Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(54)

He stood slowly, the loss of blood having weakened him, and tended to his more pressing needs. Even the small exertion proved taxing and he braced himself against the bedposts to catch his breath. An annoyance he was forced to repeat a couple of times as he went about washing his face and cleaning himself with the cloth and water provided.

He rubbed his chin. The two days growth of beard had begun to itch and he was thinking about calling for the maid to bring him a razor, and a shirt, when he felt an odd tingling sensation at the back of his neck.

He was being watched.

He stilled, and turned around half expecting it to be Jeannie. But there was no one there. “Who's there?”

Silence.

His gaze slid around the room, taking in the details that had escaped him yesterday. The ambry to the left of the door, the window opposite the bed, the table, chair, and small bed. A trunk for clothes, a pig's bladder ball in the corner, a crooked stick for shinty, a wooden sword, a handful of shells strung on a string, and a couple of books.

A child's room.

His heart stopped. No. He heard a soft shuffle from behind the door. “You might as well come out,” he said. “I know you're there.”

Every muscle in his body tensed, steeling himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the blow. For the sheer devastation wrought by the sight of the little girl who stepped out from her hiding place behind the door. A beautiful lass with dark red hair, pixie features, tiny red lips, and wide eyes.

She was adorable—and devastating. A miniature version of her mother except for the blue eyes and smattering of freckles across her nose.

Jeannie had a child.

The burning in his chest intensified. Why should it surprise him? She'd been married for ten years, she probably had a handful of children. What did he think, that her marriage had been a sham and she'd stayed true to him after all these years? In truth, he hadn't allowed himself to think about it. But the harsh physical reminder of her intimacy with another man was proof that hers had not been a marriage in name only.

And it stung. More than he could have ever expected.

The lass eyed him warily. He schooled his features, realizing the fierce emotion in his eyes might be scaring her. He was at a bit of a loss of what to do, having no experience with bairns. And sensing the threat, he wanted nothing to do with this one.

“What's your name?” he asked, realizing he had to say something.

She bit her lip and something hot and tight twisted inside him.

“Helen,” she answered. “Helen Gordon,” she added more boldly. “But everyone calls me Ella.” She wrinkled her nose, her eyes moving above his head to the ceiling. “You are very tall. Taller than my father and he was the tallest man in the Highlands,” she boasted with a heavy dose of Highland pride. “Do you hit your head on beams when you walk?”

“Not as much as I used to,” he admitted, jarred by the sudden turn in conversation. “I've learned to duck.” He gave her a hard look, realizing what she was trying to do—distract him. “And why were you spying on me, Mistress Helen?”

She straightened her back, affronted by the mere suggestion. “I was not spying. I was curious.” Obviously there was a difference. “Did my mother really shoot you?” Her brows knitted together across her tiny nose. “You must be a very bad man.”

He held his face impassive, despite the pain in his stomach, fighting the urge to laugh. “I think it depends on your perspective.” She appeared puzzled by his response. “It depends on which side you're on,” he simplified. “But it was an accident.” I think.

She didn't look too sure either. “I wanted to see whether you were as big and terrifying as they were saying.”

Duncan's mouth twitched. “And?”

She frowned. “I haven't decided.” She studied him carefully. “Why aren't you wearing a shirt? You are very dark.”

“It's torn and I spend a lot of time in the sun.”

“You have a lot of scars. But your eyes are blue.” He was having a hard time keeping track of her train of thought, but this apparently was a point in his favor. “I don't like beards,” she continued. “They're too scratchy.”

He rubbed his chin again. “I agree.”

She nodded. “Beth said you were very handsome.” She apparently was undecided. “My father was the most handsome man in the world and he never wore a beard.” The mention of her father struck him cold. Duncan would have sent her away, but she lifted her gaze to his and something inside him shifted. “He died.”

She said it matter-of-factly, with a challenging tilt of her chin, but Duncan could see the sadness shimmering in her eyes. “I'm sorry, lass,” he said, despite the urge to keep his distance.

The little girl nodded, accepting his sympathy with a maturity that belied her years. A thought struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. She didn't look old enough, but …

“How old are you, Helen?” he asked, suddenly unable to breathe.

“Almost eight. I was born on midsummer's day.” His mouth quirked. Almost. It was still the last days of October. “My brother”—Duncan stilled, clenching his fists at his side until his fingers turned white—”says I'm short, but he's wrong. I'm petite. At least that's what my father said and he assured me there's a difference. Isn't there?” Duncan nodded, still reeling from the knowledge of a brother, but she wasn't listening. “Petite is a French word,” she clarified. “It means ‘small and dainty.’”