Her father snatched his hand away from hers and peered down at her coldly. “Who?”
“The Laird of Auchinbreck’s eldest son.”
“Colin Campbell?”
She shook her head. It took him a moment to figure out what she meant.
“Duncan Dubh, the bastard?” he asked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”
Jeannie lifted her chin. “The manner of his birth is of no import—”
“It’s of every importance,” he shouted, standing and lifting her harshly to her feet. His fingers dug into her arms as he shook her. “You’re a fool if you think I would ever agree to such an arrangement.” His face was livid with rage. “I expected more of you.” The disappointment in his voice cut her to the quick. “You are so like your mother.”
He said it as if there could be no worse comparison. Yes, her mother had made mistakes—but she wasn’t all bad…was she?
He was studying her face too intently. “Just what have you done?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone.
Jeannie shrank back. “N-nothing,” she lied.
He stared at her face as if not sure whether to believe her. “So quick to fall in love are you? But what do you really know about Auchinbreck’s bastard?”
“I know all I need to know. Surely you can see what kind of man he is? He will make a name for himself. Already he is greatly esteemed by his father and cousin. I love him and I know if you just give him a chance—”
He slammed his glass on the table with such fury the amber liquid sloshed over the edge of the glass. “I will hear no more of this. The betrothal has been agreed upon. Return to your room and if I find you have been lying to me, I will see you locked in the tower like your Great-Aunt Barbara. It’s what I should have done with your mother.”
Jeannie’s eyes widened. Her great aunt had been locked in the tower when she refused to marry any other than the man she loved. She’d died there and even today “Barbie’s Tower” was said to be haunted by her ghost.
She gazed up into the cold, hard eyes of a familiar stranger. The transformation in him couldn’t have been more extreme. God, he meant it. What happened to the man who’d taken her on his lap when her mother left, wrapped her in his big, strong arms, and dried her tears?
But she’d never defied him before. She’d always been the dutiful, biddable girl, trying to atone for the mother who’d left him—who’d left them all. He might love her, but it was not without boundaries—and she’d just crossed them.
She shivered to think what he would do if he ever found out about what she’d done with Duncan.
He must have seen the fear in her eyes. His gaze softened, and he took her hand. “I’m sorry, lass, I should not have said that. I know you aren’t like your mother. You’ve always been a good girl. I know I can count on you to do what’s right. To do your duty to your clan, can’t I?”
She’d hit a nerve, more raw than she’d realized. He would never have spoken to her so otherwise. Her mother’s betrayal had cut deeply. What would it do to him if she did the same? “Y-y-yes, father.” Her voice shook.
His face brightened and he managed a smile. “There’s a good lass. Now we’ll forget all this unpleasantness. I won’t hear another word about a Campbell in this keep. Francis Gordon is a good man, you’ll come to care for him.”
But she’d never love him like she did Duncan.
Jeannie fled from the solar, running across the hall and up the stairs, not stopping until she’d reached her tower chamber.
For hours, she stared out the window, shivering despite the warm day and the plaid she’d wrapped around her shoulders. Long after her father and his men had gone, she stood up, knowing what she had to do.
I can’t let him die.
Her attempt to make her father see reason had not worked. She prayed she faired better with Duncan.
“I am of the opinion…”
Duncan hoped to never hear those words again. They seemed to ricochet back and forth in his head like a musket ball, leaving him with a splitting headache. The raised voices were all starting to run together.
If this was what a council of war was like, Duncan would stick to fighting. He’d rather take his chances against a claymore and hagbut any day over listening to the same argument go round and round for hours.
Gathered in the great hall of Drumin Castle were the elite of King James’s Highland forces: chiefs, chieftains, and a few trusted captains like Duncan—each of whom insisted on putting forth their opinion. Like a room full of competing cooks who each added seasoning to the pot, all they’d ended up with was salty gruel.
Duncan had been listening to the arguing for the better part of three hours now, and the other men were finally coming to the realization that he’d made hours ago—Argyll could be as stubborn as an old mule.
