TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

  “And that,” Raith muttered to himself, “is the dilemma.” She was innocent of her uncle’s tyranny and Argyll’s treacherous greed. Or as innocent as any Campbell could be.

  Sighing, Raith forced himself to avert his gaze. But he couldn’t dismiss Katrine’s presence as easily, for he took another breath and inhaled her sweet scent—lavender with a hint of pine from the forest floor. Did he have a right to draw her so presumptuously into this feud? To use her as a pawn in the dangerous game he was playing, challenging Argyll’s sovereignty?

  There could be only one answer to that question, Raith knew, remembering the proud Duart men who had humbled themselves to plead with him for aid. Even if he wasn’t their laird, they were MacLeans. He had a responsibility to ease their burdens if he could.

  And he could. He would use any means at his disposal, even if it entailed holding hostage a helpless, innocent female. When it came to weighing a Campbell’s plight against the suffering of his clansmen, he had only one choice.

  And at any event, Katrine Campbell wasn’t at all helpless, he thought sardonically. He had never met a female who fit that description less. She had already tested his patience to the limit with her frequent attempts to thwart him. He’d had to keep his wits about him just to be a match for her resourcefulness. And defending himself against her sharp rejoinders had been an exercise in mental swordplay. If she hadn’t drawn blood with her sharp tongue yet, it doubtless was only due to weariness and the suddenness of her abduction. She hadn’t rallied her forces yet, that was all.

  “And God help the poor devils in her path when she does,” Raith muttered under his breath. His mouth twisted in a grimace as he considered the irony of the situation. He was the one who had abducted her. He was supposed to be in charge. So why did he feel so little control? Why did he feel so beleaguered already, before he had even reached his destination?

  Just then Katrine stirred in his arms, settling herself more comfortably between his thighs. Raith stiffened, his muscles immediately tensing at the feel of slender, barely covered curves pressed against his groin. When she didn’t waken, though, he swallowed the oath that had sprung to his lips and forced his thoughts along less carnal lines.

  At the moment he was required to bear her nearness with fortitude, but as soon as he reached Cair House, he would be rid of her. His house was large enough that he wouldn’t have to lay eyes on her if he didn’t wish to. He could banish her to the kitchens and never see her again. His servants could be counted on to watch over her there.

  The reflection helped to cool his overheated blood, and with a little fierce determination Raith managed to ignore almost entirely the soft femininity that threatened his control.

  They rode in silence for nearly an hour, but as they left the hills behind and neared Loch Linnhe, Katrine stirred again, this time coming slowly awake. She lay quietly against Raith’s shoulder for a moment, absorbing the hard warm strength of him. Drowsily she opened her eyes, her gaze taking in the strong bronzed column of a neck rippling with sinew, and an aggressive stubble-covered jaw.

  The sudden realization of where she was and whom she was with startled her. Flushing to find herself held in his arms that way, Katrine abruptly sat up. She was grateful when Raith didn’t say a word.

  But she hadn’t counted on how the immediate cessation of warmth would affect her. A brisk breeze was blowing from the west, kicking up tiny whitecaps on the surface of the loch. Finding herself shivering, she drew Raith’s plaid more tightly about her as she focused her gaze on the steel-blue loch.

  When they reached the water’s edge, Katrine nervously eyed the wide expanse of the loch. “Do you mean for us to cross?”

  “Yes, but the horse is tired. I’ll not make him carry us both.”

  “But I can’t swim.”

  The look Raith gave her was one of derision, but he silently turned his mount to ride along the rocky shore. After a time they spied a fisherman who was running his small, flat-bottomed skiff aground. He was dressed in breeches—the hated “breeks” as they were called in the Highlands—with a long leather vest over his saffron-colored shirt.

  “I advise you to keep your Southron tongue quiet,” Raith said in her ear. “This fellow would just as soon weight a Sassenach like you with a rock and heave you in the loch. I admit,” he added wryly under his breath, just loud enough for Katrine to hear, “I’ve entertained thoughts along those lines myself.”

