TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

  For some while the only sounds were the scratching of a quill and the brush of grit on parchment as he sprinkled sand over the ink to dry it. Despite her bindings, Katrine began to relax somewhat. She wasn’t going to be murdered just yet. That was some comfort. And he hadn’t really hurt her—if she dismissed the dryness of her mouth and the loss of circulation where the wool was binding her.

  She occupied herself by pondering who the stranger was and what he was doing with the account books. He seemed too well-spoken to be a common thief. All right then, uncommon. His frock coat and breeches were superbly cut, showing his lean, muscular form to advantage, and the riding boots that reached just above the knee were made of supple, gleaming leather.

  Well dressed or not, he was a criminal. A hard, ruthless, dangerous criminal. He had already proved that by threatening to introduce her to his dirk—the dirk whose handle now peered innocently over the rim of his right boot. Her temper flaring at the memory, Katrine studied the stranger’s profile, memorizing his features so she would be able to describe him later to the proper authorities.

  Not that she would ever forget his face, with that high brow and aggressive chin and midnight blue eyes. She guessed him to be perhaps thirty or a bit older. If not for the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw, he might even have been considered handsome, Katrine decided magnanimously. The full sensual mouth would have been appealing to some women, and so might the waving hair that was black as a raven’s wing. She herself might have found him attractive had he not been so violently overbearing; but a man as savage as he played no part in her dreams.

  Just then, as if he felt her watching, he turned to glance at her. His gaze roamed slowly over her—the way hers had done to him—as he coolly took in every detail of her dishabille. Though she had tamed her hair in a braid before going to bed, her fiery curls now spilled from beneath her cap, loosened by her tussle with him. And her nightshift was hiked up above her bound ankles, showing her slippered feet and a glimpse of bare flesh.

  Seeing where his dark gaze lingered, Katrine defiantly raised her chin and stared daggers at him.

  He gave her a wicked grin in return. “You’ve pretty ankles.”

  She found that even in her fury she could blush. Granting a temporary victory to him, she hastily scrambled to push her hem down and cover her feet.

  For her modesty, she gained only a deep chuckle from the man whose disconcerting gaze had the power to make her quiver. Then, dismissing her, he returned to his task while Katrine nursed her grievances.

  It was quite some time later when he closed the ledger and began searching through the desk drawers. Katrine watched as he found a small pouch and spilled the contents on the desktop. Catching a glimpse of red sealing wax, she guessed that the small metal object he was examining by candlelight was a seal. Her uncle’s seal perhaps? The duke’s?

  He wrapped the seal in a linen handkerchief and tucked it in his belt, then returned the pouch to the drawer and rose gracefully. He stood looking down at her, but Katrine refused to cower this time. Even when he bent in front of her to check the tautness of the gag and the binding at her wrists, she remained rigidly still. It was only when he reached for her ankles that she jerked her feet away.

  He let her go, flashing another of his rakish grins, his white teeth gleaming in his dark face. “I regret that I must leave you this way, wildcat, but you’ve given me a healthy respect for your resourcefulness.” He paused, then placed a lean finger under her chin, raising it so he could better study her face. “It really is a shame I have so little time this evening. Under other circumstances I might have been persuaded to pursue the acquaintance.”

  Katrine stared at him. The churl was flirting with her!

  “Shall I leave the lamp for you?” he queried as he stood.

  His arrogance was beyond belief. He obviously was so certain he wouldn’t be caught that he was willing to leave a light burning while he made his escape. Nor did he seem the least concerned that she might be able to identify him.

  Katrine glowered at him as he swept out an arm and mockingly made her a courtly bow. “Give my regards to Colin Campbell.” Soft amusement tinged the words, making Katrine grind her teeth over the wool as he turned to the window.

  Watching him with impotent rage, she vowed she would get even with him. When her Uncle Colin returned, she would see to it that this ill-bred ruffian was hounded by every soldier and magistrate in the county of Argyll. Indeed, the duke himself would hear about this!

  She was still swearing it to herself when he climbed agilely over the sill and swung the window shut behind him, making the hinges squeal.

