The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

He cupped her chin, stroking her skin with a sweep of his callused fingertips. It seemed impossible that such a physically powerful man could touch so gently. He tilted her mouth to his. She sucked in her breath, anticipation crackling inside her like wildfire on dry leaves. Her nipples tightened against his chest, pressing against him, straining. Her entire body felt so sensitive, as if with one touch she could dissolve into a pool of liquid heat.

  The warmth of his breath brushed her skin, the subtle hint of spice sweet temptation. Finally, when she didn’t think she could wait a moment longer, his lips touched hers.

  She felt a sharp tug in her chest, then a shock of surprise and a moment of blissful awakening like the petals of a flower blossoming under the hot sun. His lips were warm and velvety soft. She could taste him. The hint of spice she’d detected earlier—cinnamon—but made deeper and more mysterious by his heat.

  His hand moved from her chin to behind her neck, his fingers wrapped around the sensitive skin, sliding through her hair to bring her lips more firmly against his.

  His kiss was bold and possessive—like the man—and nothing like the chaste peck she’d imagined.

  She sank against him, savoring the sensation of his mouth on hers, wanting to taste him deeper. Excitement pulsed inside her. He moved his mouth against hers, urging her lips apart. His hard muscles bulged under her fingertips with restraint, and she could feel him struggle with something.

  With a soft groan he released her, leaving her senses reeling. Leaving her disappointed. But most of all leaving her wanting more.

  That realization shattered the haze that had surrounded her since he’d first taken her hand. A flush rose in her cheeks in mortification over the liberties she’d allowed him to take. A stranger. Her father and brothers would kill him if they knew what he’d done.

  “You’ve taken your payment,” she said shakily, turning away so he couldn’t see how he’d affected her. “Now if you please, leave me in peace.”

  He caught her arm and forced her gaze to his. “I didn’t take anything, my sweet.” She could see the anger in his gaze. “Care for me to remind you?”

  Eyes wide, she shook her head. He dropped her arm and moved to his horse. She wondered if he was just going to leave her without another word. The thought was strangely disappointing.

  Instead, she was surprised when he retrieved a plaid from the leather bag attached to his saddle. He strode back toward her. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “You can wear this.”

  The thoughtful gesture couldn’t have surprised her more than if he’d just sprouted wings and a halo instead of the horns and trident she’d attributed to him. She had only just realized herself how hopeless it would have been to try to put her gown on by herself. With his plaid wrapped around her, she could prevent the embarrassment and awkward explanations of returning to the keep in her sark. “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded his head in acknowledgment and turned to leave, but she stopped him. “Who are you?”

  A wry smile hovered around the edges of his mouth. “A simple knight, my lady.” Without another word, he mounted his horse and rode off toward the castle.

  She watched him go, wondering if perhaps his armor wasn’t shining in the sunlight after all.

  Damn. That hadn’t gone at all as he’d planned.

  Jamie Campbell wasn’t often taken by surprise, but the Lamont lass had managed to do just that. She’d been like a warm, sugary confection in his arms. Soft and sweet, dissolving against him in a delicious pool of heat. He drew a deep breath, trying to tamp the fire still simmering in his blood, but the surge of lust that had taken hold of him from that kiss was proving unusually tenacious. It had been a long time since he’d experienced that kind of hunger—hunger that would take a whole lot more than a kiss to satisfy.

  It certainly had been an inauspicious introduction to the lass he was supposed to be here to court.

  He’d been in the woods searching for something far different when he’d happened upon the tail end of what appeared to be the successful rescue of a kitten. The lad had just scampered off when he caught sight of her—or he should say her nicely rounded backside—just as she was about to fall and break her pretty wee neck.

  He’d noticed the fine gown strewn over the log, but it wasn’t until he’d seen her face that he’d realized who she was: Caitrina Lamont. It had to be her; the resemblance to her mother was uncanny. He’d seen Marion Campbell once when he was a child, and she was hard to forget. Marion’s father, the Laird of Cawdor, had never forgiven his beautiful daughter for running off with his sworn enemy, the Lamont chief, all those years ago. The feud between the clans lived on. An all too common occurrence for neighboring clans where land was scarce and its possession subject to dispute.

