Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(87)

She wanted to jump up and throw her arms around her son, to cover him up, to protect him. But she forced herself to calm. But how could she when everything she'd struggled for hung in the balance?

She'd known this meeting was inevitable—they were bound to cross paths at some point—but the moment she'd been dreading since she first realized it was Duncan who she'd shot was upon her.

Chapter 17

Duncan didn't look at her, but took a few strides toward Dougall. “A warrior must learn to use any weapon at his disposal. But the first weapon of choice to a Highlander will always be his sword.” He took a pistol out of his belt and handed it to Dougall. “Take it.” Jeannie opened her mouth to object, but he cut her off. “Don't worry, it's not loaded.”

Dougall practically tore it from his hands. Duncan stepped back a few paces. “Try to shoot me.”

The boy looked at him uncertainly before lifting the pistol and pointing it right at his chest. Duncan moved with the speed of lightning. Before Dougall could c**k the gun, he'd reached over his shoulder, pulled the two-handed great sword from its scabbard, and landed a blow on Dougall's arm hard enough to make him drop the gun.

Dougall made a sound of pain and held his upper arm where the blow had landed. Jeannie leaped to her feet, but her son's expression of horror checked her and kept her from running to him. He wasn't hurt and didn't need his mother treating him like a bairn, especially in front of another warrior.

Dougall reached down, picked up the pistol, and handed it back to Duncan. “How'd you do that? I've never seen anyone move so fast.”

“Practice,” Duncan said, returning the weapon to the belt at his waist. “Hours and hours of practice. Even if you had managed to get the shot off with a gun you have only one chance. My sword will be faster than your ability to reload every time. The Highland sword is a noble weapon, a part of our history. A symbol of our past, passed on through each generation.”

Dougall was listening to him with ill-concealed awe, no doubt having heard the speculation of Duncan's true identity. Jeannie just wanted to bury her head in her hands and cry at the look of rapt adulation on his face.

The thought of what might have been tore her apart. The bitterness she'd held for so long resurfaced for a moment before she tamped it down. Blaming Duncan would not help, and one look at the two of them together told her that his lack of trust in her had cost him far more than her broken heart. Being part of Dougall's childhood could never be replaced.

For one moment she wanted to tell him. But she knew she could not take the chance. He would insist on claiming his son and Dougall would be the one to suffer for both their mistakes.

Duncan placed the blade flat in his hands and held it out for Dougall to examine. The enormous sword had to be at least a few inches taller than her son. “This belonged to my father and before that his father—passed down from father to son all the way back to my ancestor who fought alongside King Robert the Bruce at the great Battle of Bannockburn. It's stained with the blood of freedom.” There was a deep, reverent tone in his voice that Jeannie had never heard before.

Dougall stared up at him, eyes wide with awe, hesitating.

“Go ahead,” Duncan said with a smile. “You can touch it.”

Dougall traced his finger over the bone carving. “What are these designs? It looks like a spider web.”

“It is,” Duncan said, but didn't elaborate. “Maybe one day, I'll tell you about it. Would you care to hold it?”

Would a wolf like a juicy leg of lamb?

Dougall didn't need to be asked twice. He reached out and grasped the horn handle in his small hands. When Duncan released it, the tip of the blade dropped almost to the ground before Dougall managed to get it under control. He tried to swing it around, but it was clear that the sword was too big for him. His cheeks mottled with color. “I hope my ancestors weren't quite so tall.”

He meant it as a joke, but Duncan must have discerned the embarrassment behind the comment. “How old are you?”

Jeannie sucked in her breath so sharply, she was glad Duncan was focused on her son. “I was nine last Michaelmas.”

Only when Duncan nodded did she exhale. “I was smaller than the other boys at that age, too,” he said.

Her moment of relief vanished in the immediate jump of her pulse. There was no reason for him to make the connection. Her son had her features and the dark auburn hair of—

His uncle. Dear God, why had she never noticed before? Dougall had the same color hair as Jamie Campbell. She felt the panic closing around her and forced herself to breathe evenly. There was no reason for him to suspect, she kept telling herself.

Then why was her heart racing as if she'd just run a marathon?

“You were?” Dougall asked, his eyes narrowing skeptically.

Jeannie didn't blame him. She found it hard to picture Duncan as anything less than the rocky mountain of a man he was now herself.

“Aye. It made me work harder to prove myself. Find your strength here first,” he pointed to his head, “and you will know how to use the other when it comes. There are other advantages to being small.”

“Like what?”

“I can show you if you'd like.”

No! Jeannie thought with barely concealed horror.

“When?” Dougall asked, unable to hide his eagerness. He broke into a wide smile, the dimple in his cheek an exact mirror of the man standing before him. They looked nothing alike, but the signs were there if you looked closed enough. She prayed no one did.