Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(13)
“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.”