  Jamie had heard tales of Caitrina Lamont’s beauty sung far and wide, and for once rumor wasn’t exaggerated. Usually, he preferred a quieter, more reserved beauty, but something about the chit called to him with her striking combination of black hair, fair skin, blue eyes, and red lips. And that body … Hell, she had a body to make a man weep with desire—long, shapely limbs, a curvy backside, and lush, round breasts. His body stirred, remembering all too well how all those delectable curves had felt pressed up against him … it had been heaven—and hell, because he couldn’t touch her. The naïve chit should be glad that it was he who’d discovered her.

  Though he doubted she saw it that way.

  He’d had every intention of helping her down from the tree, but something in her tone had provoked him—as if it never occurred to her that someone would refuse. And he’d felt an unexpected urge to tease her. The expression on her face when he’d told her no was priceless: utter bewilderment and confusion. Caitrina Lamont was obviously a lass used to getting her own way.

  He’d thought to teach the haughty minx a lesson by demanding a kiss. He’d had no intention of holding her to their bargain—until she’d tried to outmaneuver him by offering her hand instead. Still, he’d intended only to make her desire a kiss—not to actually kiss her. But the sweet taste of her skin, and the even sweeter tremble of innocent passion when his lips pressed against her wrist and arm, had proved too tempting to resist.

  Leaving the shelter of the trees, Jamie slowed his mount as the castle came into view. Ascog Castle, the stronghold of the Lamonts of Ascog, was a simple rectangular tower house of four stories and a garret surrounded by a sturdy barmkin wall situated on a small rise on the northern edge of the loch. With the loch to the south, woodlands to the west, and hills to the north, there were plenty of potential hiding places. It was his mission to discover whether anyone was using them.

  Alasdair MacGregor and his men were on the run, and Jamie had the letters of fire and sword that gave him the authority to find them and bring them to justice for the dark deeds done on the day that had become known as the massacre of Glenfruin—the glen of sorrow.

  It wasn’t the first time the MacGregors had been outlawed. The clan had been in trouble with the law off and on for the last eighty years, but for King James, Glenfruin—where over one hundred forty Colquhouns were killed and every house and barn in Luss burned—had been the last straw. The Privy Council proscribed the clan—forbidden on pain of death even to call themselves MacGregor—and gave orders to hunt down and extirpate them. The commission of doing so had been given to Jamie’s cousin the Earl of Argyll.

  Jamie had followed the trail of rumor, stolen livestock, and burned-out farms throughout Argyll and the borders for the past month. Though all signs pointed to MacGregor heading to his former lands near the Lomond Hills, Jamie thought it was too obvious. Alasdair MacGregor was smarter than that.

  Despite their outlaw status, the MacGregors still had plenty of friends in the Highlands who might be willing to give them shelter—friends like the Lamonts. An old tale of Highland hospitality—the most revered of Highland customs—and a hunch had led Jamie to Ascog instead.

  When he reached the gate, one of the Lamont’s guardsmen stopped him. �
�Your name, sir.”

  Jamie met his friendly gaze. “James Campbell, captain of Castleswene.”

  All signs of welcome fled, replaced by barely concealed hatred and a healthy dose of fear. It was a reaction that Jamie had grown accustomed to over the past few years. It was also why he’d hesitated to identify himself to the lass. Once again, it appeared that his reputation—exaggerated, no doubt—had preceded him.

  The guardsman tightened his hand on the grip of his sword. “I’ll advise the chief that he has a … guest.” He said the word as if his mouth was full of dung.

  Jamie dismounted and tossed the reins to the surprised guardsman. “I’ll tell him myself,” he said, motioning toward the man who’d just appeared from the armory.

  The guardsman tried to block him. “But you can’t—”

  “Yes,” Jamie cut him off in a low voice, one that augured no argument. “I can.” He stepped around the younger man. “Lamont.” His voice rang out with authority across the barmkin.

  The chief turned toward him. Recognition flared in his gaze, and he quickly said something to the two younger men at his side. The Lamont was a seasoned warrior who hid his reactions well, but the younger of the two men at his side was not. Jamie was watching them closely, so he noticed a flash of alarm that was quickly covered up. Was it simply because a Campbell had entered their keep, or were they hiding something? He would find out soon enough.

  The Lamont strode toward him. For a man who must be past fifty years, he wore his age well and moved with the strength and agility of a formidable warrior.

