Chapter 9 #2
He felt a strange burning in his chest, a twisting emotion that could only be described as jealousy.
That he knew the man—and were they not on opposite sides might have admired him—made it worse.
Francis Gordon was an apt politician, a skilled warrior, wealthy, and if Duncan abided the judgment of the ladies at court, uncommonly fair of face.
The perfect match for a daughter of a chief. Unlike him.
He felt like such a fool. Why would she want to marry him when she was betrothed to the son of one of the most powerful men in Scotland? The legitimate son. Duncan had been deluding himself, believing a woman like her could see past the stain of his blood.
Had her father used her to distract him? That was probably the most difficult shame to swallow, that he might have missed the signs of Grant’s treachery, failing in his duty to his family, because he was panting after a lass like a lovesick pup.
This was what happened when you thought with your cock. He would never make that mistake again. His destiny lay on the battlefield, not with a woman. He should have recognized that long ago.
Yet part of him refused to believe it had all been a lie. Passion like that could not be feigned. But maybe that’s all it was: passion. Maybe she’d moved on when she’d found something better. Hadn’t he worried about that very thing? That she would follow her heart when the next impulse struck?
He shook off the memories. Even if she had not been entirely pretending her feelings, she’d made her choice in siding with her treacherous father.
And he’d made his. He would return to his father’s side and plead his case to his cousin.
Duncan considered the evidence against him and knew that it was damning.
The note. The map. The gold. His anger at his father and at not being given a command.
Perhaps one could be explained, but combined they were compelling proof of guilt.
He could only hope that when he laid out the facts before the earl, Archie would find him guilty of being a fool, but not a traitor.
It was near dawn by the time Duncan slipped through the gate of Drumin Castle on foot, leaving his horse—and battle garb—a short distance away.
He’d carefully hid his steel knapscall, weaponry, and mail, exchanging them for a simple plaid and bonnet worn down low over his brow so as not to attract notice.
They were looking for him. The three parties of soldiers he’d avoided on the road told him as much, but as the gates were not being watched closely he guessed they did not expect him to return.
He hid in the stables and spent the better part of the day avoiding anyone who might recognize him, waiting for the opportunity to slip inside the castle. Finally, he joined a party of men bringing in peat for the kitchens.
Once inside he’d worked his way back up the stairs from the kitchens to the laird’s chamber. Opening the door carefully, he peered inside, relieved to see only Colin and a maidservant. Colin lifted his head when Duncan entered, his eyes red and glassy.
His gaze widened when he realized it was Duncan. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come back. Half the King’s army is looking for you.”
“I had to see father. Has there been any change?”
Colin shook his head mutely.
Duncan knelt beside the bed, taking his father’s hand in his. It was as cold as ice.
“Duncan, you can’t stay here.”
He met his brother’s gaze. “I intend to prove my innocence.”
Colin gave him a strange look. “You found the proof you were looking for?”
His mouth tightened. “No, but I believe our cousin will listen to what I have to say.”
Colin shook his head. “You don’t understand. There is a bounty on your head. You have been tried this very morning and found guilty.”
Duncan swore. “Argyll will believe me.”
Colin didn’t look so sure. Indeed, Duncan suddenly realized that Colin didn’t believe him either. “You think I’m guilty.”
“No,” Colin said reflexively, but without real vehemence.
Duncan held his stare for a long pause. “I see,” he said softly, unable to believe how quickly his own family had turned against him.
The evidence was strong, aye, but did it erase a lifetime of honor and loyalty?
Were his actions on the battlefield supposed to be some elaborate front? It was ridiculous.
“It’s not like that,” Colin said, trying to make amends. “It’s just the lass is beautiful—” He stopped at the sound of footsteps approaching the door. “I’ll get rid of them,” he said.
Duncan hid behind a tall cupboard near the door until he heard the sound of his brother’s voice fading down the corridor.
He knelt beside his father’s side again, resting his head against the bed as if willing him to wake and give him guidance.
It was far worse than Duncan had realized.
They’d already tried and convicted him. Without proof he would not be able to overturn the judgment against him.
With sudden clarity, he realized that he’d been made a convenient scapegoat for the loss of the battle.