  Alone, Katrine waited for several minutes, in case he should return, before she reached up behind her head and began to struggle with the knots holding her gag in place. It was difficult with her hands tied, but at last she felt the knots give way. Gratefully she pulled the suffocating wool out of her mouth and rubbed her swollen lips. Now for the rest of her bonds.

  She was reaching for her ankles when she heard another sound, a footstep outside the window.

  Katrine froze, her heart starting to pound again as she glanced over her shoulder. The squealing window slowly swung open.

  “Raith, where are ye, lad?” came a loud whisper as a thick, muscular arm came into view.

  Katrine was startled to realize the arm belonged to someone other than the dastard who had tied her up. This man was shorter, though massively built, and his hair was nearly the color of her own beneath his blue, brimless Highland bonnet. He was also wearing an outlawed plaid draped over his shoulder, which only confirmed to Katrine his nefarious intent.

  He looked as startled as she, for he stared her up and down. “I ken Raith tied ye up like that.” He spoke in a Highland burr that was thick and unfamiliar to Katrine’s anglicized ears.

  “Raith…is that what you call that—that scoundrel? I’m sure the militia of the castle garrison will be pleased to know his identity!”

  The red-haired fellow obviously realized his mistake in revealing his cohort’s name, for his expression turned to dismay. Quickly he clambered over the windowsill, showing thick, hairy legs that, except for knitted woolen stockings and stout leather brogues, were bare beneath his knee-length kilt. “Oh no, lassie, ye canna tell on him. Raith would hae me head.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t, I will! Either way it will be just as painful.” Katrine hesitated, scowling at the new intruder. “I might, however, be persuaded to leniency, if you untie my hands this instant.”

  He eyed her warily, not moving. “And who are ye?”

  Katrine clenched her teeth in impatience. “I am Katrine Campbell, Colin Campbell’s niece. Now do as—”

  “We dinna hae any word that Campbell had a niece.”

  “I just arrived today! Now untie me, you fool, before I scream and bring the militia down on your witless head.”

  For a moment she wondered if he truly was a simpleton, for he merely stared at her, glancing from her bound hands, which she had thrust at him, to the strip of wool that had been her gag but was now lying on the floor beside her. His brain must have been functioning in some capacity, however, since he apparently came to a decision; his face suddenly brightened. Kneeling before her on bare knees, he snatched up the gag.

  Katrine realized two things in quick succession. She had obviously said the wrong thing. And she was going to be silenced again. Her temper boiled. She was not going to submit peacefully to having that wet wool stuffed in her mouth once more!

  Regrettably she had little choice. Not that she submitted or that she did so peacefully—indeed, she fought this beefy cur with every ounce of resistance she could muster. But if her earlier captor had possessed a grip of steel, this one had double the strength, possibly due to his heftier weight. With scarcely more trouble than he would have had subduing a bairn, he wound the gag around her head and tied it. Then, wrapping a huge meaty arm around her waist, he scooped her up and flung her over an iron shoulder.


  Breathless, furious, Katrine pounded at his massive plaid-covered back, but she had no more effect than a fly swatting at a bull. She was required to stop momentarily when he climbed out the window with her, for fear of having her brains dashed against the sill, but when they were through, her fists resumed beating a futile tattoo on his back. Her muffled screeches as they hurtled across the garden were ineffectual as well, for upside down, with her head bouncing like a rag doll’s, a powerful shoulder rammed into her stomach, she could scarcely breathe, let alone articulate what she would do to this boorish brute once he released her.

  She left off pounding then and tried clawing at his back, but he ran on, headed toward a copse of trees. When Katrine caught a glimpse of a horse tethered to a limb, she doubled her efforts to escape, kicking and squirming as well as scratching. For her pains, she received a stinging slap to her backside. Her shriek of outrage was cut off as he slung her belly down across the animal’s saddle.

  The breath knocked from her body, she lay there stunned for an instant. But when her redheaded captor left her to retrieve the reins, Katrine gave a kick of her feet and a hard push with her hands, and managed to slide off the horse, landing with a jolt on her knees. She heard her abductor muttering about troublemaking hellions as he roughly returned her to her previous position on the saddle and clambered up behind her.

