TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

  “My friends call me Callum,” Callum interjected mildly.

  “How accommodating of them, Mr. MacLean,” Katrine repeated, making it clear she didn’t intend to make free with his Christian name.

  “Miss Campbell,” Raith interjected, “doesn’t observe the normal forms of address, Callum. To differentiate her friends, she merely refrains from calling them ‘lout’ or ‘thatchgallows.’” He cocked a cynical eyebrow at his cousin. “What do you think of her at present, lad, now that you’ve been treated to her temper?”

  Callum shrugged. Giving Katrine a slow perusal, he smiled at her, a lazy smile. “Vaporish young women aren’t nearly as interesting as they’re purported to be. A little spirit is refreshing.”

  Raith’s mouth curled at the corner. “A little spirit? The disposition of a shrew is more accurate.”

  Katrine bristled, though she knew quite well she had scant basis for disputing the point. One of her English Gardner cousins had termed her “a managing shrew” after she’d boxed his ears for trying to take liberties with her. And she had often joked with her youngest sister about Roseline being an English rose while she herself was a Scottish thistle. It was true; sweet and biddable she was not. But hearing Raith announce it so pointedly raised her ire.

  Before she could reply, though, his cousin was stirring up further trouble. “I can overlook a prickly disposition if the lass is bonny enough. And Mistress Campbell is certainly that. Come now, Raith,” Callum cajoled when his cousin’s mouth tightened in apparent contempt, “can you honestly ignore the winsome picture she makes with her face flushed by the hearth fire, her roy curls spilling down?”

  Raith, however, was not about to respond to such a pregnant question, though he knew the answer. Ignoring Katrine Campbell was one accomplishment he could not manage. Not when she made such an alluring sight. The high color in her face, brought on by the heat and her aroused temper, resembled the flush of passion, while the damp tendrils that had escaped their confining hairpins appeared alive with their own reddish energy. It made a man want to toss aside the pins and let the wild locks twine around him.

  Oh, yes, Callum was right, Raith admitted reluctantly, well aware that his rakish cousin was feeling the same masculine urges he himself was.

  With an effort, he tore his gaze away from Katrine and glanced at Callum. “You might remember just who she is and why she is here.”

  “Oh, I remember.”

  “Then if you can’t control your lustful proclivities better than this, I suggest you keep away from her entirely.”

  “As you’re doing?” Callum gibed.

  Raith’s jaw flexed grimly, but he didn’t reply. He didn’t explain that he’d sought out Katrine against his better judgment. Nor did he admit his concern over her welfare. He’d never tell her, certainly, that he greatly regretted the necessity of putting her to work in his kitchens…especially now, seeing her laboring at the hearth. Yet it would have been even more cruel to imprison her behind locked doors. Keeping her occupied instead was by far the best way to prevent her from causing mischief; here she was always under the watchful eye of one of his servants.

  And in truth, she didn’t seem to be doing too badly, Raith decided. Not if she was throwing a sodden linen at his cousin. Apparently he’d worried needlessly about her. He should have stayed away, Raith acknowledged silently. Particularly since his spirited, sharp-tongued captive was obviously seething to make him the new target of her wrath; he could feel the heat from her green eyes searing through him.

  Katrine was indeed seething. Watching the two of them scrap over her as if she weren’t there, she needed all her strong will in order to control her desire to scream. “What is it that so concerns you?” she demanded of Raith. “Are you afraid that your cousin will seduce me or that I’ll corrupt him?”

  Raith returned his gaze to her. “Either. Both.” He glanced down, pointedly appraising her stomach. “I wouldn’t want to send you home to your uncle breeding my cousin’s bastard.”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. Before she could recover the presence of mind to retort, though, before she could even think to question him about his plan to return her to her uncle, or ask Raith what steps he’d taken to negotiate her release, he turned abruptly on his heel and quit the room.

  His arrogant dismissal and the sting of his words made Katrine long to do the man an injury. If he had still been standing there, she would have thrown the entire contents of the caldron at him. “Plague take the cold heart of him!” she muttered, clenching her fists.

