Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(14)

“Caitrina!” her father reprimanded sternly.

Jamie lifted his hand, holding him off. “There’s no need. The moniker is common enough.” He gave the horror-struck lass a hard look. “I am the captain of the Earl of Argyll’s guardsmen. If by ‘henchman’ you mean that I enforce the law and see to it that justice is done, then yes.” He used physical force only when necessary. His usual method of enforcing was persuasion, and when that didn’t work . . . well, Highlanders were a stubborn lot, and sometimes the traditional method of solving disputes was the only way.

Caitrina blanched. “I see.”

But of course she didn’t. Her reaction bothered him more than he wanted to acknowledge. He was used to hatred and fear—his reputation had its uses—but never before had he wanted to explain and make someone understand. To make her see that envy and ignorance were behind the exaggerated rumors.

Why the opinion of this wisp of a girl mattered, he didn’t know. But it did.

Chapter 4

In a fitting tribute to the opening of the games, the next day dawned bright and clear, but Caitrina was still mired in the fog of the revelations of the night before.

Jamie Campbell. The Highland Enforcer. The Scourge of the Highlands. The Campbell Henchman. By whatever name, he was the most feared man in the Highlands—more feared, perhaps, than even his cousin. Argyll did not dirty his hands with warfare, but plenty of blood had been shed by the hands of his henchman.

And she’d kissed him.

Her father and brothers rarely discussed feuds or Highland politics with her—subjects that usually didn’t interest her—but for once she wished they didn’t stop talking when she entered the room. Occasionally she would hear things from the servants, and she’d heard of Argyll’s fearsome cousin. ’Twas said Jamie Campbell had never been defeated in battle. That he was ruthless in his pursuit of any who opposed him. That any man who got in his way was a dead one. That he had more power than the king in the Highlands because he had the ear of “King Campbell”—the Earl of Argyll.

Yet he was nothing like the monster she’d expected; he seemed so . . . civilized. Not a ruthless, bloodthirsty ogre, but a man who looked as though he would be just as commanding at court as he was on a battlefield. His calm authority seemed at odds with his merciless reputation. Though she did not doubt that he was a formidable warrior—his physical stature alone was proof enough of that—there was far more to him than brawn.

Yet admittedly, as she’d sensed from the first, there was something hard—almost ruthless—about him. She’d never met a man who was so controlled, who never gave a hint of what he was thinking.

More than once throughout the evening, she’d felt his unwavering gaze on her—cool, steady, and utterly unreadable. She, on the other hand, was a mass of nerves. Ignoring him had proved impossible; she was aware of every move he made. They might as well have been tied together, so deeply did she feel it.

He flustered her. She would like to dismiss it as fear, but the truth was far more unsettling: She was attracted to the vile brute. He was handsome enough to make her breath catch. Of all the men in the Highlands to be attracted to, it had to be a Campbell. There was irony there, but she was too disturbed to see it. She didn’t know what to do about it, except try to avoid him as much as she could.

Caitrina spent the morning busy attending to her duties as hostess, but after the midday meal she welcomed the chance to escape to the stables for a while before the games resumed for the afternoon. It was cool, and the pungent, earthy smells were oddly calming. She dragged a bench from one of the stalls to sit on and picked up the kitten that had caused so many problems yesterday.

Caitrina sighed contentedly and stroked its soft fur while the cat purred and nuzzled against her hand, savoring the moment of peace. Usually she would sit by the loch, but with so many people about for the games, the stables were about the only place she could find some solitude.

Or so she’d thought.

“Here you are.”

She stifled a groan, turning to find Torquil MacNeil, one of her more persistent suitors, beside her. If she were inclined to pick a man by the appeal of his countenance, the young laird would be the perfect choice. He was tall and lean, with dark blond hair and brilliant green eyes. Not much older than she, he’d already made a name for himself as a skilled warrior. She could do worse, if she were looking for a husband.

Remembering her duty as hostess, she forced a smile to her face. “Did you want something, my laird?”

His eyes slid over her. There was nothing overtly threatening in the movement, but it made her uncomfortable nonetheless. It wasn’t admiration she detected in his gaze, but possession.

“I wished to speak with you. It was so crowded and noisy last night at the feast, I did not have the opportunity.”

Caitrina put down the kitten, stood up, and shook out her skirts. She didn’t like the way of this conversation. She took pains to make sure private opportunities like this did not arise—it was easier that way. Half the men she rejected didn’t even realize it. But she sensed that MacNeil would not be so easily put off. There was a streak of youthful arrogance in him that promised stubbornness.

“I intend to speak to your father,” he said as if he were dangling a meaty bone to a dog.

Caitrina feigned obtuseness—one of her favorite ploys. “Of course. I shall take you to him.”