Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(60)

Chapter 12

Jeannie's body was drenched with sweat as she writhed in bed, the cool linen sheets rubbing uncomfortably against her sensitive skin. She was so hot. So heavy. So ready. Her body soft and throbbing.

She could feel his mouth on her lips, on her throat. Feel the rough calluses of his palms as his hands slid over her possessively.

His tongue was in her mouth, probing, sliding, twisting against hers. She could taste him on her lips. Feel the scratch of his beard against her skin. Feel the weight of his muscled body pressing down on hers.

Her body swelled, her br**sts heavy, her skin too tight.

His hand slid between her legs. Her heart pounded. Her breath caught … anticipating. She wanted to cry out in pleasure at the first touch. The first stroke of his finger sliding inside her bringing exquisite relief. Her hips lifted against the heel of his hand, her thighs squeezed. She could feel the pressure building …

A soft rap on the door startled her awake. Jeannie opened her eyes to darkness. Her body sagged with disappointment. It had only been a dream. Groggy with sleep, she closed them again, rolled over, and dragged the pillow over her head. That kiss had not only shattered her peace of mind it had penetrated her dreams, rousing feelings she'd thought long since forgotten.

Her skin still tingled with heat, sensitive to the touch. Her body stirred with restlessness, craving release.

She'd forgotten what it was like to feel passion. What it was like to kiss a man and have her body explode with pleasure so intense it took her breath away. But as the memories had hit, so too did the subtle differences. There was a confidence and strength to his movements that hadn't been there before. He was no longer a youth, but a man. And he kissed like one. A very big, very strong, very possessive man.

She'd gone without passion for so long, but one day in his presence and it all came rushing back.

What if …?

No, she was being ridiculous. Still dreaming. But girlish dreams had no place in her life now. She had responsibilities. Staying wasn't an option. She needed him gone by daybreak.

She heard another knock—this one more insistent.

Alarmed and suddenly wide awake, Jeannie slid from bed and tiptoed to the door, careful to avoid the pallet of the other occupant of the room who was (thankfully) still asleep.

Holding one hand flat on the wall, she cracked open the door. It was Mairghread, holding a candle to her face. Even in the shadows, Jeannie could see that something was wrong.

“I'm sorry for waking you, my lady, but you said to let you know immediately. It's the guardsman.” Jeannie's heart stopped beating. “He's taken a turn for the worse.”

For a moment she forgot her anger. “A fever?”

The old woman nodded.

Fear cut down her spine. Just like Francis. It had only been a small slice—an errant slip of a blade during sword practice—but it had festered. Within a week he was gone.

Jeannie felt as if the floorboards had just been yanked out from under her feet. How had this happened? Only a few hours ago he'd kissed her. She'd felt his strength, his passion, the life radiating inside him.

“I'll be right there,” Jeannie said. She grabbed a plaid to cover her nightraile and slid her bare feet into a pair of soft leather slippers.

Turning back into the room, she knelt down beside the small pallet and kissed the velvety cheek, inhaling the sweet baby-soft scent. Ella wasn't a baby, not any longer, but she still smelled like one. She'd had another nightmare and Jeannie had allowed her to sleep in her room, knowing it wasn't the bad dream, but the death of her father that haunted her child. Besides, with the little termagant sleeping beside her, she was easier to keep an eye on.

Within a few minutes, Jeannie was following the healer along the narrow corridor to the stairwell and up the winding stone stairs to the garret above.

Mairghread had already woken Beth, the young nursemaid who slept in the mural chamber, to keep watch on him. Poor Beth seemed to be having a devil of a time doing so, and Mairghread rushed forward to help her.

Duncan had kicked off the bed linens and was writhing back and forth as the maid did her best to keep a damp piece of cloth pressed to his brow. But with his size and strength it was virtually impossible for the two women to keep him down and still. Jeannie should go to help them, but she was frozen.

Not from the cold. The room was hot—stiflingly so—though only a single candle burned. The heat was coming from Duncan, and her chill was from fear. Steeling herself, she forced herself to take a few steps closer.

Oh, God. She made a muffled sound in her throat and clenched her fist to her mouth. I can't do this.

His face flickered in the candlelight, enough for her to see the sickly telltale scarlet flush on his cheeks. His mouth was already white, soon she knew his lips would be cracked and chapped with thirst that could not be sated.

Instinctively she recoiled, taking a step back.

Mairghread read the horrified expression on her face. Their eyes met in shared understanding. The old woman knew how hard she'd fought for her husband's life and knew what the failure had cost her.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Be happy, Jeannie. I'm sorry.” It was the last thing Francis had ever said to her, as if he'd failed her and not the other way around.

“You don't need to be here, my lady. Beth knows what to do.”

Jeannie nodded. It was what she wanted to hear. It had almost killed her to watch the man she should have loved die, she couldn't watch Duncan do the same. Duncan, the man she'd once loved but now hated.