Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(8)
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 br**sts. 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.