Chapter 11
Morning had come and gone before Duncan stirred, his limbs and head still heavy with slumber. Were it not for the pain in his belly and the urge to take a piss, he might have slept through the day.
He felt like hell.
But he’d suffered worse. It was always lying down that did it, as if only in repose did pain find its voice.
There were days after long bouts of fighting where he’d woken feeling like every inch of his body had been beaten to a bloody pulp.
Where his muscles had felt so stiff and spent he couldn’t move.
With a bullet wound, the pain was focused—at least in theory.
But right now, his entire stomach throbbed with a violent burning sensation.
Gritting his teeth, he sat up. Too quickly.
Pain knifed through him and he fought the sudden wave of nausea.
The sickness subsided quickly, but the pain lingered, intensifying.
He put his hand to the bandage, glad that it was not damp with blood or puss.
But the wound hurt more than he’d expected. And it itched like hell.
If there was ever a good place to get shot, Jeannie’s bullet had found it, avoiding the death zones—the places guaranteed to kill you. Still, the ball must have done more damage than he’d realized.
But not enough to keep him abed. He needed to find Leif and Conall and tell them to look around and try to ask a few questions while they were here. His men, foreigners , would not be in danger, but Duncan knew he had to be careful. There was always the chance someone would recognize him.
He was impatient to be on his way, but he knew it would be foolish to leave like this, and not before he took a look around. Another day or two and he would be well enough to travel.
He stood slowly, the loss of blood having weakened him, and tended to his more pressing needs.
Even the small exertion proved taxing and he braced himself against the bedposts to catch his breath.
An annoyance he was forced to repeat a couple of times as he went about washing his face and cleaning himself with the cloth and water provided.
He rubbed his chin. The two days growth of beard had begun to itch and he was thinking about calling for the maid to bring him a razor, and a shirt, when he felt an odd tingling sensation at the back of his neck.
He was being watched.
He stilled, and turned around half expecting it to be Jeannie. But there was no one there. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
His gaze slid around the room, taking in the details that had escaped him yesterday.
The ambry to the left of the door, the window opposite the bed, the table, chair, and small bed.
A trunk for clothes, a pig’s bladder ball in the corner, a crooked stick for shinty, a wooden sword, a handful of shells strung on a string, and a couple of books.
A child’s room.
His heart stopped. No. He heard a soft shuffle from behind the door. “You might as well come out,” he said. “I know you’re there.”
Every muscle in his body tensed, steeling himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the blow.
For the sheer devastation wrought by the sight of the little girl who stepped out from her hiding place behind the door.
A beautiful lass with dark red hair, pixie features, tiny red lips, and wide eyes.
She was adorable—and devastating. A miniature version of her mother except for the blue eyes and smattering of freckles across her nose.
Jeannie had a child.
The burning in his chest intensified. Why should it surprise him?
She’d been married for ten years, she probably had a handful of children.
What did he think, that her marriage had been a sham and she’d stayed true to him after all these years?
In truth, he hadn’t allowed himself to think about it.
But the harsh physical reminder of her intimacy with another man was proof that hers had not been a marriage in name only.
And it stung. More than he could have ever expected.
The lass eyed him warily. He schooled his features, realizing the fierce emotion in his eyes might be scaring her. He was at a bit of a loss of what to do, having no experience with bairns. And sensing the threat, he wanted nothing to do with this one.
“What’s your name?” he asked, realizing he had to say something.
She bit her lip and something hot and tight twisted inside him.
“Helen,” she answered. “Helen Gordon,” she added more boldly.
“But everyone calls me Ella.” She wrinkled her nose, her eyes moving above his head to the ceiling.
“You are very tall. Taller than my father and he was the tallest man in the Highlands,” she boasted with a heavy dose of Highland pride.
“Do you hit your head on beams when you walk?”
“Not as much as I used to,” he admitted, jarred by the sudden turn in conversation. “I’ve learned to duck.” He gave her a hard look, realizing what she was trying to do—distract him. “And why were you spying on me, Mistress Helen?”
