Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(51)
She could feel his eyes on her, and knew that he'd sensed her reaction, but she kept her focus on the task at hand. She continued wielding her blade through the material and after a few more minutes of struggling and cutting, the cotun and sark lay in shreds at his side.
She stood back to admire her handiwork and choked on the involuntary gasp. The bottom of her stomach dropped to the floor. She'd like to claim that it was from the bloody hole a few inches left of his right hip, but it wasn't the wound that knocked her senseless.
It was the wide span of tanned chest and arms. Forsooth, he was incredible. As imposing a specimen of masculinity as she'd ever seen.
His countenance wasn't the only thing that had changed with maturity. The lean build of youth had given way to thick slabs of finely chiseled, heavily built muscle. It was as if he'd been chipped from stone, each cut precise and honed to perfection, without an ounce of spare flesh on him. From the tight bands layered across his stomach, to the smooth round curves of his arms, he was built for one purpose: battle. And if the numerous scars that lined his chest and arms were any indication, he'd seen his fair share.
Heat spread over her, her limbs suddenly heavy. She couldn't seem to look away.
She wasn't the only one to notice. Mairghread might be approaching three score in years but she wasn't blind, and such a display of masculine strength and power could only be admired.
He was no longer a boy, but a man. A warrior. Jeannie felt a pang in her chest. A stranger. This was not the boy she'd foolishly given her heart to, but a man who'd lived a life that she knew nothing about. The years stretched between them, separating, snapping any connection they'd once shared.
Her gaze fell.
For the next hour Jeannie worked alongside the healer, trying to undo the harm caused by her pistol and overeager trigger finger. When it became clear that they would need to dig out the ball, Jeannie started to call for one of his men to hold him down, but he stopped her.
His fingers circled her wrist. She fought a gasp, but the big, callused hand felt like a brand on her skin. She was at once cognizant of his strength. He could crush her bones with one squeeze.
“It won't be necessary,” he said.
Jeannie eyed the healer, having some familiarity with recalcitrant patients of the Highland persuasion. Mairghread rolled her eyes and mumbled something about stubborn laddies.
“Are you sure?” Jeannie asked, carefully pulling her wrist free. Her skin tingled, and she had to resist the urge to rub the warm imprint of his touch away.
“Aye,” he replied grimly. “This isn't the first time I've had a bit of lead in me.”
She had to bite her tongue to prevent further questions, though when Mairghread began digging with her dirk, Jeannie doubted he would have been able to answer. His jaw locked, and every muscle in his neck and shoulders clenched against the pain that the knife must be causing. Sweat gathered on his brow, but he held perfectly still and said nothing—not one cry, not one grunt.
But his eyes burned into hers, holding her gaze the entire time. Jeannie's pulse raced, her heart pounded in her too-tight chest through every agonizing minute, feeling as if she was seated on the edge of a precipice. When it was over, she was sure she was more exhausted than he was.
Mairghread assured her that the ball would not kill him—and as long as fever did not set in, he would recover well enough. Jeannie shuddered at the thought of fever. Now that the initial shock and anger of seeing him had faded, she didn't want him dead, just gone.
After cleansing the wound with water and giving Jeannie a piece of linen with which to hold against the bleeding, Mairghread left for a few minutes to retrieve some herbs and salves from her storeroom near the kitchens.
Jeannie kept her gaze focused on the wound, but was deeply conscious of being alone with him. Of the uncomfortable silence broken only by the even sound of his breath and the erratic beat of her heart that not even her strong will could tame.
“Why didn't you turn me in?” His voice was flat, emotionless.
She schooled her features in a similar fashion, giving no hint to the turmoil unleashed by his question. By him.
Why indeed when he could do her such harm? She didn't know. Every minute he was here increased the risk of discovery of her secret. And there was her family to consider. Duncan's reemergence would not bode well for either the Gordons or the Grants.
But when the time came to speak against him, it seemed as if every instinct in her body had revolted. Perhaps she wasn't as hard-hearted and vengeful as she'd like to think. But she suspected her reasons went deeper than that. She'd had so many questions after he'd left: Why did he not try to defend himself, why had he been so quick to damn her, why did he leave without saying good-bye? Why did he wait ten years to come back? Questions that needed answering. Maybe then she could finally put the past behind her and have a chance at finding happiness.
She'd failed her husband, never being able to give him the love he so selflessly gave her; she would not do that to another man.
But she could hardly tell that to Duncan. He was watching her closely—too closely—his gaze hard and unrelenting. Just like the man himself. This stranger who could still make her feel like she was jumping out of her skin with one deep, penetrating gaze. Fool.
She gave him a hard look. “I assure you my motives were purely selfish and had nothing to do with any fond memories or sentimentality toward you.” He had no reaction, not that she expected him to. If she'd ever harbored a girlish fantasy that he'd longed for her, that one day he would realize how he'd wronged her, it had fizzled that first moment she'd looked into his eyes. He was not here to fall at her feet and beg forgiveness. He was here because he wanted something. She gave him a pointed look. “What do you want from me?”