Taming The Lion

“Nay, I—”

“Just ask him a few questions. Men are ever eager to boast of their exploits.”

“Wait!” she cried softly, but already Adair had left her and was moving to intercept the line of men. With sinking heart, she watched her friend, the man sworn to protect her, divert the Sutherlands to other nearby tables and leave her in danger.

“My lady.” Ross Sutherland stopped a few paces away and inclined his head. “I apologize for our lateness. It took us some time to get settled and make ourselves presentable.”

Presentable? He was that and more. Tall, perfectly proportioned and so fair of face it was sinful. The finely woven tunic and hose he wore, so different from the loose saffron sherts and plaids worn by her clansman, showed -off his broad chest and muscular legs. Every woman in the hall, even those who were happily married, watched him with ill-disguised hunger. The only flaw Catlyn could find was the smugness in his gaze. He knew what a fine specimen he was and doubtless used his looks to ensnare hapless females.

Just like Eoin.

The comparison struck Catlyn hard, wrenching the blinders from her eyes. This knight was no larger-than-life being, but a conceited oaf who thought to charm his way into her bed. Disgust flooded her. She welcomed it as an antidote to her earlier fascination with him. “Do not trouble yourself over it, sir,” she said coolly. “We do not stand on ceremony here, and the meal is a simple one. We were not expecting, er, guests.”

“Nor were we expecting such a rowdy welcome.” His grin hinted at a wry sense of humor. Worse, it made him look as guileless as a lad. “Again, my thanks for taking us in.”

“And ours to you for foiling the Fergusson’s plans to attack Kennecraig.”

“Hmm.” He winced slightly and shifted his weight.

“Oh, how thoughtless of me to keep you standing here.” Catlyn plopped down onto her bench and motioned for him to take the one across from her. Better than to have him sit beside her, she reasoned, signaling the maids to serve them.

“Allow me, my lady.” Sir Ross courteously spooned stew into her bowl, then presented it with a flourish so grand it might have been fillet of beef he was offering.

“Thank you.” Catlyn brought a spoonful of stew to her lips and found it as hot as her temper. His every charming word, his every seductive glance infuriated her.

“May I say how lovely you look this evening?”

Catlyn groaned. Next he would be composing verses that compared her hair to honey and her eyes to autumn leaves. “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled through clenched teeth.

Shy, Ross thought as he stared at the top of Lady Catlyn’s head. If she bent any closer to her bowl, she’d have her nose in the mutton stew. He found her shyness as endearing as the pains she had taken with her appearance. Gone was the ethereal maiden from the courtyard. In her place sat a lovely woman, as regal in bearing as any he’d met at court. And yet, he’d seen the vulnerability in her eyes and her awareness of him as a man. He must play on both, God help him, if he was to redeem the note he had signed last week.

Dieu, was it only a week ago he’d been sitting in the Running Fox, enjoying a victory celebration with his men? And then, the man calling himself Robert Dunbar had slithered into his life like the serpent into the Garden of Eden, offering whiskey whose smoothness hid its deadly effect.

“The smoothest in the Highlands,” Hakon had boasted.

Oh, it had gone down smooth, all right. And exploded like fire in his head. Ross, unused to strong liquor for he liked to keep his wits clear, had only the vaguest recollection of his men drifting off to bed. The pack of cards Robert had produced was an even dimmer memory. Next morning, through a haze of misery and stale whiskey fumes, Ross had recognized his signature on the note pledging Stratheas Keep in exchange for his debts.

One night—one damned night—it had taken Ross to gamble away the keep that had been in his mother’s family for generations. And the only way he could get it back was to steal from these people who had rescued him from ambush.

Why had Hakon lied about his name? How had he known that the Boyds would offer sanctuary to the Sutherlands?

Ross sighed and studied the folk he’d come to rob. He’d expected living conditions as wild and desolate as these stark mountains, yet found order and civility. The ancient walls had been brightened by a coat of whitewash. Woven tapestries lent color and warmth to the long, crowded room. More banners hung from the vaulted ceiling two stories above the rush-strewn floor. The well-run hall, the thread of camaraderie made Ross’s gut twist with remorse. Kennecraig and the Boyds reminded him of Edin Valley, the home he had turned his back on a year ago. The home and the clan he had betrayed as despicably as he was about to betray the Boyds.

