Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(81)

Though the true danger lay at their journey's end, the journey itself would not be without risk and Jeannie's offer to have him travel as one of her guardsmen would certainly help. But he would not have her in any danger. He picked the men who would accompany them himself, choosing the most skilled warriors, and insisted on doubling the number of guardsmen she initially wanted to take.

Ignorant of the true situation, Ella had wanted to come, but the Highlands in the winter were no place for a child—or anyone for that matter. Fortunately, the lass was still feeling guilty for what had happened to put up much of an argument.

The Marchioness had tried to persuade Jeannie to reconsider, suggesting that it was “hardly the time to go gallivanting across the Highlands on a whim to see her son,” but Jeannie had proved surprisingly stubborn.

Duncan bit back a wave of bitterness, knowing the stubbornness was not for his benefit, but for her dead husband's. She wouldn't lift a hand to help him, but she would journey across the Highlands in the bowels of winter harboring the most wanted outlaw in the land to protect her husband's memory.

Something he was reminded of countless times over the next week. Each time their eyes met, jealousy and anger twisted inside him all over again. He'd thought she'd softened. He'd thought she was feeling the same emotions he was. The way she looked at him …

As if sensing his thoughts, she turned and met his gaze. The pang of longing in her eyes hit him square in the chest with the force of a smith's hammer. Their eyes held for an instant, before she quickly shifted her gaze, leaving him wondering whether he'd only imagined it.

Why couldn't he just accept that he wanted something that could never be his?

But he did want her—badly—and her close proximity was testing the limits of his endurance. More than once, he wished he'd insisted she stay at Aboyne—not that he was sure she would have listened to him.

Her constant presence chaffed. Together for hours on end like this … she was the devil's own temptation. The long days in the saddle, followed by even longer nights, knowing how close she was. Even buried beneath layers of wool, the image of her nakedness was burned on his memory.

He was at the end of his damned rope, pulled taut by jealousy and a c**k that stiffened with a sharp gust of wind. He hadn't had a woman in too damned long and his hand provided only temporary satisfaction. He'd considered releasing a bit of his pent-up frustration in the willing arms of a barmaid, but somehow he sensed it would hurt Jeannie and despite his jealousy he couldn't do that—not yet. But to say he was looking forward to the journey's end was putting it mildly.

It wasn't just the close proximity to Jeannie that had him on edge. The trip had been fraught with danger and delay—plagued not only by heavy snowstorms, but also by long detours to avoid brigands and soldiers. If Duncan needed any proof that his cousin had not relented, all he had to do was count the army of soldiers scouring the countryside for him.

When they stopped at night in the drover's inns or alehouses, the talk was either of the MacGregors or of the hunt for the elusive Black Highlander. To some he was an outlaw, to others a hero who'd taken on almost mythic proportions. It surprised him how many enemies he and his cousin had—many people were rooting for him to escape Argyll's clutches. Though given his cousin's recent debacle with the MacGregor chief's surrender and subsequent execution, perhaps he shouldn't have been.

Duncan kept his head down and did his best to avoid drawing attention to himself, but more than one person had given him a long glance. He could hide his hair beneath a knapscall and avert his eyes, but he could not hide his size.

Then, the night before they'd neared Inveraray, he'd come within a hair's breadth of capture.

They'd just finished eating—a surprisingly delicious beef and barley stew—and were relaxing before the fire with a tankard of ale before bedding down for the night when Leif rushed in. He'd been on watch and had seen the soldiers coming, but too late to make an attempt to avoid them. Leaving suddenly this late at night would have only given the soldiers cause for suspicion. Duncan knew they would have to take their chances.

But he wouldn't go without a fight. He looked at Conall and Leif, telling them without words to be ready. Their long great swords would be of limited use with the low ceiling, but his dirk would provide all the steel he needed.

He found a seat in the corner and kept his face averted as the dozen or so of Campbell soldiers filed in. He was grateful for the smoky darkness of the old stone and thatch building, though the musky stench left something to be desired. The accommodation at the drover's inn was limited to the chamber above and the floor of the room that they were in, so the new arrivals would be bedding down in the stables. A prospect that did not appeal to the captain—a heavyset, ruddy-faced man with a crooked flat nose that had been smashed more than once, of around Duncan's age and whom he didn't recognize.

If it wasn't for Jeannie sleeping in one of the chambers above, Duncan would have welcomed the excuse to escape to the stables, but he wanted to stay close to her.

The captain took a surly attitude, and started to object loudly. The innkeeper's efforts to appease the man were falling on deaf ears.

“Who are these men?” the captain asked. “We are on the earl's business and have been riding all day. My men are tired.”

The innkeeper, a thin, balding man with long wisps of white hair combed across his skull looked around anxiously. “Lady Gordon arrived with her guardsmen some time ago.”