But she had no intention of opening her mouth or calling attention to herself. Slowly, with infinite care, she released the chestnut mane she was clutching and slid her bound hands beneath the plaid she was wearing. Her fingers groping, she found the hem of her nightshift and the two rows of delicate lace she had painstakingly stitched around the bottom, in defiance of her Aunt Gardner’s cheerless Presbyterian precepts.
She had never expected her stubbornness, Katrine reflected as inch by inch she shredded the lace, to stand her in such good stead. Nor had she expected to turn her brazen abductor’s grudging generosity to her advantage. Now she was grateful for more than the warmth of the plaid he had given her, for it shielded her actions from view.
When she had a strip of lace that she judged to be about three inches, she tore off the end, eased it over her left knee, and let the scrap drop to the ground.
She didn’t dare look behind her to see how effective her stratagem was. She wanted the lace to be spotted by the pursuing soldiers, but not be so visible that her Highland escorts would discover what she was about. Since there was no bellow of alarm from Lachlan, Katrine decided he hadn’t seen what she’d done. Slowly she let out the breath she had been holding and started the procedure over again.
She had just managed to let fall the third strip of white lace when they came upon one of the small shieling huts that were scattered throughout the glens of Scotland. The mean dwelling was silent and dark, but Katrine eyed it hopefully, wondering if it would do her any good to let out a screech and alert the inhabitants to her plight.
The same thought must have occurred to Raith MacLean, for he suddenly turned his horse and rode back toward her. Katrine’s heart sank. He obviously wanted to pass unnoticed. And no doubt he was prepared to gag her again or worse if she dared open her mouth.
She held herself stiffly as he reached her, his mere presence threat enough to make her choose the more sensible course of holding her tongue. When he reined in his horse abruptly, she froze. His gaze was fixed on the darkness beyond her.
His penetrating stare sliced into Katrine. Knowing what she would find, she slowly turned her head to look behind her. A scrap of white lace stood out clearly in the mist-shrouded moonlight.
She thought about denying her guilt. For about one second. But when she saw the hard set of his jaw, she didn’t dare even breathe.
“Ride ahead and wait for me,” he ordered Lachlan softly, the grimness of his tone making her quiver. “If she so much as whimpers, silence her.”
Katrine had the disquieting feeling he meant to use something more effective than a gag. She didn’t utter a sound as they rode a safe distance from the crofter’s hut, nor when the Highlanders gathered in a copse to wait for their leader. He wasn’t long in coming, much to Katrine’s regret.
“She’s left a trail of white lace for her uncle’s soldiers to follow,” Raith announced as he rode up to her. Even in the dim light she could see that anger had replaced the expression of amused contempt he had worn earlier. He set upon Lachlan first. “Didn’t you have the slightest notion what she was up to?”
“I didna think.” Lachlan hung his head, looking so like an overgrown puppy who had been kicked that Katrine almost felt sorry for him.
She needed her sympathy for herself, though, when Raith turned his wrath on her.
“How long have you been strewing your little clues all over the glen, Miss Campbell?”
Her throat suddenly dry, Katrine couldn’t answer. She flinched when he reached out to grasp her arm, none too gently, his long fingers curling into her soft flesh.
“How long?”
“A few minutes!” she cried. “Well,” she added when his eyes narrowed at her, “perhaps more than a few…a half hour…perhaps.”
“And how many of these bits of lace did you drop?”
“Th-three.” She hated the way her voice quivered, but she couldn’t help herself.
“I hope for your sake you’re telling the truth.” Releasing her arm then, he shocked Katrine by pushing aside the plaid she was wearing.
“What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer as his gaze dropped, searching the front of her nightshift for incriminating evidence. Lifting the hem, he examined the remaining lace trim, comparing the missing length to the scrap in his hand. Apparently he didn’t trust her.
His lack of trust wasn’t what sent color flooding Katrine’s face, though. It was his brazenness in baring her legs almost to the thigh. And her own anger that he could intimidate her so easily.