A bastard was an easy mark. If his cousin and his own damned brother didn’t believe him, who would?
He felt drained, as if all the life he’d known had been sucked right out of him. For the first time in his young life, he was at a complete loss. What can I do?
He must have spoken the question aloud, because he heard a soft grunt in response. He thought he’d imagined it at first, but when he raised his head his father opened his eyes.
“Father!”
His father moved his head back and forth on the pillow, clearly distressed. Duncan tried to calm him with soothing words, but it didn’t work. His father opened his mouth, trying to talk, but only strangled sounds came out.
He was only growing more agitated. His body seemed gripped in a spasm, his eyes wide open. Duncan knew that he needed to get the healer. He stood to run to the door, but his father grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.
Their eyes met and finally he managed to speak, but the words were jumbled and difficult to make out. “Forgive me,” his father rasped. “Mother … Find … MacDonald.”
“Father, I can’t understand—”
But his words were cut off by a cry, as a violent convulsion wracked his father’s frail frame in one last embrace. When it was done, Duncan knew it was over.
His father was gone.
Now it wasn’t only the loss of the battle to be laid at his feet for his stupidity, but also his father’s life.
He stared with dry, disbelieving eyes for a long time, overwhelmed by what had just happened. By his loss. He never got to tell his father he was sorry. He’d never got to thank him for all he’d tried to do for him.
He heard the door open, but didn’t move. For a moment he didn’t care if he was taken, but it was only Colin. The ramifications struck him hard. Nay, not only his brother. Colin was now his chief, Campbell of Auchinbreck.
“He’s dead,” Colin said numbly.
Duncan nodded. “He woke for a moment. Tried to tell me something.”
His brother’s voice was tight with emotion. “What did he say?”
“I could only make out a few words. It sounded like he wanted me to find my mother.” The mother who’d abandoned him at birth.
A serving woman—a MacDonald serving woman apparently—who’d cared so little for her child’s welfare that she’d never thought to see or even inquire after him for over twenty years.
He had just as little interest in her. “I’m not sure he even knew what he was saying. ”
Colin nodded. They were both silent for a few minutes, paying respect to the father they both loved. “I came to warn you,” Colin said. “They’ve found your horse. They know you’re here.”
Damn. He hoped they hadn’t also found his cache of weapons. He would have to wait until nightfall for the chance to retrieve them.
“It’s not safe,” Colin said. “You have to go.”
Duncan didn’t bother arguing. He’d just lost the one man who might have believed in him enough to prevent this gross miscarriage of justice. “Aye,” he said. “I’ll go.”
“The Highlands are not safe for you.”
The truth hit him hard. He would have to leave Scotland. The only home he’d ever known. But with his father gone and Jeannie lost to him, there was nothing left for him. He thought of his brothers and Lizzie. They would be better off without him. If he stayed he would only be a source of shame.
He was truly alone.
He made his decision. He hardened his heart against regret, against sadness, against loss. “Ireland,” he said. In Ireland there was always room for another hired sword. As a gallowglass mercenary he would have a chance to make his way—on the battlefield.
Colin reached in his sporran and retrieved a handful of coins. “Here, you’ll need this.”
Duncan took it with a nod. “Take care, Colin. You’ve been a loyal brother to me. I’ll not forget it.”
“Safe travels, brother.” Something flickered in his brother’s gaze—regret? “I’m sorry.”
Duncan swallowed the hot ball in his throat. Ignoring the throb in his chest, he bid final farewell to his father and brother.
He left Drumin Castle, left the Highlands, left his home and family, without looking back. His destiny, it seemed, lay elsewhere. But he knew one day he would return. To clear his name and to have a final reckoning with the person who’d destroyed it.
Two days later, he stood at the stern of the boat taking him from Kintyre, his father’s sword safely at his side, gazing longingly at the fading coastline.
His last thought as it slipped from view was not of the soaring rocky shores, green hills, or crystalline waters, but of emerald eyes and auburn hair—and the woman who’d cost him everything.
Two more weeks had come and gone, and Jeannie knew she could not delay any longer. Her father and Francis had been busy making amends to the king, but soon she knew the subject would once again turn to her marriage.
And Duncan still had not come for her.