Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(86)
“I'd been tried and convicted. No one would listen to reason. Everyone seemed ready to believe the worst of me—Archie, Colin—and father was dead.”
“I would have listened,” Jamie said quietly.
Duncan nodded. But they both knew the word of a lad of seven and ten would not have held much weight.
Duncan finally asked the question that had brought him here. “Will it be enough?”
Jamie shook his head, a grim look on his face. “I doubt it. Archie still flies into a rage at the mere mention of your name or of Glenlivet. It will take more than a map and vaguely worded letter to convince him of your innocence.”
The surge of hope that had filled his chest deflated. Duncan had his answer. He didn't need any more disappointment, but he couldn't prevent himself from asking, “And what of you, little brother, do you believe me?”
A corner of Jamie's mouth lifted in a half-smile. “It won't matter if our cousin gets his hands on you, but aye, I do.”
But Jamie was wrong. It mattered. Quite a lot in fact. With Jamie and Lizzie's belief in him, maybe Duncan wasn't quite as alone as he'd thought.
But one question haunted him. He'd dreamed of clearing his name and proving his innocence for ten long years, thinking it would be enough. But would it?
On the continent he'd achieved everything he'd ever wanted—satisfied his ambition twice-over. But no win on the battlefield could fill the emptiness inside him. He feared only one person could do that.
Jeannie sat on a boulder in a secluded corner of the courtyard along the south wall, her chin in her hands, content to sit and watch her son for hours. She was so proud of him. Dougall had taken to his training with enthusiasm, blossoming under Jamie Campbell's tutelage. With his shock of dark auburn hair, big blue eyes, and handsome boyish features, he still resembled the child she'd held in her arms more than the man he would become. It had always bothered her son that he was smaller than the other boys of his age—more so if taking into account his real age—but she was happy to see he'd gained confidence in the short time he'd been here.
This was the first opportunity they'd had since she arrived three days ago for her son to demonstrate his progress. Winter had relented long enough for her to sit outside. It was still cold, but the snow that had stormed down upon them for the last week had abated, revealing the sun that had seemed forgotten behind the thick curtain of gray.
Dougall drew back the bow, aimed at the butt about fifty paces away and let the arrow fly.
He let out a whoop and turned to face his mother. “Did you see that?”
Jeannie laughed and clapped her hands. “Of course I saw it. It was a magnificent shot, right in the middle. You've obviously been practicing.”
He seemed to grow five inches, his narrow shoulders stretched as wide as they could go. “Every day.” He made a face. “It's the only real weapon we're allowed to use.”
Thank God! The thought of her nine-year-old son with a steel blade in his hands made her stomach queasy. But try explaining that to a boy who'd been waiting to hold a sword in his arms since the age of two when he'd toddled over to Francis and managed to pull his dirk from its scabbard.
Dougall was much like his father: Warfare was in his blood.
Her chest pinched at the thought of Duncan. He'd seemed so distant and angry on their journey, and it had only gotten worse after the incident with the Campbell soldiers at the inn. That had been close. Too close. Her skin still crawled when she thought of that soldier's eyes on her. But the distraction had worked. She pursed her lips. Not that she'd get any thanks from Duncan. Instead of gratitude, he acted as if she were the whore of Babylon. Well, next time, she thought angrily, he could save himself.
Duncan's mood hadn't improved any since their arrival at Castleswene. Despite her efforts to avoid him, he watched her with a hot, predatory intensity that augured a reckoning. From across the hall she would feel his eyes on her, and her body would prickle with awareness. Suddenly self-conscious, her hands would start to flutter, her laugh would turn high-pitched, and her mind would start to wander from her conversations.
He had her completely on edge and unnerved. The way she always was around him. You think she'd be used to it.
She realized Dougall was waiting for her to respond. Ah yes, swords. “I'm sure you will be allowed to practice with steel as soon as the captain determines you are ready.”
Hopefully Jamie Campbell would find that day a very long time in coming.
“Wooden swords are for bairns. All the other boys use steel.” Never one to complain for long, Dougall added, “But the captain says as soon as I can hit the target nine out of ten times from fifty paces with my bow, I can learn to use a gun.”
Mother Mary. Jeannie repressed a shiver, while her son's eyes lit up with excitement. She knew there was no fighting it. Guns had steadily made their way into the Highlands over the last generation and anyone who could afford one needed to learn to use it. Even she had learned to use a pistol—with nearly deadly results.
Dougall frowned. “I don't see why I can't start practicing now. In a few more years, no one will be using swords and bows anymore anyway.”
“I wouldn't be so sure of that.”
Jeannie's heart stopped at the sound of his voice, and then suddenly rushed with panic. She looked over her shoulder to see that Duncan had come up behind her. He was staring at Dougall, an enigmatic expression on his face.