When he let the gown’s hem drop with a contemptuous flick of his wrist, Katrine raised her chin in defiance. “A prisoner has the right to attempt escape.”
He lifted his gaze, impaling her with a look. “You, Miss Campbell, have the right to sit still and keep your tongue between your teeth, nothing more.”
His scathing tone grated on her nerves, but she had no chance to reply as he turned and barked, “Ewen!” One of his men rode forward instantly. “I want you to ride back and find every last piece of cloth,” Raith ordered before addressing Katrine again. “If you’re so anxious to part with sections of your nightdress, I’ll be obliged to remove it entirely.”
Katrine gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”
The sardonic look mocked her. “See if you can manage to act like an exemplary hostage for a few hours then, without putting us to this confounded trouble.”
Lachlan’s threat was more violent. “Ye try something like that again and I’ll thrapple ye.”
Katrine, suspecting that “thrapple” meant something fatal, lapsed into fuming silence as the small party got under way once more.
This time, however, Raith rode behind his prisoner, where he could keep a keen eye on her. He had definitely underestimated her resourcefulness, he reflected, glancing with exasperation at the scrap of lace in his hand. He should have known she would possess the same measure of deceitful cunning that her clan had in such abundance. And to think that back in her uncle’s study he had actually felt drawn to her. For a dangerous moment he had felt the urge to pull her into his arms, to cover possessively the trembling lips that were parted in fear, to discover the sweet secrets her slender body promised. At least discovering her identity had instantly crushed his unwanted attraction.
Raith grimaced with self-contempt. A Campbell with English blood in her veins. There was no more treacherous a combination. No, his reaction had only been male lust, the kind any man would feel when pressed so closely against a well-shaped female in a less-than-adequate state of dress. And the spirited response that had roused his interest in the first place was no more than an indication of a vicious temper.
Her hair should have given him the clue. The fiery curls tumbling around her face should have warned him that she was no quiet, well-mannered lady like the gentle girl he had once married. Nor was Katrine Campbell a beauty. Yet her fine skin stretched over high cheekbones held a luminescent glow, almost a radiance—
Abruptly breaking off his reckless thoughts, Raith scoffed silently at himself. His late wife would have been shocked to hear herself compared to a flame-haired Campbell virago. Katrine Campbell was a shrew and an exasperating nuisance, no matter how bonny she might or might not be, no matter how she managed to affect the parts of his anatomy he couldn’t control. But for the time being, until he could be sure her kin wouldn’t retaliate against the Duart MacLeans for this evening’s work, until Argyll reconsidered his outrageous increases in feu-duties, he was stuck with her.
She was stuck with him, Katrine thought miserably at nearly the same moment. Raith MacLean was a thief and a villain—a cruel villain, threatening to divest her of her nightshift—and at the moment she was powerless to do anything about her predicament.
Katrine sighed, admitting temporary defeat. Not that she would cease her efforts to escape, of course. But for the time being she would conserve her energy and limited resources and try again when the odds for success were greater.
The odds, however, did not improve as the long night progressed. Katrine soon grew weary of simply holding her eyes open, and more than once she caught her head drooping. Dragging her chin from her chest, she would jerk herself upright and swear to fight such lapses in willpower. Yet some time before moonset, she dozed off, her shoulder sagging against Lachlan.
It was pitch-black when the chestnut suddenly came to a halt. Sensing the lack of movement, Katrine groggily roused from a restless sleep and realized she was propped against Lachlan’s massive chest. She bolted awake then, and found herself staring down into a pair of dangerous, midnight blue eyes. Raith MacLean was standing beside the chestnut, emanating an impatience she could feel.
“We’ll wait here for Ewen,” Raith informed her as his hands reached up to clasp her about the waist.
