Chapter 2 #3
All signs of welcome fled, replaced by barely concealed hatred and a healthy dose of fear.
It was a reaction that Jamie had grown accustomed to over the past few years.
It was also why he’d hesitated to identify himself to the lass.
Once again, it appeared that his reputation—exaggerated, no doubt—had preceded him.
The guardsman tightened his hand on the grip of his sword. “I’ll advise the chief that he has a … guest.” He said the word as if his mouth was full of dung.
Jamie dismounted and tossed the reins to the surprised guardsman. “I’ll tell him myself,” he said, motioning toward the man who’d just appeared from the armory.
The guardsman tried to block him. “But you can’t—”
“Yes,” Jamie cut him off in a low voice, one that augured no argument. “I can.” He stepped around the younger man. “Lamont.” His voice rang out with authority across the barmkin.
The chief turned toward him. Recognition flared in his gaze, and he quickly said something to the two younger men at his side.
The Lamont was a seasoned warrior who hid his reactions well, but the younger of the two men at his side was not.
Jamie was watching them closely, so he noticed a flash of alarm that was quickly covered up.
Was it simply because a Campbell had entered their keep, or were they hiding something? He would find out soon enough.
The Lamont strode toward him. For a man who must be past fifty years, he wore his age well and moved with the strength and agility of a formidable warrior.
“Campbell,” he said. “I would have been here to greet you myself had I known you were coming.”
Jamie smiled. They both knew the lapse had been intentional.
Alerting the Lamonts of his arrival would hardly have served his purpose.
If Lamont was hiding the MacGregor and his men, as Jamie believed, he wouldn’t give him a chance to spirit them away.
With Jamie and his men watching, they would be forced to stay put.
The Lamont looked behind him, and his brows drew together. “You’ve come alone?”
In a time when a man’s power was equated to the number of luchd-taighe guardsmen who surrounded him, it was unusual to travel without a retinue—not to mention dangerous.
But Jamie didn’t need an army of men to protect him.
He preferred to work alone or, in this case, with only a few handpicked men.
“My men will arrive later.” After they’d finished scouting and establishing a perimeter.
Jamie gestured toward the two men who stood protectively beside their chief. “Your sons, I presume?”
The Lamont nodded. “My tanaiste, Malcolm, and my second son, Niall.” The elder resembled his father, with fair hair and green eyes, but the second—Niall—made
Jamie even more confident that the lass in the tree had been Caitrina Lamont. In coloring they might have been twins, though Niall was a few years older. “Come,” the Lamont added. “Join us in the hall for a drink. The feasting will not begin for a few hours yet.”
Jamie agreed and followed the men up the wooden forestairs into the keep. As with most tower houses, the entry was on the first floor, above the vaulted ground level. In an attack, the wooden stairs could be easily removed or, if necessary, burned.
It was considerably cooler and darker inside.
The thick stone walls were an effective barrier to both man and sun.
They passed through the small entry into the great hall.
The castle was well tended and comfortably furnished: Colorful woven rugs adorned the floors, paintings and tapestries lined the walls, and several silver candelabra were spread around the room.
The Lamont was not a wealthy man, but neither was he a poor one.
Still, everything had a well-worn appearance—the years of feuding with the Campbells had taken their toll.
They sat at the high table, and the Lamont instructed a serving woman to bring them some refreshment, which arrived promptly in carved silver goblets engraved with the crest and motto of Lamont—Ne Parcas Nec Spernas, Neither Spare Nor Dispose.
When she’d gone, the Lamont turned to him and without preamble said, “Why are you here? What does the Earl of Argyll want with me?”
Jamie took a long drink of ale, watching the other man over the rim of his goblet. Directness was a trait he admired. He put the drink on the table and deliberately took his time in answering. But all three men sat perfectly still, betraying nothing.
“You are hosting the games, are you not?”
“You can’t mean to enter the competition?” Niall blurted out, unable to hide his astonishment.
Jamie gave him a hard look, guessing the reason for his reaction. The Campbells were an old and proud Highland clan, yet because of their connection with the king, too many saw them as akin to Lowlanders. “I am a Highlander,” he said, a warning edged in his voice.
Niall looked as though he wanted to argue the point, but he wisely held his tongue.
The chief moved to defuse the brewing tension. “I wouldn’t think Argyll would find the gathering worthy of the attentions of his most trusted hench”—he cleared his throat—“captain.”
Jamie raised a brow, well aware of what he’d been about to say.
Henchman was one of the nicer names he was called.
“My cousin takes a keen interest in all that happens in Argyll and Bute,” he said pointedly.
He drew his finger over the heavy engraving of his goblet.
“But there’s also the matter of your daughter. ”
All three men tensed, looking as though they wanted to reach for their swords. The old chief recovered first. His eyes were hard and flat. “Why would my daughter concern you?”
“I’ve come to see for myself whether the rumors are true.”
The old man studied him carefully. Jamie watched him struggle with the implications. Although he might not like it, the Lamont was shrewd enough to realize that an alliance with the Campbells—particularly the trusted cousin of the most powerful Campbell of all—could not be summarily dismissed.
“And she is of interest to you?” the chief asked with surprising calm, though Jamie could see from the whiteness of his knuckles gripping the goblet that he was anything but.
“Perhaps.” He shrugged noncommittally, pleased that his ruse had worked. The Lamonts were suspicious about the purpose of his visit, but now they were also worried, and some of their focus would be directed on the lass.