No.She pushed it aside. The Marchioness’s doom and gloom would not spoil this day.
She ran the last few steps to her belongings and snatched a drying cloth from the top of the pile to wrap around herself. Going right to work, she rubbed the swath of linen over her face and limbs, removing as much of the water as she could from her skin before using the cloth to squeeze some of the excess from her hair. But the long, thick waves would take hours to dry even sitting before a fire.
Cursing her strange apprehension, which she fully attributed to her mother-in-law’s interference, she glanced around one more time to make sure she was alone, then yanked her wet sark over her head, letting it drop at her feet, before reaching for a fresh one.
Bent over, naked as the day she was born, Jeannie heard a sound behind her. A sound that turned her blood to ice and made every hair at the back of her neck stand up in fear.
The guardsman never saw it coming.
Engrossed in ogling the woman swimming in the loch, he crumpled at Duncan’s feet like a poppet of rags. Out cold, blood trickled from the gash at his temple.
Duncan could almost feel sorry for him. It wasn’t the first time this woman had been the cause of a man’s fall from grace.
Not that it was any excuse for such an egregious failure in his duty. If he were one of Duncan’s men, there would be severe consequences beyond a knock on the pate for the lapse. His men were revered for their discipline and control, as much as they were feared for their dominance on the battlefield.
Bending over the prone man, Duncan quickly divested the fallen warrior of his weapons, and then returned his own dirk to the gold scabbard at his waist. The blow from the heavy, jewel-encrusted hilt wouldn’t do any lasting damage, but the pain in the man’s head when he woke would give him something to think about. But that wouldn’t be any time soon, buying Duncan time enough to complete his unpleasant task.
This was a meeting better had alone—and without interruption.
He heard a splash coming from the loch, but resisted the urge to look at what had so enthralled the guardsman. He knew. Instead, the man feared from Ireland to across the Continent as the Black Highlander—dubbed not just for the color of his hair but for his deadly skill at warfare—motioned for his men positioned at the edge of the tree line to keep an eye on the guardsman in case he stirred, and circled around the loch to the place where she’d left her belongings.
If leaving the castle with a worthless guardsman to frolic in the loch was any indication, Jeannie hadn’t changed one whit. He’d half expected her to be meeting a lover for a tryst, and had waited before approaching her just to make sure. But she was alone—this time at least.
He moved through the trees as soundlessly as the wraith some might think him. He’d been gone a long time.
Too long.
Only now that he was back did he allow himself to acknowledge it.
Ten years he’d bided his time, forging a new life from the ashes of his old to replace the one denied him by birth and treachery, waiting for the right moment to return. Ten years he’d waged war, honing his skills and laying scourge across countless battlefields.
Ten years in exile for a crime he didn’t commit.
For so long he’d forced everything that reminded him of the Highlands from his mind, but every step that he’d taken across the heathery hills, grassy glens, rocky crags, and forested hillsides of the Deeside since he’d landed in Aberdeen two days ago had been a brutal reminder of how much he’d lost.
This place was in his blood. It was part of him, and he’d be damned if he’d be forced from here again.
Whatever it took, he would clear his name.
Duncan flexed his jaw, steeling himself for what lay ahead. His controlled expression betrayed none of the fierce turmoil surging through him as he neared the reckoning ten years in the making.
Anger that had taken years to harness returned with surprising force. But emotion would never control him again and he quickly tamped it down. For many years now, Jeannie Grant—nay, he reminded himself bitterly, Jeannie Gordon—had been nothing to him but a harsh reminder of his own failings. He’d put her out of his mind in the way that a man wants to forget his first lesson in humility. Rarely did he allow himself to think about her, except as a reminder of a mistake he would never make again.
But now he had no choice. As much as he would like to keep her buried in the past where she belonged, he needed her.
The splashing grew louder. He slowed his step as he wound through the maze of trees and brush, taking care to stay well-hidden as he drew closer. Even in the heavy thicket of trees, his height and breadth of shoulder should make hiding impossible, but over the years he’d become adept at blending into his surroundings.
He stopped near the rock where she’d left her clothes, keeping hidden behind a wide fir tree.
Every muscle in his body tensed as he scanned the dark mossy-green waters of the loch…
He stilled.There.The pale oval of her upturned face caught in the sunlight, illuminating the perfectly aligned features for only an instant before she disappeared under the water.
It was her. Jean Gordon, née Grant. The woman he’d once been foolish enough to love.
He felt a hard jerk in his chest as the memories flooded him: the disbelief, the hurt, the hatred, and finally, the hard-wrought indifference.
His name wasn’t all that she’d destroyed. She’d taken his trust, and with it, the idealism of a lad of one and twenty. Her betrayal had been a harsh lesson. Never again would he allow his heart to rule him.
