The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  “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 s
ee 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.”

  “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.

&
nbsp; 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.