She straightened her back, affronted by the mere suggestion. “I was not spying. I was curious.” Obviously there was a difference. “Did my mother really shoot you?” Her brows knitted together across her tiny nose. “You must be a very bad man.”
He held his face impassive, despite the pain in his stomach, fighting the urge to laugh. “I think it depends on your perspective.” She appeared puzzled by his response. “It depends on which side you’re on,” he simplified. “But it was an accident.” I think.
She didn’t look too sure either. “I wanted to see whether you were as big and terrifying as they were saying.”
Duncan’s mouth twitched. “And?”
She frowned. “I haven’t decided.” She studied him carefully. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt? You are very dark.”
“It’s torn and I spend a lot of time in the sun.”
“You have a lot of scars. But your eyes are blue.” He was having a hard time keeping track of her train of thought, but this apparently was a point in his favor. “I don’t like beards,” she continued. “They’re too scratchy.”
He rubbed his chin again. “I agree.”
She nodded. “Beth said you were very handsome.” She apparently was undecided.
“My father was the most handsome man in the world and he never wore a beard.” The mention of her father struck him cold.
Duncan would have sent her away, but she lifted her gaze to his and something inside him shifted. “He died.”
She said it matter-of-factly, with a challenging tilt of her chin, but Duncan could see the sadness shimmering in her eyes. “I’m sorry, lass,” he said, despite the urge to keep his distance.
The little girl nodded, accepting his sympathy with a maturity that belied her years. A thought struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. She didn’t look old enough, but …
“How old are you, Helen?” he asked, suddenly unable to breathe.
“Almost eight. I was born on midsummer’s day.
” His mouth quirked. Almost. It was still the last days of October.
“My brother”—Duncan stilled, clenching his fists at his side until his fingers turned white—“says I’m short, but he’s wrong.
I’m petite. At least that’s what my father said and he assured me there’s a difference.
Isn’t there?” Duncan nodded, still reeling from the knowledge of a brother, but she wasn’t listening.
“Petite is a French word,” she clarified. “It means ‘small and dainty.’ ”
She expected him to be impressed and he didn’t want to disappoint. “Ah,” he said, nodding.
She sat down on the trunk at the foot of the bed, apparently having decided he wasn’t much of a threat. “But Dougall is just jealous. I swam across the river Dee when I was only six and three quarters and he didn’t do it until he was seven and a quarter.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment. How old is your brother?”
He was being ridiculous, but everything inside him tensed until she answered. “He just turned nine on Michaelmas.” September 29. Duncan ticked the months back in his mind. She must have conceived in January. He’d left Scotland in mid-August—almost five months earlier.
The vise around his chest loosened. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He’d never thought … He’d been so caught up in his own anger he’d never thought about the possibility of Jeannie being with child. But both children were too young to be his.
Ella hadn’t noticed his distraction. Rather, sensing an appreciative audience, she beamed, her adorable face growing even more animated as she chattered on about the many things girls could do that were not appreciated by older brothers. Apparently, there were a lot of them.
Having been in similar circumstances with her mother and realizing this might take a while, Duncan did what any wise man would do. He decided to get comfortable, laying back down on the bed and settling in for the long haul.
Jeannie forced herself not to check on Duncan first thing in the morning.
Instead, she went about her duties, going over the accounts with the seneschal and planning the day’s meals with the cook as if the man who’d walked out on her and left her heart in shreds ten years ago hadn’t suddenly returned and threatened to destroy everything.
Mairghread had checked on Duncan earlier and had been pleased to find him still asleep.
Rest was the best thing for him now, the healer assured her, which Jeannie in turn told the two brutes who cornered her in the hall when she was breaking her fast. The Irishman and Norseman had been none too happy about her refusal to let them see him, but Jeannie had not let those broad chests and arms the size of tree trunks intimidate her.
If their leader was much improved by the afternoon, then they might be permitted to see him.
She would let them know. Apparently being told “no” was new to them and she took advantage of their surprise, leaving them staring after her.