The Campbell Trilogy Read online

  She jerked her arm out of his hold and shoved him away from her. “It was you who left us, Duncan. You left me pregnant and alone.” His head jerked as if she’d slapped him, but she didn’t care. He wanted the truth, he would hear it. “I swallowed my pride after you’d so cruelly accused me of betraying you and went to Castleswene to tell you that I was carrying your child only to discover that you’d left. How do you think I felt? What was I supposed to do?” Her voice shook with emotion. “I was terrified of what would happen if anyone found out. I couldn’t bear to think of the scandal my mistake would bring down on my innocent child. I knew what it would be like for him—as I’m sure you do.” He flinched, but she didn’t care. “So when Francis Gordon asked me to marry him I did what I had to do. Don’t you dare judge me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You deceived him, too.”

  She balled her fists, for the first time in her life close to striking someone. “I told him everything. Every ugly bit of it. The man you sought to blame for your predicament, who you wanted to destroy, knew the child I carried was yours, but vowed to love and raise him as his own. A vow he kept.” That stopped him for a moment, but it did not stop her. Anger erupted inside her. Anger that had been contained for a very long time. “And what did he get in return? A pitiful excuse for a wife. A woman who could not love him, because her heart still foolishly longed for the man who’d broken it.”

  “You never loved him,” he said flatly.

  She turned away, removing the plaid from the bed to wrap it around her. Suddenly she felt naked and cold. “Nay, I couldn’t even give him that. To both our great disappointment.”

  Duncan didn’t want to hear about the saintly Francis Gordon—the man who’d raised his son. He didn’t want to hear her bloody excuses.

  The betrayal cut deep and raw. My son, damn her. How could she keep something like that from him? He’d convinced himself to believe in her, and she’d been lying to him the entire time.

  He’d known. Part of him had known the boy was his, but he’d chosen to believe her. Fool. “How did you do it?” he asked stonily. “How did you hide his birth?”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, weary, as if her impassioned defense had taken everything out of her. “After the battle, Huntly and most of the high-ranking clansmen involved were forced into exile. Francis didn’t go with his father to the continent, but we removed to one of the Gordon’s remote castles up north. We took only a few trusted servants with us and didn’t return for two years. There was no reason for anyone to question our story.” She paused. “I think my father suspected, but he never voiced his suspicions.”

  “How convenient for all involved. Gordon stole my son and no one ever questioned it.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “He gave your son everything you denied him when you left.”

  Knowing that there was an element of truth to what she said didn’t make it any easier to hear. Duncan was so angry he didn’t trust himself to stay another minute—he might say something he would regret. That they both would regret.

  “That will change.”

  Her face paled. “What do you mean?”

  He met the panic in her gaze with determination. “What do you think? I intend to claim my son.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  He laughed, throwing the words she’d once said to him back at her. “How are you going to stop me?”

  She grabbed him, holding the blanket tight around her neck with one hand and his arm with the other. “You can’t do this. Don’t you see? You’ll destroy everything I’ve done for him.”

  Duncan stilled as the impact of what she’d said hit him. His stomach turned, the truth tasting as bitter as bile. If he claimed his son, he’d make him the very thing that had haunted him his entire life: a bastard. Not just any bastard, but the bastard of an outlaw. And, if he didn’t, he would allow his son to bear another man’s name and to inherit land and property that did not belong to him.

  What kind of hellish choices were those? It was like choosing to die by a gun or a knife—either way, he was dead.

  His eyes burned as he stared at the woman he’d held in his arms not an hour ago and made love to. Who he’d thought loved him. If she’d wanted to hurt him, she could not have chosen a more painful way to inflict her pain.

  He’s my son. I want him.

  Never had he blamed anyone for the brutal card that had been dealt him, but he did now. Cursing God, cursing his father, cursing Jeannie, cursing himself for the injustice. Had he reached too high again? Reached for happiness only to be shoved roughly back down to the ground.

  He didn’t bother to finish dressing, just grabbed his boots and weapons and went for the door.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  He heard the fear in her voice but it didn’t penetrate. He sensed her move up behind him but kept his back to her—looking at her hurt too much. “Anywhere but here,” he said tonelessly. And before she could say anything else he left, the door slammed hard behind him.

  Chapter 22

  Jeannie stared at the door for hours certain that he would return. He needed time to think, then he would realize that there was nothing else she could have done.

  But he’d been so angry. He’d looked at her as if she’d hurt him unbearably, as if she’d destroyed him. She wondered if he’d even heard her explanation.

  The sick feeling in her stomach rose and rose. As the hours passed, she was forced to accept what she’d known the moment the words blurted from her mouth: Once again her impulsivity had led her to make a huge mistake.

  But was it a mistake?

  She was so confused, she no longer knew what was right. But she did know that Duncan wasn’t ever going to see it her way, not when it meant perpetuating a lie. And that’s exactly what she’d been doing—good intentions or not. She would have gone right on doing so, too, for the sake of her son, if Duncan hadn’t returned.

  For so long she’d fought to protect Dougall, thinking only to save him from living under the shadow of scandal and the difficulties inherent to being labeled a bastard. But in protecting him, it also meant she was denying him a chance to have a father again. Did she have that right? Francis was dead, but Duncan was not.

  Hadn’t she once told Duncan that it wasn’t his birth that made him a bastard, it was his actions? Had she truly believed that or were they just words? If she believed in Duncan, didn’t she have to believe in her son?

  She hated the thought of the pain it would cause him, but Dougall was strong and with their help he would weather the storm. Jeannie would never forget what Francis had done for her, but couldn’t deny Dougall a chance to know his father.

  And she would tell Duncan as much if only he would come back. In another hour it would be dawn, surely he would return by then?

  He wouldn’t just leave her … would he?

  The sound of a knock startled her. Her heart leaped. She jumped from the chair, raced to the door and tore it open. “Dunc …”

  The word died in her mouth. It wasn’t him. It was only the innkeeper’s daughter with a tray of food. The flare of hope that had soared crashed to the ground in a fizzled, gnarled heap. The girl was about seven and ten with dark hair and a pleasant round face consistent with her figure. In addition to serving food and ale in the public room below, she was also apparently the inn’s maidservant.

  “Is it too early, my lady?” Jeannie could see the concern on her face. “I can come back? I heard you moving around and thought you might wish for something to break your fast.”

  “Thank you,” Jeannie said, opening the door and letting her in. The steaming bowl of beef broth and fresh bread smelled delicious, but she wasn’t hungry. “I thought you were one of my guardsmen.”

  The maid shook her head. “They’re still sleeping off my mother’s ale before the fire. Except for the leader—the tall black-haired man.” She gave Jeannie an uneasy look. “He left a short while ago.”

  Left? Jeannie swallowed the lump in