Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(78)
Even with the candle, however, he needed time for the flame to gather strength and his eyes to adjust. When he could see well enough to get around, he headed straight for the incongruity in the wood paneling he'd noticed near the fireplace. His fingers slid over the place where the two pine planks abutted, feeling not only a distinct gap but that one side was raised slightly. He followed the gap around the top and knew it was a hidden panel—in this case a door. There had to be a way to pop it open. Perhaps the fireplace?
He tried pressing the rosettes, the vines, the shells—any part of the relief. Then he methodically started searching for any moving part … nothing. He was about to take out his dirk and pry the damned thing open, when he decided to reach around inside the fireplace itself and struck gold. He pulled a small wooden lever and heard the distinct pop.
A small door—about four feet high by three feet wide—opened. Holding the candle into the dark space, he could just make out the stone walls of a narrow passageway. From the dank smell and the layers of cobwebs and dust, it looked like it hadn't been used in some time. Fortunately, however, it was tall enough for him to stand in.
After ducking through the door, he allowed his eyes to adjust for a moment before he carefully stepped forward. He was glad he did, as the floor suddenly became stairs. He realized he must be in a hollow section of the outer wall of the castle. The stairs seemed to go down forever. When he reached the bottom, he realized he was below ground because he was no longer seeing stone under foot, but dirt. The ceiling was also much lower and he was forced to duck as he walked through a tunneled passageway for about ten feet. Suddenly the tunnel gave way to a small chamber—if the old alter table in the center of the room was any indication, he'd found the monk's room.
But if the layer of dust on the table and handful of chairs scattered about the room was any indication, it hadn't been used as such in a very long time. Taking advantage of the two candelabrums that still held candles, he significantly improved the lighting.
Not wasting any time, he started looking in any place that might hold documents. He noticed a drawer in the alter table, and opened it to see it stuffed with papers. His pulse sped up, certain that he was about to find something important. He removed piece after piece of parchment, reading as fast as he could, quickly discarding the more recent documents to get to those from ten years ago. There were correspondence between Francis Gordon and nearly every laird in the Highlands, but nothing to do with him or Glenlivet. A short while later Duncan found himself staring at the wood plank of the bottom of the drawer.
He couldn't believe it. He'd been so certain. Maybe Jeannie was right. Maybe her husband had nothing to do with what happened to him.
As he replaced the papers where he'd found them and closed the drawer, he felt the distinct prickle of guilt. Should I have trusted her?
His instincts rarely failed him. His gaze scanned the room and landed on a trunk, tucked into a small alcove in the wall. Lifting the top, he found himself staring at a thick stack of parchment.
Every nerve ending stood on edge. This was it. He removed the papers and began to read.
Near the bottom he found the missing map, creased where it had been folded in ninths. Parts of the wax still remained where it had been sealed closed, and scribbled on the back in one of the boxes created by the folds was a note:
This came to me unexpectedly. Consider it a betrothal
gift. Grant.
His mind raced, trying to sort out what this meant. Betrothal gift. Had Jeannie known about this all along? He'd thought he'd been wrong, that she hadn't betrayed him. He'd wanted to trust her.
A few pages later he found a short correspondence, again from Grant to Francis Gordon, dated three days after the battle, the same day gold had been found in his belongings. It discussed the king's approach and near the end words that sent a chill down his spine: The rumors you alluded to at our last meeting should give you no cause for concern. I have dealt with the matter and you can be assured that nothing will stand in the way of this betrothal. He was “the matter.”
Duncan's insides twisted. Vindication was cold comfort.
He felt the subtle shift in air at the same time as a beam of flickering light spilled over his shoulder.
“What are you doing in here?”
He stiffened at the sound of her voice. He'd been so engrossed in what he'd found that he hadn't heard the approaching footsteps. Holding the map in his hand, he slowly turned to face her. Jeannie stood in at the edge of the tunnel, a candlestick in her hand.
Long red curls, blazing fiery gold in the candlelight, tumbled freely around her face and shoulders down the front of her thick velvet dressing gown. God, she was beautiful. So beautiful it hurt to look at her. He hated the doubt that consumed him.
“What are you doing?” she repeated. Her eyes shifted behind him, seeing the papers, and her face filled with horror. “My God, you're spying on me.”
Jeannie gazed at him in stunned silence. To think she'd been unable to sleep because she'd been warring with herself about what to do. He'd saved her daughter's life and quite possibly her own. With all he'd done she couldn't stand aside and allow him to hang. But Dougall's future hung in the balance. She'd wanted to find a way to help him and protect her son at the same time.
Now here he was spying on her. He'd found the room. How could she be such a fool to allow herself to think that he'd changed? That he'd trusted her? Betrayal curdled in her stomach.