  Her hackles rose in response but, as she did not want to be drowned in the loch, she held her tongue as Raith negotiated in Gaelic for the fisherman’s service. When the rough fellow glanced at her suspiciously, Katrine huddled in her plaid, hoping her English origins didn’t show.

  Within minutes she and Raith were being ferried across the loch, with the black horse swimming behind. On their right were the Corran Narrows, where Loch Linnhe tapered into a thin channel.

  Trying to ignore the pungent smell of salmon trout, Katrine stole a glance at Raith and found him impatiently watching the distant shore. She wondered what he had said to explain her peculiar state of undress, but then decided Raith MacLean was too arrogant to bother with explanations.

  He was also too unchivalrous to put her needs over his mount’s, for as soon as the skiff reached the far side, Raith leaped onto the shore and led the weary, dripping horse out of the water, leaving Katrine to manage on her own.

  She clenched her teeth as the icy water lapped around her ankles, glaring at Raith as he spoke softly to the animal and stroked the dark muzzle.

  He met her darkling look, as she hobbled up to him, with an impatient one of his own. “Come on,” Raith said tersely. “We’ve still miles to go.”

  Katrine came to an abrupt halt. She was in no hurry to accede to the demands of a boorish tyrant. “My blisters are paining me, or have you forgotten how badly I am injured?”

  Raith’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t voice the oath that he obviously wanted to. Instead he scooped Katrine up and set her none too gently on the horse’s back, then mounted behind her and urged the animal forward.

  The broad plain they rode across, Katrine saw shortly, was dotted with prosperous crofts. In the distance, beyond the stretch of fertile fields sown with barley, oats and peas, loomed a range of mountains.

  “I don’t suppose you feel like telling me where you are taking me,” Katrine said a moment later. She had already decided that if Glencoe was behind her, then those must be the mountains of Ardgour in front, but she was feeling a perverse urge to make him talk.

  When he didn’t answer, she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I expect you’re afraid to tell me. You don’t want me to know who you are so I won’t be able to inform on you.” Disingenuously, Katrine peered over her shoulder to see the effect of her challenge.

  She didn’t care for the sardonic gleam in his eyes as, with a nod of his head, he gave her a mocking bow. “You want a formal introduction? Very well, Miss Campbell. Raith Alasdair Hugh MacLean, twelfth MacLean of Ardgour, at your service.”

  Katrine stared at him as his revelation sunk in. Twelfth MacLean of Ardgour. “You’re a laird?” she said in shock. “You’re the Laird of Ardgour?”

  “Why do you find that so hard to believe?”

  “Because you’re a cattle thief!”

  Raith’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “I’ve taken nothing that wasn’t stolen from the MacLeans in the first place, either by Argyll or his grasping factor.”

  She stiffened at the slur. “Raith isn’t even a MacLean name,” she muttered.

  “My grandmother was a MacRaith, if you must know.”

  Staring at him, Katrine fell silent, trying to absorb this new revelation. He was Raith MacLean, Laird of Ardgour. That explained in part his fierce pride and his haughty air of command. He was accustomed to rule, accustomed to getting his own way. She should have known he was no common villain, Katrine reflected.

  Refusing to be intimidated by his fierce stare, she examined his dark face curiously. Th
e name Raith suited him, she decided. It sounded lawless and arrogant, like its owner.

  The fierceness of his gaze finally daunting her, Katrine faced forward again. She lapsed into sober silence as they drew nearer the imposing mountains, despondently contemplating her fate as the dirt road that had led between planted fields began a rising, tortuous path through the Highlands.

  Eventually the road threaded through a narrow pass, and Katrine’s hopes sank entirely. Here the passage was barely wide enough to accommodate a carriage and was flanked on either side by steep rock cliffs. It was obvious even to her untrained eye that the pass could easily be defended against an enemy clan…or English soldiers. The road could just as easily be guarded to prevent a lone Campbell captive from escaping.

  Depressed, she didn’t speak again until the dirt road suddenly became a graveled carriageway lined with birches. At the end of the carriageway, nestled among the rugged mountains of Ardgour, stood a large, thick-walled stone mansion.

