Chapter Twenty-Three

Not William Campbell.

The intruder’s words zinged through Fiona. She raised her head from Duncan’s chest and stared at the man.

Then she struggled against Duncan. “Put me down,” she whispered fiercely.

He let her go, but he pulled her against his side, as if still unsure what kind of threat this man posed.

But it allowed her to face him with her feet on the ground. “What do you mean?”

“Aye,” Duncan said. “This is the man I was told to meet. He matches the description. And I have it on good authority he was a scoundrel.”

Inexplicably, a flash of pain crossed the man’s eyes before disappearing.

“You’re correct about one thing.” He glanced at the man in question, and his lip curled in disgust. “He was a scoundrel, aye. But you’re wrong about everything else.”

“What do you mean?” she asked again, her voice barely above a whisper, but he heard.

“He’s not William Campbell.” He paused, catching his breath still. “I am William Campbell, and that man has given me no end of trouble.”

Fiona’s knees buckled, but she locked them tight.

“You’re my ancestor,” she blurted in English.

He gave her an odd look, and she clapped a hand to her mouth before she said anything more.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

Her shivers started again.

Duncan cupped her waist but kept his focus on the man. “It sounds as if ye have a story to tell if ye care to. I know we’d both like a fuller picture of what’s going on, especially if it means my clan is not in danger of the secrets you carry?”

The man—her ancestor—held his gaze. “Aye. And I think you’ll be understanding that I have questions myself.”

Fiona pointed to the one sandy spot along the river, and thankfully Duncan understood her mute entreaty, because he stepped forward, holding her against him still.

When William stooped to retrieve his sword, though, Duncan said, “Leave it for now. We’ll be hearing your tale first, aye.”

William studied him for a moment and then her. “Very well.”

They were soon settled on the bank of the river. Duncan slung an arm over her shoulder, sheltering her in his strength, and there was no way she was going to question that. Because it meant too much, and she was afraid the possibility would prove an illusion if she gave voice to it.

William cleared his throat. “I heard enough to know—you were acting on Margery MacCowan’s behalf?”

“Aye.”

“Margery was a sweet lass…”

At that, Fiona would swear Duncan snorted, but when she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, his face was neutral.

Then her ancestor told them how Margery had aided him, helped him regain strength after being weakened by the wounds he received fighting for the reformed Kirk in Argyll’s Rising.

It was like a tale from a romantic legend itself. She shivered. This was her fourth great grandfather telling about his love affair with a woman who was not her fourth great grandmother. He wouldn’t meet her ancestress until he landed in Virginia.

More shivers wracked her as the adrenaline drained from her and the reality of what happened washed into its place. She’d done it after all. She’d saved her ancestor and fulfilled the legend. And while the thrill of that realization was there, and the weight of the necklace on her chest took on a symbolic heft, it didn’t quite have the effect she’d expected.

She was still just Fiona.

She peeked at Duncan—none of this meant anything if she lost him as a result. How had she let herself become lost in the need to fulfill this legend above everything? She’d been neglecting the present as she reveled in her ancestors’ past and her chance to be a part of that history.

“I loved her. I still do,” William continued. “She aided me during the worst time in my life, and for that I will always be grateful. When she told me she was carrying our babe, I couldn’t have been happier, though it also struck terror in me. A terror greater than I ever felt in battle. For my future was uncertain.”

When he stopped and looked off in the distance, memories clearly dancing behind his eyes, she asked, “What happened?”

He looked down. “After I healed, I’d returned to my people. Suspicion still cloaked our name for our involvement, but I’d escaped being shipped to Jamaica in that first round of reprisals. Months later, I stopped by to see Margery to thank her, and it became something I did every month or so when I passed through, though it risked my exposure. She was a young maiden then, but as several years passed, we grew closer. And, well…”

Duncan shifted. “I understand. Go on.”

“That last visit, I was on an important mission from my chief, and she told me. I promised I’d be returning to her within the fortnight to make my addresses to her uncle. But my, er, mission went awry. I was exiled in Holland with no way to return and no way to send word.”

He chose his words carefully, but Fiona knew enough about the history of the time to understand what he wasn’t saying—he’d still been working behind the scenes to help the reformed Kirk’s cause. If he was in Holland, she suspected he’d been actively aiding the future King William.

“With King William’s accession, I could finally return. I held no hope that she’d still be unwed, much less that she’d still be wishing to speak to me. But I returned to the vicinity of Dungarbh to hear of her fate and learned she was wed to the MacLeod.” He cleared his throat. “And happy.”

He picked up a rock and threw it into the shallow river. “I was now a part of her past, ye see, so I had no wish to be disturbing the happiness of her present.”

Fiona motioned behind her. “How did this come about?”

He glanced behind him, then dropped his face into his hands and scrubbed up and down. “Shortly after, at a nearby tavern, I cried in my ale. Spilled the whole sorry tale to a stranger.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Him,” he gritted out. “I sobered up the next morning, aye, and traveled onward, but I recently learned of what this man was doing in my name. Blackmailing Margery wasn’t his only crime. He’s a MacGregor—outlawed—and so took my name and carried out many ill deeds in his desperation. I’d finally caught up to him here.”

“Did Margery act as a spy for you?” Duncan’s voice was still harsh, laced with suspicion.

William jerked and glared at Duncan. “What kind of man would that make me?”

“That’s what I’m asking.” He pointed behind him. “He threatened Margery with exposing her as one during Argyll’s Rising. She must have believed herself one to seriously take his blackmail threat.”

William’s forehead bunched, and he tossed a rock up and caught it, over and over. Then he stiffened and threw the rock on a curse. “That weasel. If he weren’t dead, I’d kill him.” His voice came out on a low growl.

“Explain.”

“I’d told him about the messages we passed to each other. ’Twas how we arranged our meetings at our old hut where first she’d nursed me back to health. He must have taken a chance that she’d think I took advantage of that and used her.”

Duncan’s body lost some of the tension she could feel next to her. “So there’s no dishonor or shame that could be exposed of her aiding your cause?”

William looked sharply at Duncan, obviously understanding that Duncan had figured out William had stayed involved in clandestine affairs these last two years. “Nay. None.”

“Good. Then I’ll not have to be killing ye.”

She nudged him. “Duncan.”

“I jest.” He regarded her, his gaze softening. “We too have much to discuss.”

But she’d noticed a slight flinch when she’d nudged him. She narrowed her eyes. “Duncan. Are you wounded?”

He shrugged. “ ’Tis but a flesh wound. However, I ought to clean it.”

She snorted. Men.

But as he stripped down to his bare chest, revealing his scar and tattoo, and made quick work of rinsing his wound by the river, she had to admit he was right about the injury.

Duncan tied on a makeshift bandage and eyed William on his return. “What will ye be doing now?”

William rubbed his neck and looked downriver. “I’d like to start a new life. Despite King William being on the throne, it’s become too dangerous again for the likes of me in this portion of Scotland. And now that I don’t have my Margery…”

Duncan tossed him the bag of Margery’s heirlooms. “How does Virginia sound then? All I’m asking in return is that in the telling of this encounter, this lass here rescued ye from myself.”