  The jar to her stomach as he kicked the horse into motion silenced Katrine for a few moments. She had no breath left to shriek. When she finally recovered it and resumed clawing at the massive, hairy leg beneath his kilt, a heavy hand pressed her down, battering further her already battered rib cage against the hard saddle. Katrine, exhausted and in pain, finally gave up her struggle.

  Perhaps, she reflected dazedly as they hurtled through the night, she should have listened to her Aunt Gardner. Her English aunt always termed Papa’s kin the “wild heathen Highlanders,” complaining frequently that Katrine’s father had filled her head with romantic nonsense. Now, less than twelve hours after her arrival, she was being mauled and jounced along by a madman.

  She had no idea how long the wild ride lasted. Gritting her teeth over the clammy wool, Katrine tried to remember her Christian upbringing as she was jolted unmercifully mile after mile. Even so, more than one silent but violent curse found its way to her swollen tongue. She wasn’t afraid. Desire for murder had completely usurped fear.

  At last, however, the horse slowed to a walk and the punishing ride came to an end.

  “Now, haud yer wheesht,” her abductor whispered, his tone more worried than menacing. “Raith would no be pleased to ken I told ye his name or that ye threatened to clype to the Sassenach soldiers.”

  Hold her tongue? Katrine ground her teeth over her gag, her temper fire-hot, as hot as her hair, as her abductor’s order sank in. She would murder him. She would truly murder him. She would be avenged on this heathen clod if it took the rest of her life!

  Limp, aching, her spine a quivering mass of jelly, Katrine slid to the ground. She remained immobile as she vaguely heard her captor dismount, not moving even when he reached for her and grasped her arm. But she had had enough of being terrorized. When he drew her to her feet, his huge paw supporting her, Katrine found enough strength to shake off his grip. Unable to kick his stockinged shins as she would have liked, she swung her bound hands at him in an ineffectual wallop.

  Raising her gaze to glare at her abductor then, her eyes snapping, she reached up and managed to drag the gag from her mouth. “You witless jackanapes! You—you brutish makebait! I’ll see you swinging from a gibbet for this!”

  The coverlet had fallen off her shoulders long ago, and somewhere along the way her nightcap had come off, but Katrine stood before the massive Scotsman, half-dressed and bedraggled, swaying on weak legs, prepared to do battle.

  Wide-eyed, he looked at her, as if he were a male bovine and she a particularly pesky terrier that had nipped at his heels.

  It was then that Katrine realized they weren’t alone. A chill ran down her spine as her circumstances suddenly registered. The thicket where they had stopped was lit by a golden glow, and the jingle of harness she heard was not coming from the horse that had carried her through the night.

  Slowly, Katrine angled her head, her heart thudding in her chest as she found herself the object of a dozen pairs of eyes. Fierce eyes. The thicket was filled with men. Tartan-clad, hardfaced men who were brandishing pistols and holding pine-pitch torches overhead.

  The sight froze her blood and instantly purged her of all the romantic notions she had nourished about wild Highlanders.

  They were all staring at her, including the raven-haired villain who had broken into her uncle’s study and tied her up. He had changed his clothes somewhat; in place of his frock coat and waistcoat, he wore a dark green plaid over his shoulder, Highland fashion.

  It made him look, Katrine thought, startled, even more dangerous than before. And now there was no longer any sign of the arrogant amusement with which he had taunted her in her uncle’s study. His scowl was black, his expression furious as he shifted his gaze to the lout who had stolen her.

  “Lachlan, just what in the bloody devil are you about?”

  Chapter Two

  Raith MacLean stared at his kinsman expectantly, keeping his anger in check till he at least heard an explanation for what had gone awry—although he strongly suspected Lachlan was the cause of the present mishap. Lachlan wasn’t known for his mental brilliance, nor was this the first time the red-haired MacLean had failed to follow orders. He was supposed to have kept watch on the castle garrison, but he hadn’t been at his post when Raith finished the task in Campbell’s study. Nor had Lachlan been at the established mustering point. It seemed likely now to Raith that the brawny Scotsman had grown nervous and gone in search of him. In the darkness they must have missed each other.

