The Campbell Trilogy (5 page)

By midday, Caitrina was restored to her former state of dress, if not her prior good spirits. She’d put the episode in the forest out of her mind as best she could, but the memory of that kiss seemed permanently imprinted on her consciousness, leaving her unsettled.

She hurried down the stairs toward the great hall, hearing the sounds of revelry, knowing she was late. A fact that was sure to annoy her father. He would undoubtedly interpret her tardiness as another attempt to avoid her “duty.”

It just wasn’t fair. She was being paraded before a bunch of hungry vultures, and her two brothers, her two
older
brothers, were left alone to do as well they pleased. Malcolm was almost five years her senior and he’d yet to take a wife. While her brothers dallied with every unsuitable lass on Bute, for the last year she’d been forced to fend off the steady stream of suitors who had presented themselves at the castle gate.

She knew her father thought he was doing what was best for her by forcing the issue of her marriage. He worried that she would grow weary and eventually resent caring for him and her brothers and that they’d kept her too sheltered. She’d never been beyond Bute, except to visit her uncle, the Lamont of Toward. But her father was wrong. She had no desire to go to court—or anywhere else, for that matter. Everything she wanted was right here.

She loved her family and had no intention of leaving Ascog anytime soon. And certainly not for one of the overbearing
oafs who leered at her across the dining table night after night as if she were some prize to be won, or for one of the stammering youths who proclaimed their undying love not five minutes after meeting her. No, Caitrina was quite content where she was. She smiled. Even if she had to reject every man in the Highlands to ensure that it stayed that way.

This time, however, she wasn’t trying to avoid her suitors by being late; it had taken longer than she thought to bathe and have someone help her with her gown for the second time in one day. Actually, she was rather looking forward to the feast. Even if she didn’t like her father’s ulterior motive—namely to find her a husband—when he’d offered to hold the gathering at Ascog, it was an honor, not to mention exciting. And she could admit to a certain curiosity in discovering the identity of her bold warrior.

She paused in the stairwell just outside the great hall to catch her breath, sneaking a peek inside. The large, cavernous room was filled to capacity with the colorfully clad clansmen, boisterously celebrating the opening of the games with plenty of the Lamont’s best ale. Although the sun shone brightly through the four windows, the gentle heat of a late spring day did not have the strength to warm the lingering chill of an unusually persistent winter, and the smoky smell of peat from the enormous fireplace situated behind the dais filled her nose.

Caitrina’s gaze immediately sought out her father, trying to gauge his temper. Seated at the high table, he looked resplendent in his fine silk doublet. She couldn’t see his plate from here, but she hoped he’d followed the healer’s advice about staying away from the rich French foods that her mother had introduced him to long ago. He’d been experiencing pains in his chest lately, and Caitrina was worried.

She was just about to step into the room when she felt a familiar presence behind her.

“I think you forgot your crown.”

She turned to find herself looking into the laughing blue eyes of her brother Niall. Lifting her chin, she feigned obtuseness, quite used to her brothers’ teasing. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He did a quick once-over of her gown and made a soft whistling sound of amazement. “My, my, would you look at that. One might think you were on your way to Whitehall to tarry with the damned English.” He shook his head. “But have care; Queen Anne might not wish for a rival.”

“Oh, shut up, Niall,” she said with a sisterly shove.

He laughed and caught her up in his strong embrace, lifting her feet off the ground and spinning her around. “Ah, Caitrina, lass, you’re a bonny sight.”

She giggled. “Put me down, you overbearing oaf!”

“Overbearing oaf?” he said, spinning her again.

She was laughing and out of breath by the time her feet finally touched the ground. Not to mention dizzy. He had to hold her upright for a few moments until she steadied herself. Unable to help herself, she asked, “Niall?”

“Yes, puss.”

“Is there anything wrong with my nose?”

His brows wrinkled as he studied her face. “Why do you ask?”

She hid the flush that crept up her cheeks. “I thought it looked a little crooked.”

He grinned. “Isn’t it supposed to be?”

Seeing the laughter in his gaze, she hit him again. “Wretch. I don’t know why I bother asking you anything serious.”

