Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(12)
“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 ni**les. The lush, youthful roundness of her br**sts 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.