirl of sunlight was dipping over the horizon. Austere was perhaps the best word to describe the formidable tower house and curtain wall, reputed to be four centuries old and one of the oldest stone castles in all of Scotland. Perched upon a rocky knoll on the edge of the sea, the towering stone edifice was broken only by a simple arched entry.

Unsure of her reception, Jeannie felt a trickle of trepidation as the small party passed through the gate. If the guardsmen who admitted them were surprised to hear the name of Grant, they did not show it. When she asked the bailiff who greeted her to see Duncan Dubh, however, any pretense at equanimity vanished. Without another word he directed her men to the stables and led her into the keep, leaving her in the great hall to warm herself by the fire to await Duncan.

Immediately upon entering, Jeannie sensed that there was something wrong. A somber air hung over the place, almost as if it had been steeped in a dark cloud. The fires and candles burned low and it was painfully quiet—the few servants she saw moved about silently, heads’ bowed, avoiding her gaze.

The wait seemed interminable. Her heart pounded fiercely in anticipation. Duncan had been so angry before, so sure of her betrayal, had he reconsidered? Had he realized yet that she could never hurt him? She gnawed at her lower lip anxiously. Would he hear her out?

She couldn't wait to see him.

Finally she heard the sound of footsteps. Her heart jumped, then fell when she realized they were too light to belong to a man.

A young girl entered the dimly lit room. Slight and petite, with hair so blonde it almost seemed white, one look at her pale face was all it took to identify her. The eyes gave her away. Elizabeth Campbell was as light as her brother was dark, but they had the same crystal-clear blue eyes of the sky on a sun-filled day.

Duncan's sister was a few years younger than Jeannie—probably no more than six and ten, but her serious expression bespoke someone much older. The black gown she wore didn't help matters; the harsh contrast against her pale skin only served to make her look more severe.

All of a sudden, Jeannie understood the reason for the somber clothing and the horrible pall that seemed to have been cast over this place. They are in mourning. She should have realized. Duncan had told her that his father had been injured. Tears welled in her eyes, her heart going out to him. Poor Duncan! How he must be hurting. That must be why he hadn't come for her.