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.”
“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.
