Caitrin’s blood chilled. So he’d meant to get her off guard and then strike? If he hoped to lull her into admitting to an improper relationship with someone there, he’d be disappointed. And why would he look for a way to refuse the betrothal? Did he think to punish Fletcher for overreaching himself? If so, she was an easy target. He could bed her and send her away in shame for her father’s temerity. She fought to keep her hands on the wooden arms of her chair rather than crossing them defensively over her chest as a thousand worries flitted through her mind. But she owed him an answer. “Aye. We played and were schooled together with the other lads and lasses in the clan.” That should satisfy him, and take the focus off of her relationship with Jamie.
How many layers of deceit did he plan to practice on his guests?
It mattered not. She would discover them all.
****
Jamie sat at the head table. As Lathan emissary and honored guest of the MacGregor, not to mention former schoolmate, he would have been insulted to be placed anywhere else. But the MacGregor seated Caitrin between them, making conversation with him difficult. Her father sat on the MacGregor’s other side. Keeping his future family close, Jamie supposed. Jamie had hoped to make use of the more relaxed atmosphere of the meal to introduce the MacGregor to the idea of Toran’s treaty. Instead, he had to look past Caitrin any time the MacGregor spoke. And she distracted him too much for him to accomplish anything.
She appeared uncomfortable, pale, even tense. Why? Was it merely nervousness after meeting her future husband? Or had something happened to leach the color from her cheeks? Jamie wanted to ask her, but anything he said would be overheard by the MacGregor. If Alasdair had caused Caitrin’s discomfiture, Jamie would do her no favors by drawing attention to her.
Instead, he passed the meal in polite small talk with the MacGregor and Fletcher and, when she would answer, with Caitrin. She ate little and failed to rally during the meal, making Jamie’s disquiet even stronger. What had her so fashed?
The people of clan MacGregor seemed well-off. The hall was filled with much of the MacGregor’s fighting force, though he boasted of many more men scattered around his holdings. Women and children mixed with the men in what Jamie supposed were family groups. Judging by the number of bairns, the MacGregors were a lusty lot. They seemed relaxed and comfortable as they talked and ate. Musicians played from the landing of the main stairs. Younger lads chased dogs around the tables, snatching scraps to feed the hounds when their elders’ attention was elsewhere. The scene looked normal. Was it? Caitrin’s countenance gave the lie to it all.
Jamie resolved to get her alone and learn what she’d discovered, if anything. She could simply be nervous about her impending betrothal. But that didn’t sound like the lass he knew, the one game to try almost anything, including turning tables on Toran. He knew he should keep his distance. The Fletcher had warned him to do just that. Damn Will Fletcher and his big mouth. But Jamie still cared about Caitrin. He feared he might be the only one here who truly did. So instead of bowing to the Fletcher’s wishes, he would do what he could to keep her safe, and if at all possible, happy.
“Ye’ve barely touched yer food, lass. Are ye no’ hungry after yer journey?” The MacGregor’s voice pulled Jamie out of his ruminations. He swept his gaze across the room. No one had paid any attention to their laird’s question. MacGregor studied Caitrin with what appeared to be genuine concern, and Fletcher regarded her over Alasdair’s shoulder. One eyebrow raised at the tableau they made, Jamie shifted his gaze to her. Stone-faced, she kept her gaze on the tables below theirs, all but cringing from the hand MacGregor had placed on her arm. He doubted the MacGregor noticed, but Jamie knew her too well to miss her discomfort.
“Thank ye, nay. I’m suddenly very tired. If ye’ll give me leave, I’d like to go to my rest.”
Jamie expected the MacGregor to refuse, to keep Caitrin by his side a while longer. Instead, he stood and offered her a hand up, but she remained seated. “I’ll escort ye myself,” he cajoled her. “Fletcher, if ye’ll attend, please. I willna have scurrilous rumors start here tonight.”
Fletcher leapt to his feet. “Of course, MacGregor. Come, Caitrin. Let’s get ye upstairs so yer maid can tend to ye.”
Catrin nodded, cutting her gaze to Jamie under cover of her bowed head. He started to get to his feet, but she gave him a subtle frown and touched her hair before schooling her features and lifting her gaze.
She clearly wanted to keep this moment between the MacGregor and her da. But later was another matter. He remembered that signal. How could he not? He would go to her after the keep settled down for the night and get to the bottom of this. He sat back and inclined his head, touching the hair at his temple in a brief salute—and answer. “Good evening to ye, Caitrin. Rest well.”
She rewarded him with a twitch of her lip then stood to take her father’s arm. The MacGregor arrayed himself on her other side and led her away.
Nay, Jamie didn’t like how this looked; which was why he’d agreed to talk to Caitrin later tonight and get some answers. It would be wiser to keep his distance, keep an eye on her, and on how the MacGregor treated her. But he could not ignore her request, not when she’d made it in that way. He had too many memories of her as a lass, homesick, or upset over something Toran or someone else had done, using that signal to summon him to keep her company. He’d been her best friend then, and it fell to him to be her friend now. No matter what it cost him.
The risks were great. He still had a job to do for Toran. Was getting the MacGregor signature on the treaty going to be possible? That, and getting in the way of a legitimate dynastic marriage, might be the least of his problems. By aiding Caitrin, if he did not tread very carefully, he risked war between MacGregor and Lathan.
Fortunately, as head of the Lathan scouts, he was very, very good at treading carefully.
Chapter Seven
“Father, please stay a moment.” Caitrin kept her expression serene as the MacGregor bowed over her hand. She got nothing from his brief touch. But she didn’t intend to take any chances. She meant to see to it that the MacGregor left her unmolested. She counted on her father’s presence to ensure that. Even though their host professed to be concerned with appearances and with her well-being, his earlier comments—and their odd tone—made her uneasy. And not just for her own safety. She, her father, Will, even the Lathans, could go from honored guests to prisoners at the MacGregor’s whim. But she also had no real reasonnotto trust him, just her very strong sense something was amiss. She sighed with relief when he left after simply bidding her a good night.
“What do ye think of him?” Fletcher asked, once the door closed and they were private.
She rubbed her forehead. She’d told the truth when she’d begged to be excused from dinner. Unaccustomed to days on horseback and sleeping on hard ground, and after the warm bath and as much of the meal as she’d been able to force down, she fought the sleep that beckoned. But she needed to see whether her father would listen to her concerns.
Besides, Nan had not yet arrived, so she’d better take advantage of the best chance she’d had so far to enlist her father’s aid.
“I dinna ken whether I can marry him,” Caitrin announced quietly as soon as the door closed behind their host. Perhaps not the best beginning to the conversation she wished to have, but fatigue made her tongue run ahead of her thoughts. She braced herself, expecting Fletcher’s censure.
He gathered a breath, tensing, then shook his head. “Caitrin, lass, ye have barely met him. And ye’re worn out from the journey. Dinna decide on such short acquaintance.”
She knew he was right. Her reserves were exhausted, and he treated her gently for that reason, but she might not have another chance to begin to change his thinking. She forged ahead, hands clasped in front of her to keep from fidgeting. Fatigue and nervous energy made her jumpy. “I fear hours, days, weeks, or months will make little difference, da. He isna who he seems to be.”
“I’ve spent hours with the man. He’s exactly what ye see. A wealthy laird and a good match for ye and for Fletcher.” His fierce frown warned her to be silent, but she ignored the caution.
Instead, she tried a different tactic. “How can ye be certain he will be a good husband to me, or a good ally? We risk wasting what value I have.”
Fletcher stalked to the door and opened it then turned. “I willna talk with ye about this now.” He sighed. “Sleep. Tomorrow, things will look better.”
