Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(75)

The young captain seemed to sense how close he was to death and took a few steps back.

Duncan's fists clenched at his side, the muscles flexing up his arms and across his shoulders. A man who dared to hurt a woman—and not just any woman, but his woman—did not deserve mercy. In two strides he'd reached the man and drew him up by the neck. He tried to break free, but Duncan's arms were as rigid as steel. The Mackintoshes reached for their weapons, but Duncan's men lunged forward—the point of their claymores a sufficient deterrent.

“Give me one reason I should not kill you,” Duncan seethed.

“She's mistaken,” the coward gasped. “I don't know what she's talking about.”

Malcolm Mackintosh tried to intervene. “We did not mean the lass any harm. We want no trouble.”

Something in the man's voice pulled Duncan's gaze away from the captain's. He read the silent offer. Let the lad live and I will keep the secret of your identity. It wasn't much of an offer. If all of the witnesses were dead no one would be left to tell Duncan's secret.

“Duncan.” Jeannie tugged on his arm. He gazed down into her upturned face, into the pleading green depths. “Please.”

His fingers gave one last squeeze before he tossed the man away from him. The young Mackintosh landed, gasping, on his ass.

Duncan turned to Malcolm. “Go. But if he comes within a mile of the lady again, he's dead.”

Malcolm nodded and said in a low voice, “Welcome back, captain. I never believed what they said of ye. No one who saw ye fight that day did.”

Duncan acknowledged the man's loyalty with a nod. He heard the young captain rustle to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw him bend over and …

Before anyone else realized what was happening Duncan reached for the sgian dubh in his boot and in one smooth, unerring motion threw.

There was a loud thump as the blade found its target, followed by a strangled grunt from the captain.

The young captain wobbled, the hilt of Duncan's knife firmly in his neck. The pistol he'd slid from his waist and pointed at Duncan's back wavered in the air before dropping to the ground.

A moment later his body followed.

Chapter 15

It had happened so fast. Jeannie still couldn't believe how quickly Duncan had reacted. She hadn't even been able to open her mouth to shout a warning before his knife was sheathed in the other man's neck, finding the small unprotected area right below his throat and above the edge of his mail.

The flash of fear she'd felt for Duncan paled in comparison to the awe and admiration that had followed after his near effortless dispatching of the threat and cold accuracy. She'd never seen him fight before and if the dark, ruthless look that had come over him was any indication, she could see how the Black Highlander had earned his fearsome reputation.

His instincts were amazing. He was amazing.

She put her fingers to her mouth. She could still taste him on her lips. The kiss had been brief, but poignant. In that one kiss he'd conveyed more emotion than in the entire three weeks since he'd returned. It had not been a kiss in lust or anger, but of something far deeper—of aching tenderness and poignant reminder of feelings long sumerged.

But the truly shattering part was that she hadn't wanted him to stop. Her feelings had been right there—on the edge—ready to catapult into danger.

She was softening.

An uneven bit of road caused her to lift from her saddle and land with enough force to rattle her teeth, but her mount barely seemed to notice. The destrier (her mare had come up lame after she'd fallen) belonged to Duncan's Irishman. The beast was far too big for her, but after her fall she appreciated its solid strength.

She didn't even want to think what would have happened had Duncan not arrived when he did.

Though she would not mourn the death of the Mackintosh brigand who'd tried to abduct her, she did regret that it had been at Duncan's hand. For a moment she worried that there would be a battle, that the Mackintoshes would seek to avenge their leader's death. But after a tense moment they'd gathered up his body and left. The rash young captain had signed his own death warrant by trying to shoot Duncan in the back. He'd gotten no better than he'd deserved.

But Jeannie doubted his father would agree. The dead captain, the man who'd tried to abduct her, was the Mackintosh chief's youngest son. And there was another problem to consider. The older Mackintosh warrior had recognized Duncan. She wanted to question him about it, but there hadn't been an opportunity. As the path was too narrow to ride two abreast, conversing was impossible. In truth, she was too anxious to do so. Though Duncan had assured her that Ella was unharmed, Jeannie wouldn't truly believe it until she had her little girl in her arms.

The torches were blazing by the time they thundered through the castle gate and the ghostly mist had settled low over the gray stone walls. She didn't wait for assistance. As soon as the groomsman took her reins, she hopped down and raced up the stairs.

She burst through the door and the first thing she saw was her daughter. Ella stood in the entry, looking up at her with eyes wide, cheeks rosy from the fire, and the most abashed expression Jeannie had ever seen on her face. Her tiny mouth trembled. “I'm sorry, mother.”

Tears sprang to Jeannie's eyes. Emotion engulfed her in a big, hot wave. All that she could have lost suddenly crashed down over her. She didn't say anything, just knelt to the ground and gathered her child in her arms, holding on to her as if she would never let her go.