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,ifshe 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.”
He grabbed her arm and swung her back toward him. “Don’t you want to know what about?”
One by one, she carefully pried his fingers from her arm and then smiled. “Oh, I haven’t the faintest interest in the talk of men.”
“You’ll be interested in this,” he proclaimed, looking her over once more. “You’re beautiful, but not too small around the hips—which is good. We will make fine braw sons.” Drawing up his chest, he expounded with the confidence of a king, “I’ve decided to make you my wife.”
Caitrina gritted her teeth and bit back a sarcastic retort. There was nothing as romantic as being compared to a beautiful brood mare. “You are too kind,” she said sweetly. “It is an honor indeed to be considered for such an illustrious position. But you speak precipitously. We barely know each other.”
He took a step closer. “There is time enough for that when we are married.”
Caitrina swallowed. As she’d suspected, this would not be easy. She needed to think of something . . . fast. “I hardly know what kind of man you are,” she said, and then hesitated, an idea forming. “And you are stillsoyoung.”
He bristled. “I’m man enough for you, my sweet.” He pulled her closer. “Care for me to prove it?”
There it was.Her way out. “What a brilliant suggestion! Prove to me that you can protect me as a husband ought by winning the archery challenge at the end of the week and we will discuss this marriage further.”
He had no chance. Rory MacLeod was the best archer in the Highlands. The MacLeod chief had won for ten years straight—challenged only once two years ago by Alasdair MacGregor on one of the rare occasions when the outlaw made an appearance at the games.
MacNeil looked momentarily confused, but she could see the moment he realized what he’d done. How his arrogance had been twisted against him. His expression shifted from cocksure to enraged. She’d tricked him, and he knew it.
Eyes blazing, he bowed stiffly. “Until the end of the contest, then”—he gave her a calculated look that was just short of menacing—“when I shall come to claim my prize.”
She watched him storm away, feeling a prickle of discomfort. Discomfort that only worsened a few moments later.
“Morning, Princess.”
Caitrina startled, recognizing that deep, husky tone immediately. The man could melt a frozen loch with the heat of that sultry voice. So much for avoiding him. She looked over to see Jamie Campbell standing in the doorway, holding the reins of his horse.
Princess indeed. “It’s well past morning, and don’t call me Princess.” He grinned, and Caitrina berated herself for letting him bother her. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Don’t you have something better to do than spy on me? Frighten a few helpless old women or children, perhaps—”
He led his destrier inside a stall, gave instructions to one of the stable lads, and strode toward her. Her insides seemed to toss about like a rudderlessbirlinnin a storm as he neared. He might be a devil, but he had the face of an archangel. Handsome enough to make her wish he weren’t a Campbell. The intense slate blue eyes, the aquiline nose, the hard sculpted cheekbones and wide mouth above a strong square jaw. She couldn’t seem to look away, drawn to his dark masculinity in a way that she could not explain. Except that it resonated, she felt it in every inch, every pore, of her body. His size, his expression, his fearsome reputation, should urge danger. But it wasn’t fear that set off bells of alarm—it was the intensity of her reaction to him. Unconsciously she took a step back.
“Spying wasn’t necessary,” he said, pointing to the open shutters opposite the door where hay for the horses was tossed in. He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “Your ability to rid yourself of a suitor is to be commended, but your delivery lacks finesse. Have care for the pride of a young man, my sweet. From the look on that one’s face, his was badly bruised and he’ll not soon forget it.”
“I don’t recall asking for your advice,” she said with an angry toss of her chin. It was none of his blasted business.
The infuriating beast only laughed. “You shall have it all the same. It’s about time someone around here spoke the truth.”
The hair at the back of her neck rose in full affront. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