  “Is it the notion of bearing children you object to?” Callum asked laconically. “Or that they would be mine?”

  Katrine gave a start, having forgotten that Raith’s cousin was even there. But when she realized what he’d said, she felt her cheeks go scarlet, as livid as her hair.

  “Oh, no, I think bearing your bastards a capital idea!” she announced to the world at large. “Why not have a dozen while we are at it? Wouldn’t that be a sight? I return to my Calvinist uncle’s home with a dozen children clinging to my skirts! See how fast he turns me out of his house then.”

  The bitterness in her voice apparent, she stood there glaring at Callum. He met her furious gaze with a sympathetic grin.

  Embarrassed by her outburst then, Katrine averted her gaze from Callum’s and determinedly returned to tending the wash.

  “Illegitimacy hasn’t the stigma here that it has in England,” he said with calm good humor. “Accidental bairns are no disgrace. Indeed, they’re cared for as tenderly as any born of wedlock. I should know—” his tone became wry “—I’m a byblow myself. My birth has never been held against me…except for my English blood, of course. That’s always been suspect.”

  Remembering his earlier admission that he was half English, Katrine forgot her resentment long enough to wonder about the circumstances of his birth. But the turn of the conversation had grown decidedly too lascivious for her taste, and she decided to put an end to the topic of illegitimacy. “Thank you, Mr. MacLean, for seeking to reassure me, but I think I will forgo the chore of bearing your children. I don’t intend to be here long enough in any case.” At least she hoped she wouldn’t. She hoped her uncle was riding to her rescue at this very moment, combing the Highlands with a regiment of British troops in search of her. After all, he would have gone after any of his cattle that had been stolen—and she was his own flesh and blood. Perhaps Uncle Colin might even feel obligated to pay for her release....

  “You wouldn’t think the getting of my children so onerous,” Callum said, interrupting her wishful thoughts. “In fact, I could say without fear of contradiction that you’d be missing a great pleasure.”

  Katrine raised her eyes to the ceiling, imploring the heavens for patience. The man’s persistence was incredible—as was his self-esteem. In exasperation, she glanced over her shoulder at Callum, seeing devils dancing in his dark eyes.

  “I know I’m being immodest,” he said with an disarming grin. “It’s part of my boyish charm.”

  Katrine gave him a quelling stare, which had no effect on Callum whatsoever. In spite of her present sour mood, though, she wasn’t immune to his roguish humor or his masculine appeal. Indeed, Katrine felt her ill-humor fading under the warmth of his rascally grin. She almost—almost—smiled back at him, before out of the corner of her eye she caught the flash of movement outside the laundry room window.

  The window looked out on the stable yard, commanding a view of the mews. Glancing across the yard, Katrine glimpsed a small knot of men and recognized the bright red thatch of Lachlan’s hair. If not for the color, she would not have known him, for like Raith he was dressed in high fashion, wearing a frock coat and leather riding breeches. At the moment Lachlan was holding the reins of his own chestnut and the black horse that Raith had ridden the night of her abduction.

  And then Katrine saw the laird himself. He had left the manor by way of the rear door, and was striding across the yard, looking tall and commandin
g, his hard handsome face set, an aura of impenetrability about him.

  She wondered if he intended to lead his clan on another raid, but from the men’s elegant attire, it appeared they were engaged in nothing more nefarious than paying a morning call on a neighbor. Katrine was about to ask Callum where the MacLeans were going when he volunteered something of an explanation himself.

  “Raith has to make a short journey,” he said mildly. “My estimable cousin has business to attend to.”

  Hope abruptly soared within her. With her chief captor away, it might be her best chance of escape. Perhaps she should try....

  Callum must have been reading her thoughts, however, for he eyed her with amusement and shook his head. “Put the notion right out of that bonny head of yours, Katie. Raith left orders for you to be carefully watched. You wouldn’t make a mile before you were found and brought back.”

