The Campbell Trilogy (6 page)

“Not
too
young.”

He was about to set her straight—that he had no interest in the lass—until he remembered his ruse. “Perhaps.”

The concession surprised Meg, and she lifted her brow in a silent question.

He chose not to answer and turned his attention back to Caitrina as she greeted a few of the other men at the table. Though it was not a raised dais, the Lamonts still had a high table reserved for the highest-ranking guests—the chiefs or chieftains of the clan.

Even though all feuds would be put aside for the duration of the gathering, much could be told about the current hostilities by the seating arrangement. On one side of the Lamont were MacDonald and Mackenzie, and on the other were MacLeod, Mackinnon, and Maclean of Coll. Jamie also recognized a smattering of Murrays, McNeils, MacAllisters, and Grahams around the hall. Noticeably absent, however, were the proscribed MacGregors.

Jamie knew that even if his hunch was correct, the bold Alasdair MacGregor wouldn’t be foolish enough to risk participating in the games—not after his narrow escape two years ago.

Caitrina had yet to acknowledge him, clearly avoiding his gaze, but when she finished greeting the other guests and moved around to take her seat beside him, she could no longer avoid him. By the time her father made the introductions, he’d managed to bring his anger under control.

“James Campbell, my daughter, Caitrina.”

He could tell by her reaction—or lack thereof—that his identity had not come as a surprise. Had she made inquiries?
The thought pleased him more than it should. He took her hand and bowed. Her fingers felt so dainty and soft in his big callused hands. “Mistress Lamont.”

Her smile could have frozen a loch in midsummer. “My laird.”

Her father shot her a glare, obviously a reminder of her duty to be a good hostess.

“I apologize for the delay,” she said, forcing out the words as if there were rusty nails in her mouth.

His gaze slid over her appreciatively. “Beauty such as yours is worth any wait.” But his compliment was ignored, and she sat down and gave him a superior view of the back of her head as she spoke to her father.

Her reaction intrigued him. Most beautiful women he’d observed seemed to feed on compliments as their due, but Caitrina made him feel as if he’d just failed some unwritten test.

She did not engage him directly in conversation, responding to her father, her brother Malcolm, or Meg when necessary. Most of the time, however, she spent fending off the steady stream of admirers who appeared before her throughout the meal under one pretense or another.

If Jamie hoped to hear anything of interest to his mission, he was to be disappointed. Whenever the talk at the table turned to politics, feuds, or outlaws, her nose would scrunch up and she would get an extremely bored look on her face. At one point, an interesting—albeit heated—conversation arose next to her among her father, her brother Malcolm, and a Mackenzie chieftain about the spate of raids in Argyll and what was being done about it. Jamie listened with increasing interest as tempers rose.

“Father,” Caitrina said, reaching over and putting a staying hand on his arm, “you know how this talk of feuding makes my head spin.”

At first, her interruption seemed to startle the Lamont. When the heat of the argument had faded, and no doubt
realizing she might have unintentionally saved him from saying something he didn’t wish Jamie to hear, the Lamont gave her an indulgent smile and a small pat on her hand. “Ah, Caiti! You are right. ’Tis the time for celebration, not for talk of war.”

She turned a charming smile on the young Mackenzie laird, who appeared dazzled by the attention. “I sometimes think war is nothing but an excuse for men to show off their prowess with a blade and put all those impressive muscles to use. What do you think, my laird?”

Preening like a peacock with the compliment, the Mackenzie mumbled something unintelligible while Jamie felt an inexplicable urge to smash something.

Her attention shifted subtly to him. “Though there are those who are too ready to wage war on their neighbors under any pretense, and will never be satisfied until they’ve seized every inch of land they can.”

A sudden hush descended over the table, and she feigned obtuseness. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand. “Generally speaking, of course.”

Jamie lifted his goblet to her in mock salute. “Of course.”

Conversation resumed in a nervous burst, and she resumed ignoring him. He, in turn, observed the interactions with increasing admiration. Her skill at avoiding the promise of a dance or future conversation was both deft and subtle. There was nothing that could be construed as flirtatious or coy in her manner, but the result was all the more intriguing. Cosseted and indulged by the men in her keep, she was brash, slightly spoiled, completely without artifice—and utterly charming.

She didn’t understand that her very disinterest made her all the more irresistible. She was like a hothouse flower in a garden of wild bramble.

She might be doing her best to avoid talking to him, but he could tell she was just as aware of him as he was of her:
the way she’d pull her arm away quickly when they happened to touch; the way her hand shook and she spilled a drop of claret when his thigh pressed against hers; the way the heat rose in her cheeks when she knew he was watching her.

It seemed he couldn’t help watching her.

But every time she leaned forward, he fought the urge to smash something—usually another man’s face.

If she were his, he’d rip that dress in two. After he ravaged her senseless for making him half-crazed.

But something puzzled him. He noticed her reach over on her father’s platter—as she’d done numerous times throughout the meal—and exchange portions of his beef slathered in dark gravy with turnips or parsnips when he wasn’t looking. When her father turned back to his plate, he would frown and look at Caitrina with a questioning glance, but she just smiled innocently and asked him how he was enjoying the feast.

When the Lamont resumed his conversation on his left, Jamie could no longer contain his curiosity. “Does your father have a particular fondness for root vegetables?”

She bit her lip and her cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink. “Unfortunately, no,” she said wryly. “I’d hoped no one would notice.”

“I assume there is a reason why you have waved off all the sauces as well?”

