Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(61)

At least she wanted to. But as she stood here with fear in her throat and a vise around her chest she felt the veneer crumble. It wasn't hatred that had ripped open the scar on her heart, revealing the raw and still bleeding wound underneath. It was the memories—the yearning for a past that could never be. He'd ruined her, not of her maidenly virtue but of something far more important—her heart. Seeing him again brought it all back. Kissing him …

She didn't want to think about this. God, why had he come back?

His body seized and he cried out as the demons of the fever possessed his body, clutching him in their fiery hold.

I could just let him die and it would all be over.

She recoiled from the thought almost as quickly as it had sprung. The malevolent impulse shocked her. Dear God, where had that come from? It hinted of anger far deeper than she'd realized. Of wounds buried but far from healed.

I have to go. But her feet remained planted to the floor.

“My lady?” Beth asked, her eyes wide with concern.

Jeannie took a deep breath and tore her gaze from the man on the bed. “I'm fine,” she answered, the terror suddenly releasing its hold. Her mind cleared. He might have left her, but she would not do the same to him. She couldn't just let him die and do nothing to save him. Not when it was her fault.

She might not be able to help him clear his name, but she could not completely turn away from him.

Squaring her shoulders, she readied for the battle ahead. With quick, determined strides she reached the bed and took Beth's place at his side. She dunked a cloth in the bowl of cool water, wrung it out, and placed it on his head, holding it to his brow and murmuring soothing words while Mairghread attended to the infected wound.

He settled at the sound of her voice. His eyes fluttered open and locked on hers for a long heartbeat before closing again. He was blinded by the haze of the fever, yet somehow she wondered whether he'd known it was her.

For two long days and nights she stayed at his side, battling the inferno that tried to consume him, not knowing whether he was going to live or die.

She wouldn't leave his side. Not Mairghread, not her mother-in-law, not even Ella's worried little face, could drag her from the room. It was no more than she would do for anyone, she told herself. It was her duty.

But it didn't feel like duty, it felt like an exorcism. The hotter he burned, the deeper her unraveling. Emotions long since buried bubbled to the surface like a volcano waiting to erupt. She spun back and forth between cursing him to the devil and praying with all she had for his life.

Then, in the wee hours of the second night, he woke. Delirious with fever, he cried out her name, before falling suddenly still. Dead still. Just like Francis.

Panic gripped her heart. “No!” she cried, shaking him. “Damn you, Duncan. You've no right to die. I'm not done with you yet.” She'd never got a chance to tell him how much he'd hurt her. How it had felt to know she was pregnant and alone. How her heart had been breaking for him, how all she wanted to do was curl in a ball and cry, but she'd had to be strong. How she'd been forced to marry a man she didn't love to protect her child from her folly.

She shook him again and again, but he moved lifelessly in her hands. The healer woke at the sound of her voice, and rushed to his side. Mairghread placed her hand on his heart and lowered her cheek to his mouth. When she stood, Jeannie knew from the old woman's expression that it was bad. “I'm sorry, my lady. The fever has weakened his heart and lungs.”

Jeannie shook her head stubbornly, refusing to believe that this indestructible man could be defeated. Deep in her bones, she knew he would not die. He couldn't leave her. She wouldn't let him.

She stared at the once beloved handsome face gray with sickness, a tumult of emotions pressing inside. I hate you, damn you. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pressed her lips gently to his.

God, I loved you. She'd loved him with all her girlish heart. And that was what she thought of now. Laying her head on his shoulder, in that warm place she remembered, she wept, mourning the loss of the girl and of the love. She wept for the treacherous circumstances that had forced them apart, for her lost innocence, for dreams disappointed, and for her son who would never know his father. She wept until she had nothing left.

“There is nothing more you can do for him, lass,” the healer said gently.

Maybe not, but she would try. Duncan was strong—stronger than any man she'd ever known. The fever that had struck with such potent destruction had weakened him, but she knew if anyone could weather such an attack it would be him.

Mairghread left her to her solitary vigil. And on the third morning Jeannie's belief was rewarded. As the first light of dawn crested over the horizon, Duncan opened his eyes—the blue cobalt every bit as clear and vibrant as she remembered.

His gaze locked on hers, weak and confused but lucid. “How could you marry him, Jeannie? How could you marry someone else?”

The emotion in his voice clamped around her heart. He didn't know what he was saying, but it didn't diminish the honesty of his feelings.

He had cared for her. Perhaps not enough to trust her, but she hadn't been the only one to suffer at their parting. Her throat tightened, moved by the unexpected revelation. “I didn't have a choice.”

But he didn't hear her; he'd already slid back into sleep's healing embrace.