“Nottooyoung.”
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.
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.