  Reluctantly Katrine reconsidered. It would be humiliating to attempt an escape and be dragged back by her hair. Just then she again glimpsed a flash of movement close to the window. Taking a step closer, she saw a small figure dart out from the shadow of the kitchen buildings and come to an abrupt halt a few paces from Raith. It was the young raven-haired girl she had seen earlier that day, Katrine realized.

  When Raith saw the child, he, too, came to a halt, at the same time smiling down at her, a smile so sweet and pure that Katrine caught her breath. He said something that she couldn’t make out, but the child hesitated only an instant before launching herself into his arms. Raith caught up the young girl and held her close as he proceeded on his way, talking to her as she wrapped her small arms around his neck, seeming oblivious of what her grimy condition was doing to his fine coat and white neckcloth.

  When he reached his group of men, he set her down and fondly squeezed her thin shoulder before she disappeared like a frightened rabbit into the stables. His gaze followed her thoughtfully, then he mounted his horse and rode out of the yard with the others.

  Watching from the window, Katrine turned to Callum with a questioning look. “Who is that child?”

  His mischievous grin had faded, and now he shrugged. “Her name is Margaret, but we call her Meggie.”

  “Yes, but to whom does she belong? Who are her parents?”

  “Her parents are dead.”

  “Then who cares for her? From the state of her clothing, I’d say no one.”

  Callum gave another shrug of his broad shoulders. “I suppose Flora keeps an eye out, but no one watches her every minute, not that I’m aware.”

  “But surely someone is responsible for the child!”

  He raised an eyebrow at Katrine’s obvious concern. “Well, of course. The laird is responsible for all the members of his clan, when you come down to it. But in this case, Raith is her legal guardian. Meggie is his ward.”

  Katrine stared thoughtfully. She had wondered precisely what the relationship was, especially after seeing the tender smile Raith had given the child. “Well then,” Katrine advised, “he ought to see that she receives better care. She’s too young to be roaming around unattended.”

  “Why don’t you take that up with Raith?”

  “Perhaps I will.” Along with numerous other grievances, she added silently.

  She turned back to her wash, her thoughts so occupied with the fate of little Meggie that she scarcely noticed Callum’s wry comment. “I think I’ve just been dismissed.” When she didn’t reply, he shook his head. “And in favor of a bairn. How defeating.”

  But Katrine only nodded when Callum took his leave of her with an ironic bow, for she was indeed wondering how Raith MacLean could have so little compassion that he would allow his ward to grow up wild and unsupervised.

  The next time she saw him, however, the circumstances were such that she forgot entirely to question him about the child. It was the following day, and Katrine was occupied in the highceilinged kitchen, shaping bannocks from the dough that Flora had mixed. Beside her, the scullery maid was chopping vegetables.

  When Flora stepped out for a moment, Katrine tried unsuccessfully to engage the young servant in conversation. She had the intention of befriending the girl, for of all the MacLean kin, the little scullion seemed most susceptible to a bribe. If she could be persuaded to carry a message to Uncle Colin, or smuggle a note to the English soldiers at the nearest garrison…

  All Katrine received for her efforts, however, was a blank look in reply. After ten minutes of such one-sided dialogue, Katrine finally asked in exasperation if the girl was rude by nature or if she was merely too timid to defy the laird’s orders not to speak to a Campbell.

  The scullion merely returned a shy smile and picked up a pail to fetch some water from the burn in back of the house.

  “Would you like me to do that for you?” Katrine offered. “I wouldn’t mind a chance to leave the house for a moment.”

  The only answer was another blank look and then the quiet shutting of the kitchen door.

  “I know I’m a prisoner here,” Katrine muttered, “but you might at least have had the courtesy to refuse my offer.”

  She gave a start when Raith spoke from behind her. “The girl wasn’t being rude. She simply didn’t understand you. She only speaks Gaelic.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, Katrine flung him an irritated frown. He was dressed far more casually than the previous morning, this time without a coat or waistcoat. And instead of boots he wore steel-buckled shoes over plain cotton stockings. At present he had one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, much the way his cousin had had the day before, yet the sight of him affected her senses far more forcefully. As she met Raith’s piercing blue gaze, Katrine was conscious of a queer fluttering in the pit of her stomach, an absurd quickening of her pulse rate. Determinedly she quashed the sensations. It would be imbecilic in the extreme to develop an attraction for her lawless captor.

