Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(5)

“Still fond of swimming, I see,” he said.

She flinched, not missing the heavy sarcasm in his voice at the pointed reminder of a night she longed to forget. Anger burst inside her. After all he'd done to her, how dare he taunt her with memories of her naïve foolishness. Her fingers tightened around the pistol she still held in her hand. Were it re-loaded, she just might shoot him again. Her gaze met his just as intently and she smiled coldly. “And you're still a bastard.”

She caught the glint in his blue-eyed gaze and knew her barb had struck. If Duncan Dubh—aptly named, though it should be for his black heart and not his coloring—had a weak point in the steely armor that surrounded him, it was the nature of his birth.

He covered his reaction so quickly, if she didn't know what to look for she might have missed it. But they knew well how to hurt one other, that skill had been honed to perfection years ago.

The smile that curved his mouth was about as warm as the icy mountaintops of the Cairngorms that surrounded them in the dark of winter. “Some things never change,” he said matter-of-factly.

But he had.

She stared into the face that was at once heartbreakingly familiar and completely different. The youth had become a man. If anything, the passage of time had only served to make him more attractive—something she would have thought impossible. The black hair and blue eyes had always been a striking combination, but with age his boyish features had become more sharply defined and chiseled. He wore his hair shorter now—the soft waves that had fallen to his jaw had been cropped to just past his ears. The deeply tanned skin had been weathered by the elements and nicked by war, yet it only served to make him more brutally masculine—imposing, almost dangerous.

Despite his undeniable appeal, nothing stirred inside her. Looking at him she didn't feel anything. He'd killed what was between them long ago.

“We don't have much time,” he said. “The shot will have been heard.” He shook his head. “I can't believe you shot me.”

He was trying not to show how much pain he was in and his mouth was quirked, revealing the dimple in his left cheek. She sucked in her breath, stunned by the aching familiarity. By the reminder. Her heart pounded in a hard panic as the force of everything she had to lose by his return came crashing down on her. “Why are you here, Duncan?”

“I came back to prove my innocence.” He looked at her. “I need your help.”

He held his face impassive, but she knew how much those words had cost him.

“Why would I help you? I thought I betrayed you?” She couldn't keep the twinge of bitterness from her voice.

Nothing flickered on his expression. “And I thought you claimed otherwise?” he challenged.

He sagged backward, falling from his knees to the ground, but she made no move toward him. Any compassion she might have felt for shooting him paled beside the danger his return could bring. He'd nearly destroyed her once before, he would never have the opportunity to do so again.

And now it wasn't just her life at stake.

Her eyes narrowed. “Now you wish to listen to me?” She laughed harshly. “You are ten years too late for that. You should never have come back, Duncan. The only thing waiting for you is a noose. And I'll be happy to help them put it around your neck myself.”

Chapter 2

Ten Years Earlier

Stirling Castle, Stirlingshire, late summer 1598

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

Jeannie Grant stood between her father and aunt in the middle of the great hall of Stirling Castle, feeling the tension gradually ease from her neck and shoulders. A short while later she even found herself smiling—really smiling—at one of the courtiers she'd been introduced to and realized that she was actually having fun.

Had she worried for nothing?

When her father, the Chief of Grant of Freuchie, had insisted she accompany him to answer King James's summons, she'd resisted, anticipating the worst. Veiled looks. Sly remarks. Whispers like the ones that had followed her when she was a girl.

But her mother's fall from grace had happened eight years ago and many, many scandals ago. With the inevitableness of dawn, new misfortune had risen to take its place. Indeed, they'd arrived earlier to find the castle buzzing about one of the queen's ladies in waiting who'd been sent from the court in disgrace.

Jeannie didn't know the circumstances, but she could never take pleasure in another's pain. She'd spent almost half her life living under the shadow of her mother's scandal. Janet Grant had run off with a “BloodyEnglishman “(her father didn't separate the two) when Jeannie was just nine years old.

She'd learned all too well how scandal and gossip engulfed everyone they touched in misery—even the innocent. Especially the innocent.

With her father and aunt locked in conversation with an old acquaintance, Jeannie took advantage of the free moment to catch her breath. She looked around the glittering hall, the massive room crammed to the wooden rafters with colorfully clad courtiers—a veritable feast of silk and satin for the eye. Her mouth twisted. So much for the “small gathering” her father had promised.

She gazed toward the crowd at the far end of the room, still waiting for her first look at King James and Queen Anne. But thus far she'd been unable to catch a wide enough opening between the silk wall of hooped skirts and puffy slops worn by the courtiers surrounding Scotland's royal couple.