Taming The Lion. Suzanne Barclay

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?”

      “Nay, they are my mother’s work.”

      He heard the pain in her voice and dropped his own tone to a sympathetic murmur. “Is she gone?”

      “Nay.”

      Ross groaned. What would it take to break through that shell of hers?

      “My lady?” A young serving maid stood beside their table, a flagon and cups in hand. “Adair thought ye might like a dram of whiskey to warm yer bones.”

      “None for me,” Ross said quickly.

      Lady Catlyn raised her head. “You do not care for whiskey?”

      “Nay.”

      “We distill this ourselves.” A vengeful light danced in her eyes. “It would please me if you tasted it.”

      Witch. “How could I refuse?” Ross forced himself to take the cup the maid held out. But as he raised the cup to his lips, the sharp, smoky fumes filled his senses. Damn, he knew that smell. His head thumped. His belly rolled, threatening to rebel if he took even one sip.

      It was the very same liquor that had done him in. Ross knew in a heartbeat that the whiskey Hakon had served him that fateful eve had come from this stock.

      What dreadful irony.

      What a test of his internal fortitude.

      Could he get it down without losing his supper?

      Conscious of Lady Catlyn’s gaze, Ross took a tiny sip. He swallowed it three times before his belly grudgingly kept it.

      “You do not like the Finglas?” Catlyn asked incredulously.

      “Strong.” Ross wheezed, keeping his teeth closed just in case his stomach rose again.

      “Whiskey is supposed to be strong. Most men like it.” Her eyes measured him and obviously found him lacking.

      “I am sure.” He had liked this whiskey too much. And that unaccustomed lapse now threatened everything he held dear. Ross swallowed again, determined to brazen this out. “Is there a difference?” he asked. It was too much to hope she’d just spill the information he had come to steal. But then, women, even one as canny as this one, were flighty.

      “Of course there is. Anyone with a nose can tell that.” She looked down her nose at him. “If you like, tomorrow I can arrange for you to taste a few cups from different years.”

      Cups? Dod, he’d never keep down even one cup. “I doubt I’d notice the difference, but I would like to see how it is made.”

      Her gaze turned frosty. “I am afraid that is not possible.”

      “Why?” Did she suspect something?

      “This is a busy time of year. You would be underfoot.”

      “I am quick on my feet and good at staying out of the way.”

      “The better to avoid those you cuckold?”

      “What?” Ross exclaimed, though her meaning and her contempt could not have been plainer. “My lady, I assure you that I never dally with married women.” Not knowingly, at any rate.

      “It is of no interest to me.” She turned away and spoke to an old man at the next table. “Roland, what say we make an early start on the morrow to make up for the time lost today?”

      “Aye.” Roland’s tone was curt. His dark eyes glowered at her from either side of his hooked red nose. “In fact, I’ve a mind to get at it tonight.”

      “Nay. ’Tis late, and we’ve had a busy day. We’ll be all the fresher for a good night’s sleep.”

      “We’ll start at dawn, then.” Roland heaved his bulk off the bench. “Come along, lads. We’d best turn in.”

      The Boyds, with the exception of those sitting with Ross’s men, rose from their seats and drifted toward the door in an orderly procession. Those who passed close by wished Catlyn good sleep. The warmth of her smiles as she bid them sleep well were a revelation to Ross. If she was not cold and caustic by nature, why had she taken such a dislike to him? It was lowering. It was infuriating. Worst of all, it endangered his mission.

      By force of will, Ross kept a bland mask in place. “If we could help with your work, we’d be happy to.”

      Catlyn glared at him. “There is no need.”

      “Oh, but I disagree.”