Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(50)

“An accident.” This time. “I thought he was another ruffian.”

And before the Marchioness could issue another one of her I-told-you-sos, Jeannie brushed past her and led the healer up the stairs to the top level of the tower house.

A small landing separated three small chambers. Adam occupied the largest, the one with the view of the surrounding countryside so he could keep apprised of any attack, the nursemaid slept in a mural chamber next to it, and then beside hers was the small chamber that had belonged to her son and was now crammed full with towering, muscle-bound, mail-clad warriors.

She stood at the door as the healer attempted to squeeze around the blond brute. His icy Nordic looks sent a chill running through her. Which was a good thing as it was hot as Hades in here. She didn't know what it was with men—especially warriors—but they seemed to radiate heat.

Duncan lay on the small bed, his feet hanging well over the edge. His face was flush and his eyes, burning with pain or hatred she didn't know, fixed on her.

“Your men will have to leave,” she said firmly.

The two henchmen drew themselves up to their full height—barely missing the wood-raftered ceiling—and squared their prodigiously broad chests like two over-protective bears who had every intention of digging in their heels. She met the burly red-haired man's—an Irishman by the sound of him—gaze and smiled sweetly. “I promise not to do him any more harm.”

He stilled, then let out a bark of laughter. Something she would wager he did quite a bit of. His rough, ruddy countenance seemed prone to joviality—a foil to Duncan's dour darkness. “Aye, lass, you've a wicked sense of humor.” He shook his head. “Hurt him?” He laughed, then turned to Duncan for confirmation.

Duncan nodded. “Go. See to the horses. I'll be fine.”

The men moved slowly. The blond one turned to her at the door. “You'll let us know …”

“As soon as the healer has looked at him,” Jeannie assured him.

He nodded and the two men left. The room seemed infinitely larger—and blessedly cooler.

Mairghread, the healer, was already at work. She examined him for a few minutes before looking up at Jeannie. “I'll need to remove his cotun and sark, my lady.”

His men must have helped him remove the leather plated cuirass he wore over his chest. Knowing he was watching her, Jeannie held her expression and tone even. “I'll help you.”

She pursed her lips together, steeling herself for the unpleasantness. It's nothing you haven't seen before, she told herself. If only he wasn't watching her so intently, those cool, unforgettably blue eyes leveled on her—unflinching and unnerving.

Her hands shook as her fingers worked the leather buckles of one side of his quilted leather cotun studded with bits of metal as Mairghread worked the other. Furious, she forced herself to steady and focused on the task at hand, not on the man, and certainly not on the intimacy of the act to which she was involved. But leaning over him like this, his scent reached out to grab her in its familiar hold. Beyond the warm leather and the faint coppery hint of blood, she caught the sea and the wind—and the elusive masculine spice that had always been uniquely his.

It was really him. All these years and he'd finally returned. A hard wave of longing washed over her, dragging her back.

But she pushed the memories aside. He'd lost the right to affect her.

If it was any consolation—and it was—the removal of his clothing didn't seem to be any more enjoyable for him. He stiffened and clenched his teeth in pain when they tried to move it past his shoulders. A task that was proving impossible. “Cut it off,” he said tightly.

Jeannie's brows wrinkled. “Are you sure?” It was a fine garment, expertly worked, and by the look of it costly. Now that she thought about it, everything about him bespoke wealth. From the weaponry his men had removed and set beside him when they laid him down on the bed, to the gold scabbard at his waist, to his clothing. He'd done well for himself—very well. She'd never doubted he would.

“‘Tis no matter,” he dismissed without a second thought. “And the sark as well. It will be easier than trying to lift it over my head.”

Jeannie reached down and slid the jewel-encrusted dirk from its scabbard, surprised by its weight. She turned it around in her hand, marveling at the workmanship. A weapon like this was fit for a king. Carefully, holding the dirk to his neck, she prepared to score the leather.

“Remember your promise,” he said. She eyed him quizzically. “To Conall.”

Not to hurt him. Her mouth quirked in spite of herself. “I'll do my best, but the temptation might prove too difficult to overcome.”

And then, as if to emphasize her words, she held the edge of the blade to just below his jaw and in one decisive stroke, sliced from the neck to the edge of his shoulder.

To his credit he didn't flinch. Not once. Not even when she slowly slid the blade along the opening at the neck of his shirt. Nor when her fingers accidentally brushed his bare skin.

But she did. The moment her fingertips met smooth, hot skin, she felt the jolt from head to toe. The intense awareness. The full body reaction. The sensation that every nerve ending had come alive. The same thing she'd felt all those years ago.

The weakness infuriated her—her body's reaction seemed the ultimate betrayal. She could, however, control what she did with that reaction. She was no longer an innocent girl with stars in her eyes. So she buried it under years of hurt and disappointment where it belonged.