He took her nose between his fingers and gave it a little wiggle. “There is nothing wrong with your nose. Now,” he said, turning his gaze back into the hall, “whose unfortunate heart will be served up on a platter tonight?” He pointed to a handsome young man seated near the door. “Young MacDonald over there, or perhaps a Graham”—
his finger moved around the room—“or maybe it shall be a Murray.”

She pushed him away, unable to prevent herself from smiling. “You know I have no interest in any of them.”

Niall arched his brow, eyes twinkling. “Well, dressed like that, they’ll be interested in you.”

Caitrina didn’t give one whit about that, but unconsciously her gaze shifted back into the room, searching for her unknown rescuer. She glanced again at the high table, seeing her father seated at the dais with Malcolm on his left. On his right was her empty seat, and next to that … Her breath caught. It was him, seated in a place of honor at the high table. So she’d been right in guessing that he was a man of wealth and position.

“Niall”—she fought to control the breathlessness that had suddenly crept into her voice—“who’s that man next to Father?”

Niall’s face darkened, all signs of humor fled. “James Campbell,” he spat.

A strangled sound caught in her throat, and the blood drained from her face.
A Campbell.
Her fingers instinctively went to her lips in horror.
Dear God, she’d kissed a Campbell.

She didn’t know what was worse—realizing that she’d kissed the devil’s spawn …

Or that she’d liked it.

Jamie’s presence had not gone unnoticed among the revelers. But despite the general chill of his reception, he was enjoying himself. The Lamont’s pipers filled the hall with song, the food was plentiful and well prepared, and the ale flowed fast and free. Only one thing was missing: There was still no sign of the Lamont’s daughter.

A rueful smile curved his mouth. He wouldn’t be surprised if the wily chief had secreted her away to keep her
safe from his clutches. Hell, Jamie didn’t blame him. Caitrina Lamont was a jewel any man would covet.

Despite the absence of the lady of the keep, he had to admire Lamont for his skills as host. The chief had seated his unexpected guest next to the only person in the room who likely did not object to sitting beside him: Margaret MacLeod. Margaret—Meg—was one of Jamie’s sister Elizabeth’s closest friends.

There was a time not that long ago when Jamie had thought to make Meg his wife. But she’d chosen to marry Alex MacLeod—brother to Chief Rory MacLeod—instead. Though Jamie had been angry at the time, with almost three years’ perspective he knew she was right. He’d loved Meg to the best of his capabilities, and he cared for her enough to know that she deserved more.

“I’m so happy you are here, Jamie,” Meg repeated, a wide smile on her face. “We see so little of you.”

Jamie lifted his head in the direction of her husband, seated farther down the table and engaged in a conversation with the Maclean of Coll, husband to Alex’s half-sister Flora—who also happened to be Jamie’s cousin. Flora was too heavy with child to travel, so her husband of less than a year had come alone.

“I don’t think your husband shares the sentiment,” he pointed out.

Alex and Rory MacLeod had both offered Jamie a cordial but reserved greeting. Not that it surprised him. In the three years since Jamie had fought alongside Alex at the battle of Stornoway Castle, Jamie’s interests and those of his former childhood friend had diverged to the point of discord. Though bound to the Earl of Argyll through manrent—contracts that bound clans together like kin by providing protection in return for feudal duties—Alex and Rory still clung to the past, resenting the king’s increasing authority in the Highlands. They were sympathetic toward the MacGregors and didn’t like Jamie’s part in subduing
them. But then again, the MacLeods, like the Lamonts, had not been on the receiving end of the MacGregors’ reiving and pillaging.

Jamie missed the easy camaraderie he’d shared with the MacLeods in his youth, but he realized such friendships were in his past. Though they still respected one another, as Jamie’s responsibility and power increased, so too did the complexity of friendships. He worked alone; it was simpler that way.

Meg wrinkled her nose. “Don’t pay Alex any mind. He hasn’t forgotten what you did for him,” she said warmly, putting her hand over his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “And neither have I.”

Jamie acknowledged the unspoken gratitude with a nod. After the MacLeods’ victory at Stornoway against the king’s men, Jamie had used his influence with Argyll to prevent Alex from being put to the horn or charged with treason.