  “Campbell,” he said. “I would have been here to greet you myself had I known you were coming.”

  Jamie smiled. They both knew the lapse had been intentional. Alerting the Lamonts of his arrival would hardly have served his purpose. If Lamont was hiding the MacGregor and his men, as Jamie believed, he wouldn’t give him a chance to spirit them away. With Jamie and his men watching, they would be forced to stay put.

  The Lamont looked behind him, and his brows drew together. “You’ve come alone?”

  In a time when a man’s power was equated to the number of luchd-taighe guardsmen who surrounded him, it was unusual to travel without a retinue—not to mention dangerous. But Jamie didn’t need an army of men to protect him. He preferred to work alone or, in this case, with only a few handpicked men. “My men will arrive later.” After they’d finished scouting and establishing a perimeter. Jamie gestured toward the two men who stood protectively beside their chief. “Your sons, I presume?”

  The Lamont nodded. “My tanaiste, Malcolm, and my second son, Niall.” The elder resembled his father, with fair hair and green eyes, but the second—Niall—made

  Jamie even more confident that the lass in the tree had been Caitrina Lamont. In coloring they might have been twins, though Niall was a few years older. “Come,” the Lamont added. “Join us in the hall for a drink. The feasting will not begin for a few hours yet.”

  Jamie agreed and followed the men up the wooden forestairs into the keep. As with most tower houses, the entry was on the first floor, above the vaulted ground level. In an attack, the wooden stairs could be easily removed or, if necessary, burned.

  It was considerably cooler and darker inside. The thick stone walls were an effective barrier to both man and sun. They passed through the small entry into the great hall. The castle was well tended and comfortably furnished: Colorful woven rugs adorned the floors, paintings and tapestries lined the walls, and several silver candelabra were spread around the room. The Lamont was not a wealthy man, but neither was he a poor one. Still, everything had a well-worn appearance—the years of feuding with the Campbells had taken their toll.

  They sat at the high table, and the Lamont instructed a serving woman to bring them some refreshment, which arrived promptly in carved silver goblets engraved with the crest and motto of Lamont—Ne Parcas Nec Spernas, Neither Spare Nor Dispose. When she’d gone, the Lamont turned to him and without preamble said, “Why are you here? What does the Earl of Argyll want with me?”

  Jamie took a long drink of ale, watching the other man over the rim of his goblet. Directness was a trait he admired. He put the drink on the table and deliberately took his time in answering. But all three men sat perfectly still, betraying nothing.

  “You are hosting the games, are you not?”

  “You can’t mean to enter the competition?” Niall blurted out, unable to hide his astonishment.

  Jamie gave him a hard look, guessing the reason for his reaction. The Campbells were an old and proud Highland clan, yet because of their connection with the king, too many saw them as akin to Lowlanders. “I am a Highlander,” he said, a warning edged in his voice.

  Niall looked as though he wanted to argue the point, but he wisely held his tongue.

  The chief moved to defuse the brewing tension. “I wouldn’t think Argyll would find the gathering worthy of the attentions of his most trusted hench”—he cleared his throat—“captain.”

  Jamie raised a brow, well aware of what he’d been about to say. Henchman was one of the nicer names he was called. “My cousin takes a keen interest in all that happens in Argyll and Bute,” he said pointedly. He drew his finger over the heavy engraving of his goblet. “But there’s also the matter of your daughter.”

  All three men tensed, looking as though they wanted to reach for their swords. The old chief recovered first. His eyes were hard and flat. “Why would my daughter concern you?”

  “I’ve come to see for myself whether the rumors are true.”

  The old man studied him carefully. Jamie watched him struggle with the implications. Although he might not like it, the Lamont was shrewd enough to realize that an alliance with the Campbells—particularly the trusted cousin of the most powerful Campbell of all—could not be summarily dismissed.

  “And she is of interest to you?” the chief asked with surprising calm, though Jamie could see from the whiteness of his knuckles gripping the goblet that he was anything but.

  “Perhaps.” He shrugged noncommittally, pleased that his ruse had worked. The Lamonts were suspicious about the purpose of his visit, but now they were also worried, and some of their focus would be directed on the lass.

  Chapter 3

  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.
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br />   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.”