Her blush deepened and she nodded. She seemed disinclined to explain further, but Jamie had an idea what she was about. Apparently, her father wasn’t supposed to be eating rich foods, and Caitrina had taken it upon herself to ensure that he didn’t. The Lamont was well aware of what she was doing but was content to let her have her way. Something he realized probably happened all too often.

After a moment, she looked at him again. “Why did you not tell me who you were?”

“Would it have made a difference?”

Anger sparked in her deep blue eyes. “Of course!”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, knowing that she was referring to their kiss. Her lips clamped tightly together, as if she could stave off the memory he roused. But it was there, hanging in the air between them—heavy and hot and full of promise.

God, he could almost taste her on his lips. Heat pooled in his groin as he thickened with the thought. The uncharacteristic loss of control annoyed him, and he shifted his gaze. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You needed help, and as there was no one else around to come to your rescue, knowing my name wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“You have an unusual concept of rescue,” she said dryly.

He chuckled, and the sound drew the attention—and concerned frowns—of her father and brother. Hell, it had surprised him.

“The dancing will begin soon,” the Lamont said. “Although not the court dances that you are used to at Inveraray or Dunoon.”

Jamie didn’t take the bait. He knew the Highland dances as well as anyone in this room. He realized that there was more behind this subtle dig when Caitrina frowned. “But those are the strongholds of Argyll.”

Apparently, she knew he was a Campbell—but not which one. He held her gaze. “The earl is my cousin.”

“James Campbell …,” she murmured. He could see the moment she put it together. Her eyes widened and she blurted: “You’re Argyll’s Henchman.”

“Caitrina!” her father reprimanded sternly.

Jamie lifted his hand, holding him off. “There’s no need. The moniker is common enough.” He gave the horror-struck lass a hard look. “I am the captain of the Earl of Argyll’s guardsmen. If by ‘henchman’ you mean that I enforce the law and see to it that justice is done, then yes.” He used physical force only when necessary. His usual method of enforcing was persuasion, and when that didn’t work …

well, Highlanders were a stubborn lot, and sometimes the traditional method of solving disputes was the only way.

Caitrina blanched. “I see.”

But of course she didn’t. Her reaction bothered him more than he wanted to acknowledge. He was used to hatred and fear—his reputation had its uses—but never before had he wanted to explain and make someone understand. To make her see that envy and ignorance were behind the exaggerated rumors.

Why the opinion of this wisp of a girl mattered, he didn’t know. But it did.

In a fitting tribute to the opening of the games, the next day dawned bright and clear, but Caitrina was still mired in the fog of the revelations of the night before.

Jamie Campbell. The Highland Enforcer. The Scourge of the Highlands. The Campbell Henchman. By whatever name, he was the most feared man in the Highlands—more feared, perhaps, than even his cousin. Argyll did not dirty his hands with warfare, but plenty of blood had been shed by the hands of his henchman.

And she’d kissed him.

Her father and brothers rarely discussed feuds or Highland politics with her—subjects that usually didn’t interest her—but for once she wished they didn’t stop talking when she entered the room. Occasionally she would hear things from the servants, and she’d heard of Argyll’s fearsome cousin. ’Twas said Jamie Campbell had never been defeated in battle. That he was ruthless in his pursuit of any who opposed him. That any man who got in his way was a dead one. That he had more power than the king in the Highlands because he had the ear of “King Campbell”—the Earl of Argyll.

Yet he was nothing like the monster she’d expected; he seemed so … civilized. Not a ruthless, bloodthirsty ogre, but a man who looked as though he would be just as commanding at court as he was on a battlefield. His calm authority seemed at odds with his merciless reputation. Though she did not doubt that he was a formidable warrior—
his physical stature alone was proof enough of that—there was far more to him than brawn.

Yet admittedly, as she’d sensed from the first, there was something hard—almost ruthless—about him. She’d never met a man who was so controlled, who never gave a hint of what he was thinking.

More than once throughout the evening, she’d felt his unwavering gaze on her—cool, steady, and utterly unreadable. She, on the other hand, was a mass of nerves. Ignoring him had proved impossible; she was aware of every move he made. They might as well have been tied together, so deeply did she feel it.

He flustered her. She would like to dismiss it as fear, but the truth was far more unsettling: She was attracted to the vile brute. He was handsome enough to make her breath catch. Of all the men in the Highlands to be attracted to, it had to be a Campbell. There was irony there, but she was too disturbed to see it. She didn’t know what to do about it, except try to avoid him as much as she could.

Caitrina spent the morning busy attending to her duties as hostess, but after the midday meal she welcomed the chance to escape to the stables for a while before the games resumed for the afternoon. It was cool, and the pungent, earthy smells were oddly calming. She dragged a bench from one of the stalls to sit on and picked up the kitten that had caused so many problems yesterday.

Caitrina sighed contentedly and stroked its soft fur while the cat purred and nuzzled against her hand, savoring the moment of peace. Usually she would sit by the loch, but with so many people about for the games, the stables were about the only place she could find some solitude.

Or so she’d thought.

“Here you are.”

She stifled a groan, turning to find Torquil MacNeil, one of her more persistent suitors, beside her. If she were inclined to pick a man by the appeal of his countenance, the
young laird would be the perfect choice. He was tall and lean, with dark blond hair and brilliant green eyes. Not much older than she, he’d already made a name for himself as a skilled warrior. She could do worse,
if
she were looking for a husband.

Remembering her duty as hostess, she forced a smile to her face. “Did you want something, my laird?”

His eyes slid over her. There was nothing overtly threatening in the movement, but it made her uncomfortable nonetheless. It wasn’t admiration she detected in his gaze, but possession.

“I wished to speak with you. It was so crowded and noisy last night at the feast, I did not have the opportunity.”