Taming The Lion. Suzanne Barclay
with. At that moment, Sir Ross’s eyes pounced on her. There was no other way to describe the manner in which his gaze latched onto hers. The rest of the room faded into nothingness. She wanted to look away but couldn’t, held prisoner by the searing focus of his attention. Such power. Such intensity.
“Catlyn.” Adair poked her in the ribs.
She jerked her head around. “What?”
“You should stand and bid them welcome.”
She wanted to run. Years of adherence to duty propelled her to her feet. “Come, join us in a simple meal, good sirs.” She was grateful her words did not knock together like her knees.
“Thank you, my lady.” Ross Sutherland’s deep voice echoed like thunder off the ancient stone walls. His gaze still full on her face, he entered the hall. His big body moved with fluid grace as he strode between the rows of tables. Behind him trailed his men, their faces freshly scrubbed, their chain mail replaced by dark hose and tunics.
“Sir Ross seems keen to reach you,” Adair murmured.
“I am sure you are mistaken.” But a thrill raced down Catlyn’s spine as he drew nearer. His eyes shone with determination, glinting like silver in the torchlight. For some reason, her blood heated.
“See what you can find out about him,” Adair whispered.
“Wh-what?” Then his meaning sank in. “I cannot.”
“The more we know of him, the better we’ll both feel.”
“But...but I have no skill at talking with men.”
“You talk with men all the day.”
Not men like this. “That is work, this is...” Impossible. She could not even look at him without having her tongue knot.
“I’ll seat his men elsewhere. So as you can be alone.”
“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