  “I suppose this is your ancestral seat,” Katrine murmured, awed in spite of herself. Then another thought occurred to her. “You said the English soldiers wouldn’t find you. If you have such a fine house, they surely know where you live.”

  “What I said, Miss Campbell, was that they wouldn’t find you.”

  His answer further dismayed her, confirming her belief that Raith meant to keep her holed away, out of sight. But after a moment Katrine rallied to match his sarcasm. “You must give me a tour of the house at once. I’m positively agog with curiosity about what treacherous doings go on in a nest of Jacobites.”

  “Nothing so venomous as what occurs in a nest of Campbells, I imagine,” Raith retorted as he directed the horse off the sweeping gravel drive along the carriageway that led behind the house.

  The animal obviously knew the way to the stables, Katrine realized, for it pricked up its ears and quickened its pace. The stable mews was a complex of stone-and-timber outbuildings, she saw as they approached, with barns and a carriage house. The central outbuilding was a substantial structure, two stories high, which no doubt housed horses below and men above.

  The MacLean laird must have been expected, she decided, for as soon as they rode into the cobbled yard, a number of his clansmen immediately appeared, several of whom Katrine recognized from the raid. Some were still wearing the kilt, but all were scowling hostilely at her.

  Katrine felt her palms go damp at her unfavorable reception; even a mob at a public hanging looked more kindly on a condemned prisoner.

  “Welcome back, cousin,” an amused voice said into the grim silence.

  Grateful for the interruption, Katrine glanced toward the mews at a tall, leanly muscled man who wore the lawful breeches. He had propped one shoulder against the stable wall while he chewed idly on a straw.

  Looking at him more closely, Katrine noticed the resemblance he bore to her abductor. Like Raith, his hair was black and his face strong, but his cheekbones were more sculpted, and his nose was sharper and slightly hawkish. As they came to a halt a scant yard from him, however, she could see that his eyes were a gleaming charcoal rather than blue.

  Those dark eyes stared boldly at her, sizing her up shrewdly. Katrine’s face flamed as he took in her nightshift and her legs, bare below the knees.

  “So this is the fierce Campbell lass,” he murmured, his tone still carrying a hint of laughter.

  Despite his bold perusal, Katrine mustered a shred of dignity and raised her chin. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”

  “Cherish the moment, Callum,” Raith interjected with sarcasm. “It may be the last time you have it.”

  “Are you truly so formidable, Miss Campbell?” Callum’s eyes twinkled roguishly as he pushed himself from the wall and strode up to them. “I’m Callum MacLean. Welcome to Cair House.”

  He astonished her by taking her hand and carrying it to his lips for a salute, as formally as if she were at court. Katrine stared down into his dancing eyes, wondering how he could possibly be related to his dangerous cousin.

  “I own I never expected to find good manners in a den of cattle thieves,” she confessed, matching his light tone.

  The sound Raith made was something between a growl and a grunt as he swung down from the horse.

  “You seem to have gotten under my dear cousin’s skin,” Callum observed with a chuckle.

  Katrine eyed the grim-faced laird who was reaching up to help her dismount. Had she truly managed to disconcert him? “Good,” she replied tauntingly—a gibe that turned into a gasp as Raith dragged her from the horse and swung her roughly into his arms. Desperately Katrine clung to his neck, hoping he wouldn’t drop her out of spite.

  “It isn’t hard for a Sassenach to get under the skin,” Raith retorted as he strode determinedly toward the house. “They’re like a pestilence, or a pox.”

  Following more leisurely, Callum addressed Katrine over Raith’s shoulder. “My cousin likes to forget it, but I am half English myself…an accident of birth, you might say.”

  He flashed her a charming grin that was at once reassuring and flirtatious, and Katrine, to her surprise, found herself returning his smile. Whatever else happened here, she was going to like Callum MacLean.