Katrine tensed, disturbed by the warm feel of his long, hard fingers. But when he lowered her to the ground, she forgot about her discomfort upon the discovery that her weak knees wouldn’t support her. With a soft cry, she fell against him, just as Raith started to step away. Katrine clutched at him in a desperate attempt to maintain her balance and came in full contact with the hard length of him. Her breath caught on a ragged gasp as a feeling of danger coursed through her. Lithe-limbed maleness. Raw strength. Bold virility. Her heart started thudding so violently she was certain he could feel its hammering beat.
His lean body had gone rigid at the impact, and though his hands instantly came up to steady her, she had no trouble sensing that he would rather be anywhere than here with her barely clad body pressing so intimately against his taut-muscled one.
He waited till she had regained her balance, then dropped his hands immediately. Her heartbeat still abnormally rapid, Katrine glanced up at his face, unreadable in the darkness.
“You can sit there on that rock.” His voice was grim, unfriendly, at odds with the warmth his body had momentarily offered her.
“What rock?” Her voice was still husky with sleep and her tone was more than a little curt. How did he expect her to see when the night was as black as his hair? Looking beyond his right shoulder, she made out the outline of a flat boulder some half-dozen paces away. “How do you expect me to get there? I can’t walk with my feet tied.”
Raith thought about lifting her in his arms. But he was still burning from the previous moment, still conscious of the feel of soft, full breasts and firm, slender thighs, and so he wisely decided not to repeat the mistake of touching her so intimately.
Instead, he drew his dirk and, ignoring Katrine’s startled gasp, bent down to slice away her woolen bonds.
He didn’t even need to warn her not to run, for she no longer had the energy. Besides, where would she go on foot in the dead of night, with her hands tied and no food or water? She would likely become lost and starve to death.
Like an old woman, Katrine inched her way to the flat rock he had indicated and sat down. Every bone in her body ached, and she was so tired she could have curled up on the hard, cold surface and gone instantly to sleep. Except that it was too chilly to sleep. The temperature had dropped drastically during the night, and the cold was seeping into her bones, adding to her discomfort.
Shivering, Katrine struggled to draw the plaid more tightly about her. Raith MacLean must be cold as well, came the unbidden thought. Or perhaps not. She remembered her fingers clutching more than a shirt, something thick and dark. He had donned the black frock coat he had worn earlier, she decided. That was why he blended in so well with the night.
Searching for him, she peered through the darkness. He must have gone to sit with the other men, who had gathered some distance away. She couldn’t see them but could hear them murmuring in quiet undertones.
This might, Katrine decided, be a good opportunity to ease another discomfort she was feeling. Slipping off the boulder and inching around to the far side, she fumbled with her nightshift and plaid, and managed to relieve her pressing need.
When she returned to her rock, though, despair returned in full force and her shoulders sagged. Aunt Gardner was right, Katrine thought morosely. She never should have glorified the romantic nonsense Papa had drummed into her head.
Yet how could she not when her earliest memories were of the Highlands, of magnificent crags and untamed people? She had been eight when she left Scotland, old enough never to forget the colorful stories she’d heard at her father’s knee, stories about the brave, rugged men who populated the Highland hills, of feuding clans with their fierce loyalties and hatreds—hatred of the English in particular.
Her father had fought with Clan Campbell on the side of the English during the Forty-Five, as the rebellion of 1745 was called. But when he’d been killed in the battle of Culloden Moor, Anne Campbell had returned home to England with her three young daughters to live with her married sister.
Those years had been sober ones. Both Aunt and Uncle Gardner were strict Presbyterians and had looked down their noses at anything resembling cheer or merriment. After her mother’s death, Katrine had done her best to ensure that her two younger sisters didn’t suffer because of it. She had taken primary responsibility for raising the girls, softening their aunt’s stern precepts and harsh standards, intervening with persuasion and reason—and her rapier tongue when the need arose.
Sober years, yet happy, as well. And they had passed quickly. Only two months ago Katrine had been preparing for her youngest sister Roseline’s marriage, checking the fit of their mother’s wedding gown.