“Are you happy, Meg?”

Her gaze immediately slid down the table to her husband, and the soft expression on her face said it all. He’d always thought Meg pretty, but when she looked at her husband she transcended mere physical beauty. Alex MacLeod was a fortunate man.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve never been happier.”

“Then I’m happy for you,” he said, and meant it.

“And what of you, Jamie? Are you happy?”

Her questions took him aback. Happiness wasn’t something he thought of. As a younger son twice over, he’d been driven by other considerations. Happiness—a woman’s sentiment—wasn’t one of them. Justice, the rule of law, authority, land, the ability to provide for his men—those were what mattered to him. “I’m content.”

Meg studied him keenly. “You’ve certainly made quite a name for yourself.”

He laughed. That was Meg, putting it baldly, to say the least. “I take it you do not approve.”

She shrugged. “I don’t believe half of what they say.”

He smiled wryly. “You do not fear I will crawl through your windows at night and steal away your babe?” he mocked, referring to the warnings given by mothers to their children to behave, “else the Campbell Henchman will make off with you.”

Meg grinned and shook her head. “No, but the earl relies upon you too much. Elizabeth writes that she hardly sees you anymore.”

“Lizzie exaggerates.” He gave Meg a long look. Though many in this room chose to stick their head in a bog and ignore what was happening around them, Meg understood the change facing the Highlanders. The age of the unfettered authority of the chiefs was gone—and frankly, since the dissolution of the Lordship of the Isles, they’d proved unequal to the task. Like King James, Jamie was determined to see the Highlands tamed of its lawlessness and unrest. At one time, he thought she’d understood. But perhaps Meg’s marriage had changed her more than he realized. The increasing power and authority of Argyll, and Jamie in turn, had created widespread resentment and distrust—impacting many of his friendships. He’d hoped it wouldn’t extend to Meg.

“She’s only worried about you,” Meg said, seeming to sense the turn of his thoughts. “As I am.”

“It’s unwarranted,” he said flatly. Then more kindly, “I’ll see Lizzie at Dunoon soon enough. She’ll see there is nothing to worry about.”

Another tray of food arrived, and he welcomed the lapse in conversation that ensued.

He knew the moment the Lamont lass entered the hall. A sudden hush descended over the crowd, and every male eye in the room fastened on her as she slowly made her way to
her father’s table as regal as any queen—
a princess,
he corrected. She looked far too fresh and innocent to be a queen.

She took his breath away. Her glossy black hair was swept up high on her head, and long curly strands tumbled down her long neck. Her features were classical in their beauty, but made all the more striking by the vivid contrast of her snow white skin, bright blue eyes, and ruby red lips.
Hell,
he thought with a shake. He sounded like a damn bard.

As she drew closer, Jamie felt his entire body turn rigid.
What in Hades was she wearing?
The flash of anger that gripped him was as intense as it was irrational. He had no claim on the chit, but every instinct flared with the sharp blade of possessiveness. His hand squeezed around his goblet as he fought to control the primitive urge to swing her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs so she could change into something decent. Though the wide skirts of her gown did not reveal her curvaceous figure with the nearly transparent detail of her earlier attire, the same could not be said of the bodice. What little fabric there was seemed stretched to the point of bursting and barely covered the pink of her nipples. The lush, youthful roundness of her breasts were displayed for all to see.

His hand squeezed until he thought the silver would bend. What was she trying to do, incite a riot?

He waited for the swell of anger to abate, but the bold and admiring stares of some of the men in the hall didn’t help.

She was the center of attention, yet she seemed completely oblivious. If Jamie expected the Lamont to send her back to her room, he was to be disappointed. Pride showed in the old man’s face, and he seemed blissfully unaware of the tantalizing morsel she presented.

She greeted her father with a kiss on the cheek and whispered something in his ear—from her contrite expression,
Jamie assumed it was an apology for her tardiness. Her father gave her a few stern words but softened at the first sign of unhappiness, as if he couldn’t bear to see her sad.

“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

Jamie frowned at Meg’s tone, which contained a healthy tinge of amusement. “Yes. But young.”