Caitrina’s gaze immediately sought out her father, trying to gauge his temper. Seated at the high table, he looked resplendent in his fine silk doublet. She couldn’t see his plate from here, but she hoped he’d followed the healer’s advice about staying away from the rich French foods that her mother had introduced him to long ago. He’d been experiencing pains in his chest lately, and Caitrina was worried.
She was just about to step into the room when she felt a familiar presence behind her.
“I think you forgot your crown.”
She turned to find herself looking into the laughing blue eyes of her brother Niall. Lifting her chin, she feigned obtuseness, quite used to her brothers’ teasing. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He did a quick once-over of her gown and made a soft whistling sound of amazement. “My, my, would you look at that. One might think you were on your way to Whitehall to tarry with the damned English.” He shook his head. “But have care; Queen Anne might not wish for a rival.”
“Oh, shut up, Niall,” she said with a sisterly shove.
He laughed and caught her up in his strong embrace, lifting her feet off the ground and spinning her around. “Ah, Caitrina, lass, you’re a bonny sight.”
She giggled. “Put me down, you overbearing oaf!”
“Overbearing oaf?” he said, spinning her again.
She was laughing and out of breath by the time her feet finally touched the ground. Not to mention dizzy. He had to hold her upright for a few moments until she steadied herself. Unable to help herself, she asked, “Niall?”
“Yes, puss.”
“Is there anything wrong with my nose?”
His brows wrinkled as he studied her face. “Why do you ask?”
She hid the flush that crept up her cheeks. “I thought it looked a little crooked.”
He grinned. “Isn’t it supposed to be?”
Seeing the laughter in his gaze, she hit him again. “Wretch. I don’t know why I bother asking you anything serious.”
He took her nose between his fingers and gave it a little wiggle. “There is nothing wrong with your nose. Now,” he said, turning his gaze back into the hall, “whose unfortunate heart will be served up on a platter tonight?” He pointed to a handsome young man seated near the door. “Young MacDonald over there, or perhaps a Graham”—his finger moved around the room—“or maybe it shall be a Murray.”
She pushed him away, unable to prevent herself from smiling. “You know I have no interest in any of them.”
Niall arched his brow, eyes twinkling. “Well, dressed like that, they’ll be interested in you.”
Caitrina didn’t give one whit about that, but unconsciously her gaze shifted back into the room, searching for her unknown rescuer. She glanced again at the high table, seeing her father seated at the dais with Malcolm on his left. On his right was her empty seat, and next to that . . . Her breath caught. It was him, seated in a place of honor at the high table. So she’d been right in guessing that he was a man of wealth and position.
“Niall”—she fought to control the breathlessness that had suddenly crept into her voice—“who’s that man next to Father?”
Niall’s face darkened, all signs of humor fled. “James Campbell,” he spat.
A strangled sound caught in her throat, and the blood drained from her face.A Campbell. Her fingers instinctively went to her lips in horror.Dear God, she’d kissed a Campbell.
She didn’t know what was worse—realizing that she’d kissed the devil’s spawn . . .
Or that she’d liked it.
Jamie’s presence had not gone unnoticed among the revelers. But despite the general chill of his reception, he was enjoying himself. The Lamont’s pipers filled the hall with song, the food was plentiful and well prepared, and the ale flowed fast and free. Only one thing was missing: There was still no sign of the Lamont’s daughter.
A rueful smile curved his mouth. He wouldn’t be surprised if the wily chief had secreted her away to keep her safe from his clutches. Hell, Jamie didn’t blame him. Caitrina Lamont was a jewel any man would covet.
Despite the absence of the lady of the keep, he had to admire Lamont for his skills as host. The chief had seated his unexpected guest next to the only person in the room who likely did not object to sitting beside him: Margaret MacLeod. Margaret—Meg—was one of Jamie’s sister Elizabeth’s closest friends.
There was a time not that long ago when Jamie had thought to make Meg his wife. But she’d chosen to marry Alex MacLeod—brother to Chief Rory MacLeod—instead. Though Jamie had been angry at the time, with almost three years’ perspective he knew she was right. He’d loved Meg to the best of his capabilities, and he cared for her enough to know that she deserved more.
“I’m so happy you are here, Jamie,” Meg repeated, a wide smile on her face. “We see so little of you.”