It had been a poignant moment, ripe with memories and the ache of parting. To see a sister whom she had cared for like her own child blossom into a young woman, to send her off into the world, to bestow her hand on a husband… Surveying Roseline in all her wedding finery, Katrine had felt her eyes grow misty. She’d experienced the feeling once before, with the middle sister, Louisa. Louisa had married three years ago and was already a mother herself, confined now for the birth of her second child.
Katrine’s melancholy during that moment with Roseline had led her to confess her determination to return someday to the land of her birth. Hesitantly she’d told her sister of her childhood yearning that had grown stronger over the years…a restless hunger to experience life beyond the market town of Ramsey, whose greatest claim to fame was its excellent production of cabbage and leeks. The East Anglian countryside was dreary and uninspiring—flat farmland that couldn’t compare to the wild splendor of the Scottish Highlands. She wouldn’t be content to settle there, not without ever once attempting to satisfy her longing for adventure and romance.
If truth were told, that was the real reason she had remained a spinster. She’d always felt there was something lacking in the English gentlemen of her acquaintance; they were too tame and colorless for her passionate heart.
“When I marry—” she told Roseline with fervor, “if I do—he’ll be a leader of men, bold and daring…a fighting man, like Papa was…yet one who can be gentle…a man with fire in his heart, who can fire my blood—” Katrine broke off then, flushing as she became aware of how inappropriate such conversation was for her sister’s tender ears. But she hadn’t despaired of someday finding her soul mate.
Then Roseline had married, leaving Katrine feeling lonely, even a bit extraneous. She’d decided finally that the time had come to pursue her own future.
It hadn’t been easy, convincing her Aunt and Uncle Gardner that she was serious about returning, but she was of age and possessed her own funds, so eventually she’d prevailed. Though still protesting, Uncle Gardner had insisted on making her journey as safe as possible. Thus supplied with coach and horses, accompanied by an armed manservant and maid, Katrine had traveled across England to Liverpool, where she’d taken ship for Scotland.
How excited she had been upon her arrival yesterday! Now, however, she couldn’t summon the slightest interest in her surroundings. She was too weary even to contemplate escape, and could muster only a halfhearted curse on the brigands who had abducted her and who now seemed intent
on letting her perish from exhaustion and hunger.
To her surprise, the raven-haired Raith appeared at her side just then, grudgingly letting her drink from a flask of water and handing her an oatcake to eat. Katrine was taken aback by his attentiveness, and grateful, as well. Yet she decided not to thank him.
When he’d rejoined his men, she munched slowly on the oat bannock, listening to the clamp of bridle bits as the horses chewed on what vegetation they could find among the pine needles—
Horses?
Katrine’s head came up. An abduction couldn’t continue without horses.
Her pulse rate accelerated to the speed of galloping hoofbeats as she realized she had the perfect means to foil the MacLeans’ scheme, or at least to delay it. The horses were milling about, untethered. The fierce Highlanders were a safe distance away, ignoring her presence. If a strange woman dressed in white suddenly began jumping up and down while flapping her bound arms and shrieking at the top of her lungs, the horses would bolt and… And Raith MacLean would murder her.
In spite of the chill, Katrine felt her palms begin to sweat as she tried to calculate how long it would take for him to reach her, and whether she could possibly survive if he did.
But she might never have a better opportunity than now to attempt an escape. And if she didn’t try now, then she would never forgive herself.
Hastily Katrine finished the last bite of oatcake, but she could hardly swallow, she was so nervous. Not giving herself time to change her mind, she awkwardly gathered an end of the plaid in her hands and carefully rose to her feet.
Then, taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth to emit a bloodcurdling screech.
Chapter Three
The pandemonium was instantaneous. Katrine’s undignified antics at once sent the horses clattering into the dark night and brought startled shouts from the Highlanders. To a man, they reached for dirks and claymores to defend their small band from enemy attack. All except Raith.
TENDER FEUD Page 4
