Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(62)

She stared at him for a long while, wondering what it meant.

Exhausted, Jeannie stood, legs shaky, and walked slowly across the room.

It was over. She felt as if she'd been freed from ten years of purgatory. Duncan would live, and she'd finally made some peace with her past.

Maybe now she could have a future.

Duncan woke the next morning feeling as if he'd just made it through hell's gauntlet. His body was battered, bruised, and weak, but he was alive.

It wasn't the first time he'd taken fever from a wound, but if the way he was feeling right now was any indication, it was the nearest he'd come to death.

“You're awake.” The old healer must have been sitting in the corner and heard him stir.

He frowned, feeling a strange stab of disappointment. He'd thought …

Had he only dreamed of Jeannie's presence at his side?

“You'll be wanting something to drink,” the woman said, passing him a cup of water.

“Aye,” he said. “And a bath when one can be arranged.”

The woman chortled. “Feeling a wee bit gritty, are you?”

To put it mildly.

“The lady anticipated your request and has ordered a bath to be brought to your room when you are ready. Beth will see to your needs.”

“And Lady Gordon?” he found himself asking.

“Which one?” Duncan lifted his brow in question and the old woman explained. “The Marchioness has been in residence since the death of the young laird.”

Huntly's wife … here? Hell. He'd met her once, years ago. Though it was unlikely she would remember the bastard son of a Campbell, he would do his best to avoid her. The old battle-ax was every bit as formidable as her husband and dealt with enemies swiftly and brutally. Not long before Glenlivet when the Chief of Mackintosh who'd been feuding with the Gordons had thrown himself upon her mercy—and with foolish bravado offered to lay his head on the executioners block in submission—the Marchioness had accepted his grandiose offer and had him beheaded. “The Mistress,” he clarified.

The healer's eyes narrowed. “Getting some well-deserved sleep. She didn't leave your bedside for three days. I'll not have you disturb—”

“Nay,” Duncan cut her off. “I've no wish to disturb her.” He couldn't deny the swell of pleasure. He hadn't dreamed it. Jeannie had been here. He knew better than to put too much weight to the fact, but perhaps she wasn't as hardhearted toward him as he'd thought. For some reason that mattered.

The healer was watching him closely. Almost as if she were reading his thoughts, she said, “‘Tis no more than she would do for any man.”

Duncan heard the implicit warning that echoed his own thoughts—don't put too much store in her devotion.

The old woman frowned. “Though it was difficult for her after losing the master so recently.”

Duncan tensed. He didn't want to think about Francis Gordon, but he couldn't stop himself from asking, “How did he die?” Lizzie hadn't been specific in her note.

“The fever,” she said bluntly. “He took a cut on his arm, during practice one day, and it festered. The sickness nearly took the lady along with it, so hard did she fight for his life.”

His chest tightened. Jeannie must have loved her husband something fierce for such devotion.

This was asinine. He was jealous of a dead man. But behind the irrational spur of jealousy, Duncan realized how difficult it must have been for her to nurse him.

Was it guilt for what she'd done to him all those years ago?

He frowned. For some reason he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The old doubts he'd had before finding out she'd married were resurfacing. He'd been so certain. But was there another explanation and he'd been too blinded by anger and distrust to see it?

Unease settled like a rock in his gut. Never before had he allowed himself to ask the question: What if he'd been wrong? The ramifications were too horrible to contemplate. “You left me.” The echo of her voice reverberated in his ears, sending a chill down his spine. If he'd been wrong, he would hand her another pistol himself.

But if Jeannie hadn't betrayed him, who had?

Jeannie heard the sound of voices as she tromped up the stairs, a leather pack containing Duncan's belongings slung over her shoulder.

She'd woken about an hour ago and after a long hot bath and quick bite to eat felt wonderfully refreshed. Realizing Duncan would likely want the same, she'd tracked his much relieved men down and asked them to bring her his things, which she hoped contained a spare shirt. Francis had been almost as tall and broad shouldered as Duncan, but not nearly as muscular. He'd been a warrior by necessity, not by nature. But even if she could find a shirt to fit Duncan, the idea of lending something of her husband's to Duncan felt strangely disloyal, and she wasn't sure Duncan would want it anyway.

But she remembered the effect his bare chest had had on her before and now that he was on the mend … well, she would find him something, even if she had to cover him with a sackcloth.

Given all that had happened, Jeannie was amazed by how much lighter she felt. His fever had forced her to face some hard truths. She wasn't nearly as over him as she'd wanted to believe. She'd repressed her feelings for so long, never dealing with the pain he'd caused her, forced to bury the anger and bitterness she'd felt toward Duncan for the sake of the child she was carrying. Seeing him so close to death had unleashed it with a ferocity that had surprised her.