  Her spirits lifting somewhat, she let herself glance around and noted that her surroundings bespoke wealth and care. The cobblestone stable yard was swept free of debris and the garden she glimpsed in the distance was neatly laid out and weeded. The wing jutting perpendicularly from the rear of the house Katrine suspected was the kitchens. The house itself was three stories of elegant stone, with dozens of mullioned windows and quite a few chimneys. Glancing up, Katrine was impressed to see the spotless windows reflecting the morning sunlight—very different from the condition of her uncle’s house.

  They came to the sturdy oaken door then, and Raith waited impatiently till Callum opened it. When they stepped into a long hallway, Katrine noticed that the interior was just as elegant as the exterior, with gleaming wood floors and French brocade papering the walls above the wainscoting. When they passed what looked to be a workroom, she caught a glimpse of several female retainers busily polishing silver and mending linen.

  Katrine was grateful they were all occupied, for she was spared the humiliation of being seen in the laird’s arms with her nightshift hiked up to her knees. Just then a neatly garbed maidservant came out of another door, her eyes going wide as she saw Katrine.

  “Send Flora to me,” Raith snapped at the curious girl, who bobbed a curtsy and went scurrying off.

  “Who is Flora?” Katrine questioned distractedly, not expecting or receiving an answer. What she really wanted to ask, though, was where he was taking her.

  Raith began climbing a narrow flight of stairs. The servants’ stairs, Katrine presumed, surprised that they were going up instead of down.

  “I declare myself astonished,” she prodded. “I expected you to imprison me in the dungeon.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Shame on you, cousin,” Callum chided from behind, “for frightening the lass. You don’t possess a dungeon.”

  Katrine felt a measure of relief; she wouldn’t have put it past this MacLean laird to incarcerate her in a cold damp cell and shackle her in chains. But where was he taking her?

  Callum asked the question as they reached the first landing. “Just where do you mean to put the lady, cousin? I might remind you that it wouldn’t be proper to keep her in your rooms.”

  “You’re gravely mistaken, cousin, if you think I’ve amorous intentions toward her. I’ve no desire to bed any bitch sired by a Campbell.”

  Katrine should have been relieved to know her virtue was safe, but the harsh term Raith had used made her bristle. Even Callum must have thought the remark uncalled for, for one eyebrow shot up as he stared at his cousin’s back.

  Then the upward arch of his black brow relaxed and he winked at her. “If you don’t want her, she can sleep in my bed,” he offered magnanimously, which
made Katrine blush and reconsider her favorable impression of Callum MacLean.

  “Once you get a taste of her viper’s tongue you won’t be so anxious to have her for a bedmate.”

  A roguish gleam danced wickedly in the black eyes. “If I were to get a taste of her tongue, cousin, I assure you she would have no interest in using it for any purpose but pleasure.”

  Scandalized, Katrine quickly averted her gaze from Callum’s, color flooding her cheeks.

  “What do you intend to do with her then?” he asked as they climbed the next flight. “Lock her in the servants’ quarters?”

  “No,” was Raith’s terse reply. “When she recovers from her injuries—” he put a cynical inflection on the word “—she’ll help in the kitchens where the servants can keep a close eye on her.”

  “I won’t,” Katrine declared adamantly, determined to throw a wrench in any of his plans.

  “Would you rather be locked away?” His tone was hard, but not nearly as hard as the blue eyes that were glaring down at her.

  Katrine returned a sullen glance, but her protests subsided at his not-so-veiled threat to imprison her. And to her frustration, she was the first to drop her gaze from Raith’s threatening one.

  When he reached the third floor, he turned to the left and then halted before a door at the end of the hall. It opened into a small room under the garret, Katrine saw. Inside, she caught sight of a pallet, a washstand and a small coffer for storing clothes.

  Not a dungeon, at least, Katrine thought with relief as Raith carried her to the pallet and set her down. And no sign of any chains.

  “I presume you mean to clothe her?” Callum said from the doorway. “She’s the same size as Ellen, perhaps a few inches taller…and slightly larger in the bosom.”

  Katrine might have been disconcerted by his masculine scrutiny, but she was watching the sudden scowl Raith bent on his cousin. Callum met the fierce gaze casually, with a smile of mischief and affection.