Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(52)

“Information. Access.”

Her skin prickled with alarm. “Nothing would be gained by resurrecting events that are better left in the past.”

Anger glinted in his hard blue eyes. That was one thing that hadn't changed. His eyes were still a startling deep blue—a striking contrast to his black hair. She'd always thought him the most handsome man she'd ever seen. That hadn't changed either.

“Easy to say when it's not your name that has been blackened and dragged through the mud for the past ten years. What of justice? Would that not be served?” His gaze narrowed at her accusingly. “What you mean is that it's better for you and your family if the treachery done that day is forgotten.”

Heat flared in her cheeks, but she met his gaze defiantly. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean.” He was right. Trouble was the last thing her clan needed right now; their situation was precarious enough. With her fatherin -law, the Marquis of Huntly, excommunicated and imprisoned in Stirling Castle for once again failing to convince the Kirk that he no longer adhered to the Popish faith, the name of Gordon was not exactly a welcome one at court. Nor did Jeannie want to bring trouble for her brother John, the new Laird of Freuchie, by reminding the Earl of Argyll of her father's treachery at Glenlivet. The king may have forgiven her father his trespasses, but Argyll never had—not even her father's death two years ago had cleansed his sin. Duncan's sudden return would open up all the old hatred. Her eyes locked on Duncan's. “Please, just leave it be.”

But her pleas had never had any effect on him. She would never forget the last time she'd seen him. The humiliation was imprinted on her mind. When she'd clung to him like a lovesick fool, begging him to believe her, and he'd coldly—heartlessly—pushed her away and never looked back. He had the same hard, unyielding look in his eyes then as he did now. And she felt the same foolish urge to break through.

“I'm afraid that's impossible,” he said, his face a mask of steely determination.

Dread washed over her, knowing that he would not be swayed. He'd set a course and nothing would get in his way—no matter who he hurt along the way. Certainly not her. If she'd ever meant anything to him that day was long past.

She stared at him, searching in vain for an opening, but there was not a weak bone in his body. Even laying in bed wounded, having lost a good amount of blood, he still managed to reign supreme—his authority and raw physical strength undeniable. The promise he'd shown as a youth had been more than fulfilled.

If only it were just physical, but his strength permeated his character as well. And once he was resolved, he was immoveable. Trying to break through to him would be like trying to throw herself through a stone wall.

Only once had she changed his mind, she thought, recalling the night at the alehouse. But then her seduction had been unconscious, not cold and calculated, were she tempted, which she wasn't, to use that particular tool in her depleted arsenal to stop him.

And in the end, even her body hadn't been enough. He'd left her anyway.

The healer's prompt return prevented further discussion and Duncan was grateful for the reprieve. Being with Jeannie again after all these years set off a multitude of conflicting feelings firing inside him. In his mind he might have relegated her to an unfortunate mistake in his past, but he wasn't as immune to her as he wanted to be.

He hadn't breathed the entire time she'd had her hands on him as she'd removed his clothes. Not just because he was steeling himself against reacting to her touch, but because at the very first whiff of her delicate scent he'd felt like he was jumping out of his damned skin.

And the feathery brush of her fingers … a woman's hands hadn't provoked such an intense reaction in him in years. His mouth fell in a grim line. Ten years to be precise.

He was not unused to women casting admiring glances in his direction. But when her eyes had fixed on his bare chest, widened in feminine appreciation, and then gone a little soft and hazy, it had done something to him altogether different. His body had reacted to a look as if she'd stroked his c**k with her tongue. He'd gone as hard as a damned spike, blinded by a flash of lust so strong it had shocked the hell out of him. He thought he'd lost the capacity to feel like that. He'd forgotten how desire could drown everything else in its black hold.

But he was no longer a callow lad ruled by lust. Whatever power she might wield in that seductive body of hers, it was no match for his iron-clad will.

If he'd needed a reminder of her treachery it had come quickly. Please, just leave it be. She didn't care about right or wrong, about seeing his name cleared. She didn't want him disturbing the life she'd built on a bed of treachery. Why it disappointed him that her loyalty to her family still outweighed any justice on his behalf, he didn't know. But he'd come back for one reason only—to prove his innocence. And nothing—certainly not the woman who'd been at the heart of his downfall—would stand in his way.

The healer, a tiny old woman whose wrinkled hands possessed surprising strength and dexterity, finished her ministrations, smearing a thick pungent salve over the wound and then binding it with a clean swathe of linen. For just having been shot, he felt remarkably well.

She left him a posset to drink, which he politely declined, and bade him to rest. He thanked her, and she left. He thought Jeannie was going to join her, but she reached the doorway, hesitated, and then turned back to him.