The key to redeeming his pledge was this shy, gentle lass who, according to Hakon, was heir to the family’s whiskey recipe. However much he disliked it, Ross would pry from her the secret Hakon demanded in exchange for Ross’s note.

Poor little bird, Ross thought, gazing at the top of her head. He guessed Catlyn was a simple lass, not used to dealing with men, while he not only possessed a quick and highly educated mind, he had over a dozen years’ experience with the lasses. From the time his voice had changed, women had been chasing after him. Not that he minded. He found them delightful creatures, full of soft promise and earthy mystery. He enjoyed exploring the differences that made each woman unique. It pleased him to give pleasure, in and out of bed, to share a meal, a song or a quiet moment watching the sunrise. It hurt him immeasurable that he must lie, cheat and steal from this compassionate young thing. But he would do whatever he had to to gain the information he needed.

With a heavy heart, Ross began his campaign. “The food is very good,” he murmured. Indeed, it was, mutton stew, barley bread and cheese washed down with ale.

“Cook does his best, but the time just before harvest is always lean and monotonous,” said the lady, her head still down.

Again Ross thought of Edin Valley, the hills lush with grain ready to cut, the sheep fattened by summer grazing. There, too, the harvest was only a few weeks away. If he did not succeed here, Hakon would be reaping the benefits of the Sutherlands’ hard work. Or trying to. Though Ross had pledged his estate to Hakon, his sire and clansmen would not give up an inch of Edin Valley without a bloody fight.

And that blood would be on his head.

Ross gritted his teeth. “The harvest fast approaches.”

“Aye.”

“What crops do you raise so far north?”

She raised her head, spearing him with surprisingly intelligent hazel eyes. “Why do you ask when you cannot care?”

Ross blinked, startled as much by her candor as her vehemence. “I was but making conversation.”

“To what purpose?”

Betrayal. Thievery. “I would know you better.”

“Why, when you will be leaving in a day or so?”

So the Boyds were anxious to be rid of him. Perhaps they were not as trusting as he had supposed. Which meant the Boyds who had trailed after him had not only been helping him settle in but watching him. Inconvenient, that. It would make it more difficult for him to locate the stills and make a drawing of the equipment. “It is a thing people do. A courtesy.”

“Something you use on the ladies at court in Edinburgh?”

“What makes you think I’ve been to court?”

“You speak French.”

Ross recalled the orders he had bawled at his men when they’d arrived, and vowed to watch himself. “You must speak it, too.”

“One does not have to speak a language to recognize it.”

“True.” Ross inclined his head, surprised anew by her facile mind. And sharp tongue. “You are wroth with me?”

“Is there a reason I should be?”

Oh, aye. “I can think of none.”

“Then I cannot possibly be angry with you.” She shut him out again by lowering her head.

Damn and blast, he’d coaxed women into his bed with less effort than this Puzzled by her coolness, especially after the way she had acted in the courtyard, he took another bite of stew and looked about.

Dressed in dark wool adorned by nary a gold chain or a sparkling gem, the Boyds had made his own troop welcome. For a clan supposedly in possession of the perfect recipe for whiskey, they drank little. Indeed, their manner was as subdued as their clothing. He wondered at that, for Ross was a man who liked people, male and female. The subtle nuances that made one person different from another fascinated him. It was part of his charm, claimed his mother. “People sense that you are genuinely interested in them, and so they confide in you.”

Apparently that charm was lost on Lady Catlyn. A pity, for he found her more and more appealing. While he had been changing into dry clothes, she had exchanged her white gown for a simple one of dark green wool. The color was a perfect foil for her pale skin and honey hair. She wore it up, but a few tendrils had worked loose to froth around her face. He had an unaccountable urge to demolish that braid and bury his hands in her hair, a nearly uncontrollable need to kiss the starch from the prim pink mouth that spoke to him so coolly and disapprovingly.

Did she dislike all men? Or did she sense that his interest in her was dangerous? Either way, winning her trust would be a challenge. One he might have relished had the stakes not been so high. “Did you create the lovely wall hangings?”