  “If you knew she didn’t understand me,” Katrine declared, “why did you let me keep talking and making a fool of myself?”

  His black eyebrows rose in mockery. “I? I had nothing to do with you acting the fool. You were succeeding quite well on your own.”

  Gritting her teeth, Katrine turned back to her worktable. “When do you intend to let me go?” she ground out.

  “When I no longer have need of you.”

  At his noncommittal reply, she glared down at the bowl of oatmeal mixed with lard. The sight reminded her of another grievance she had with the Laird of Ardgour. Defiantly, she demolished the lump of dough she had been kneading, wishing it were Raith’s nose she was punching. “Oats!” She hit it again, sending the gooey mixture squirting out from beneath her fists in splatters. “I’m sick to death of oats! Oatcakes, oat porridge, oat stew! One would think you could afford to offer some variety to your prisoners.”

  “Some Scotch children have nothing but a bannock a day, and count themselves lucky at that.”

  His tone had taken on a hard edge, but Katrine ignored it, too wrapped up in her complaint to notice or even care. “You threatened to lock me away if I didn’t serve you, but I expected better than starvation rations. I think I would rather starve to death. At least then my uncle would have undisputed cause for revenge when you returned my murdered body.”

  There was a short pause before Raith replied. “I wasn’t aware you were not getting proper sustenance. I gather Flora is taking her duties as your jailer too much to heart.”

  “I should say so!”

  “You should have told her to feed you.”

  “And just how was I supposed to convince her? She was only following your orders.”

  “Not my orders…and you could have come to me.”

  How could she humble herself like that when she would rather kick his shins? Katrine turned to stare darkly at him, meeting his blue eyes with fire in her own. It was scant comfort to realize that Flora, not Raith, had been the one to dictate her regimen of oats. “I’m surprised you even let me near your kitchen. Aren’t you the least afraid I�
��ll poison your food?”

  Raith returned her gaze evenly for a moment, before his expression relaxed into something that looked suspiciously like amusement. “No. For if you poisoned me, your murdered body would never reach your uncle.”

  “I swear I would do it, given half a chance,” Katrine muttered. “Alas, I haven’t discovered any poison. No doubt I could find something lethal in the garden if I were allowed outside the house.”

  “Do I detect censure, Miss Campbell?” Raith quizzed, and this time there was a definite measure of humor in the slow curve of his mouth and the glint in his eyes.

  “Censure!” Katrine sputtered. “Yes, you detect censure, you…you heartless fiend! I’ve never treated any servants as poorly as you’ve treated me. I’ve never—”

  “Do you know what method the good citizens of Langholm near the border use to silence talkative, ill-tempered shrews? An instrument like a bridle, called the branks. They place it over the head, and it has a sharp spike that projects into the mouth. It subdues the tongue at once.”

  Katrine stared at Raith, fury and disgust vying for expression on her face. “Do you never tire of issuing your vile, inhuman threats?”

  His answer was an odious grin. He was enjoying her little tantrum! Katrine clenched her fists and looked around for a weapon, propelled by one desire, to show this churl she was his equal. Her gaze lit on the sgian dhu that the scullery maid had been using to slice turnips; the all-purpose Scots dagger that was the only blade the rebellious Highlanders were lawfully allowed to have in their possession. Snatching it up, Katrine whirled to face him.

  One slashing black eyebrow rose in question, as if daring her to use the dagger on him. But there was a certain gleam of anticipation in his eyes that said he would relish the challenge.

  Not that she would ever carry through with her threat. Impotent fury filled Katrine as she stood there glaring at him. She hadn’t the nerve to employ such a weapon on another human being, even him—and the Laird of Ardgour very well knew it.

  Raith was the first to break the tense silence. “What kind of variety would you like in your menu?” he said gently, taking the wind entirely out of her sails.