  Until now, however, the raid into Campbell territory had proceeded precisely according to plan. Farther south, two other detachments of MacLeans had successfully created diversions by stealing Campbell cattle and sending the duke’s factor and soldiers off on a wild chase. The factor’s absence had given Raith the opportunity to carry out his real purpose, altering Campbell’s account books.

  It was a clever plan. Easier than lifting cattle, less bloody than going to war as his ancestors would have done. And more effective than both. Not only would it provide the MacLeans on the Isle of Mull some relief from the exorbitant rents the new duke of Argyll was extracting from his tenants, but the duke would feel the pinch in his purse. Raith had very carefully changed the ledgers to show greater revenues than actually were received. Unlawful, but effective. The books were so erroneous now that the duke’s factor would likely never be able to straighten out the mess.

  And if need be, Raith could use Argyll’s seal that he’d taken from the study desk to issue receipts verifying the higher payments. With the seal missing, Campbell would no doubt be suspicious of any such receipts, but he would be unable to prove them invalid.

  It had given Raith immense satisfaction to harry Clan Campbell in this new way, to repay in some small measure the cunning and treachery the Dukes of Argyll had always dealt the MacLeans. His own branch hadn’t suffered as greatly as had others. The MacLeans of Ardgour were one of the few septs of Clan MacLean that hadn’t forfeited their lands after the risings of 1715 and 1745, while the Duart MacLeans had lost both their remaining lands and their chief. With the laird of Duart gone, the Duart MacLeans had been without protection from the perfidy of Argyll—which was why Raith had come to their aid. As laird of Ardgour, he was bound by clan honor to protect and defend his kinsmen. When the Duart MacLeans had petitioned him for help, he had been more than willing to lead the raid on the Campbells.

  The execution of his plan had proceeded without a hitch—except when he’d been discovered in Colin Campbell’s study by a flame-haired, wide-eyed wench in a nightdress. He hadn’t expected her to be there in the factor’s house. And he had no earthly idea what
she was doing here now.

  Raith’s gaze shifted to the young woman with the high cheekbones that were flushed with outrage. She had sea-green eyes, flashing eyes, with a silvery hue that darkened to moss when she was angry, as she had been when he tied her up. As she was now.

  But he was angry himself, having been forced to wait for Lachlan. By now he and his band should have been several leagues from here, far enough away to elude pursuit.

  “Lachlan,” Raith repeated with unconcealed impatience, “why don’t you tell us what the devil you are about?”

  Lachlan looked at him blankly. “Why, I fetched the lass for ye.”

  A black eyebrow shot up. “Are you daft, man? What would I want with her?”

  “She’s the niece of Colin Campbell.”

  Raith’s dark gaze narrowed as it swung on Katrine. “Who said so?”

  “She said so. Katrine Campbell is her name.”

  Katrine, standing there shivering in her nightshift while her fate was being decided, was startled by the sudden fierceness in the dark blue eyes. She had no trouble understanding that his reaction was due to her name; he despised her simply because she was a Campbell, doubly because she was related to her uncle. And, she realized as she warily glanced around her, the other unkempt, hard-faced Highlanders shared his enmity; they were all glaring at her.

  It was the black-haired Raith who verbalized their obvious thoughts. His cold expression matched the deadly chill in his voice as his eyes flicked contemptuously over her. “Take her back, Lachlan. I’ll not keep company with the kin of a bloodsucking Campbell.”

  He turned abruptly to the horses tethered among the trees. “Mount up, lads. We’ll not stay to have our necks stretched on a gibbet. No doubt her yammering has raised the hue and cry.”

  At his withering dismissal, Katrine was torn between the desire to retort and the more sensible course of holding her tongue. Common sense won out. If he wanted nothing to do with her, she wouldn’t try to change his mind. She had begun to let out her breath in relief when her beefy nemesis once more intervened, an alarmed look on his face.