The Campbell Trilogy Read online

  “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.”

  Jamie lifted his head in the direction of her husband, seated farther down the table and engaged in a conversation with the Maclean of Coll, husband to Alex’s half-sister Flora—who also happened to be Jamie’s cousin. Flora was too heavy with child to travel, so her husband of less than a year had come alone.

  “I don’t think your husband shares the sentiment,” he pointed out.

  Alex and Rory MacLeod had both offered Jamie a cordial but reserved greeting. Not that it surprised him. In the three years since Jamie had fought alongside Alex at the battle of Stornoway Castle, Jamie’s interests and those of his former childhood friend had diverged to the point of discord. Though bound to the Earl of Argyll through manrent—contracts that bound clans together like kin by providing protection in return for feudal duties—Alex and Rory still clung to the past, resenting the king’s increasing authority in the Highlands. They were sympathetic toward the MacGregors and didn’t like Jamie’s part in subduing them. But then again, the MacLeods, like the Lamonts, had not been on the receiving end of the MacGregors’ reiving and pillaging.

  Jamie missed the easy camaraderie he’d shared with the MacLeods in his youth, but he realized such friendships were in his past. Though they still respected one another, as Jamie’s responsibility and power increased, so too did the complexity of friendships. He worked alone; it was simpler that way.

  Meg wrinkled her nose. “Don’t pay Alex any mind. He hasn’t forgotten what you did for him,” she said warmly, putting her hand over his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “And neither have I.”

  Jamie acknowledged the unspoken gratitude with a nod. After the MacLeods’ victory at Stornoway against the king’s men, Jamie had used his influence with Argyll to prevent Alex from being put to the horn or charged with treason.

  “Are you happy, Meg?”

  Her gaze immediately slid down the table to her husband, and the soft expression on her face said it all. He’d always thought Meg pretty, but when she looked at her husband she transcended mere physical beauty. Alex MacLeod was a fortunate man.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve never been happier.”

  “Then I’m happy for you,” he said, and meant it.

  “And what of you, Jamie? Are you happy?”

  Her questions took him aback. Happiness wasn’t something he thought of. As a younger son twice over, he’d been driven by other considerations. Happiness—a woman’s sentiment—wasn’t one of them. Justice, the rule of law, authority, land, the ability to provide for his men—those were what mattered to him. “I’m content.”

  Meg studied him keenly. “You’ve certainly made quite a name for yourself.”

  He laughed. That was Meg, putting it baldly, to say the least. “I take it you do not approve.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t believe half of what they say.”

  He smiled wryly. “You do not fear I will crawl through your windows at night and steal away your babe?” he mocked, referring to the warnings given by mothers to their children to behave, “else the Campbell Henchman will make off with you.”

  Meg grinned and shook her head. “No, but the earl relies upon you too much. Elizabeth writes that she hardly sees you anymore.”

  “Lizzie exaggerates.” He gave Meg a long look. Though many in this room chose to stick their head in a bog and ignore what was happening around them, Meg understood the change facing the Highlanders. The age of the unfettered authority of the chiefs was gone—and frankly, since the dissolution of the Lordship of the Isles, they’d proved unequal to the task. Like King James, Jamie was determined to see the Highlands tamed of its lawlessness and unrest. At one time, he thought she’d understood. But perhaps Meg’s marriage had changed her more than he realized. The increasing power and authority of Argyll, and Jamie in turn, had created widespread resentment and distrust—impacting many of his friendships. He’d hoped it wouldn’t extend to Meg.

  “She’s only worried about you,” Meg said, seeming to sense the turn of his thoughts. “As I am.”

  “It’s unwarranted,” he said flatly. Then more kindly, “I’ll see Lizzie at Dunoon soon enough. She’ll s