Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(53)
“Why did you come here, Duncan? Why me, why now?”
“It was time.” That was the simple answer. The truth was far more complicated. His sister Lizzie's note about the death of Francis Gordon and rumors of Jeannie's remarriage—possibly to Colin—had sparked an urgency he didn't want to examine.
“That's it?” she asked incredulously. “That's all the explanation I'm to receive after all this time?” Her eyes locked on his, piercing. “You left me without even the courtesy of a fare-thee-well. Not one word for ten years and now you suddenly decide it's time to return?”
The sudden outpouring of emotion surprised him as much as it seemed to her. His brow furrowed. It almost sounded as if she'd cared, as if he'd hurt her unconscionably and not the other way around. She wasn't acting guilty, she was acting wronged. You left me. The accusation echoed inside him. He'd heard the pain in her voice and knew its source. But his leaving was nothing like her mother—he had a reason. She'd betrayed him.
The flash of anger was as fierce as it was unexpected. “What the hell did you expect me to say? Thank you for f**king me so well—both literally and figuratively.”
She flinched at the crudity as if he'd struck her. He'd never spoken to her like that. The look she gave him was filled with emotion so intense he couldn't even begin to probe its shadowed depths. But it gave him the first prickle of unease.
He took a deep breath. How did she do this to him? In the spate of a little over an hour, she'd managed to pry away years of steel layers to the raw underbelly. With all the subtlety of a nail under his fingertip.
His anger raged, but he tamped it down—an eye on his mission. He was here to prove his innocence not rehash past betrayals. “I said good-bye,” he said. “What more was there to say?”
“Quite a bit, if you'd given me the chance,” she said softly. “But you were so quick to judge me guilty.”
“Then help me find the truth,” he challenged. “Tell me what you know.”
Their eyes met and held. For a moment he thought she was tempted, but in the end she shook her head. “I can't.”
His face darkened. A small part of him had always wondered whether he'd been wrong. But her silence condemned her. “You mean you won't.”
She shrugged at the truth, then studied him. “Ten years is a long time. You've made a life for yourself—satisfied your ambition.” She motioned to his armor. “Accumulated wealth and earned infamy. I can barely walk past the barracks without hearing about some exploit of the ‘Black Highlander’ and his men. You have everything you've always wanted. Why come back, reopen old wounds, and take the chance that you might lose it all again?”
She'd heard of him. The knowledge pleased him more than it should. Aye, he'd satisfied his ambition. At one time he'd thought that was all he wanted. “What is wealth or reputation without freedom, and there is no freedom in exile. The Highlands are my home. And here I'll live … or die.”
She held his gaze for a long pause—as if she understood—then turned and left him alone.
Alone. He was used to it that way—even preferred it—but being alone wasn't the same thing as loneliness. Seeing Jeannie again was a painful reminder of the difference.
Duncan had achieved everything he'd set out to do and more, but it had not come without a cost. He'd never been tempted to marry, to have a family—not since Jeannie—believing his life had no room for domesticity. And there had never been a woman who could make him think otherwise.
He breathed through the sudden ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his wound, wondering at the life he might have had had things been different. Had they not ended up on the opposite side of a war.
Chapter 11
Morning had come and gone before Duncan stirred, his limbs and head still heavy with slumber. Were it not for the pain in his belly and the urge to take a piss, he might have slept through the day.
He felt like hell.
But he'd suffered worse. It was always lying down that did it, as if only in repose did pain find its voice. There were days after long bouts of fighting where he'd woken feeling like every inch of his body had been beaten to a bloody pulp. Where his muscles had felt so stiff and spent he couldn't move. With a bullet wound, the pain was focused—at least in theory. But right now, his entire stomach throbbed with a violent burning sensation.
Gritting his teeth, he sat up. Too quickly. Pain knifed through him and he fought the sudden wave of nausea. The sickness subsided quickly, but the pain lingered, intensifying. He put his hand to the bandage, glad that it was not damp with blood or puss. But the wound hurt more than he'd expected. And it itched like hell.
If there was ever a good place to get shot, Jeannie's bullet had found it, avoiding the death zones—the places guaranteed to kill you. Still, the ball must have done more damage than he'd realized.
But not enough to keep him abed. He needed to find Leif and Conall and tell them to look around and try to ask a few questions while they were here. His men, foreigners , would not be in danger, but Duncan knew he had to be careful. There was always the chance someone would recognize him.
He was impatient to be on his way, but he knew it would be foolish to leave like this, and not before he took a look around. Another day or two and he would be well enough to travel.