The moment Katrine was outside, she came to an abrupt halt, drinking in the splendid view. The scene captivated her. The mountains were bathed in a misty gray light, while the color of the eastern sky had deepened to crimson. Awestruck, Katrine took a deep breath. It was a magnificent late-spring dawn, chilly and clear, with a glimmer of brightness on the horizon that heralded the rising sun. This was why she had returned home to the Highlands.
All thoughts of escape fled her mind. She wanted to be a part of this beautiful new day. And she wanted to do so in private.
Surreptitiously Katrine glanced around her. The yard was deserted, but the equine whickers and the murmur of sleepy male voices coming from the stable mews were a strong indication that the MacLean clan was stirring.
Praying she wouldn’t be seen, Katrine quickly skirted the mews and made for the well-used path that led to the burn behind the house. When she reached the edge of the yard and slipped behind a clump of rhododendron bushes, she paused again to stare at the magnificent scene.
Before her the mist-shrouded slopes of the Ardgour mountains rose abruptly toward the sky, their peaks tinted with the rosy blush of dawn. Much nearer, flanking the path, was a delicate wilderness of flora—fronds of bracken and shrubs of yellow Scotch broom amid a scattering of birches and tall rowan trees.
Bending, Katrine caught up the hem of her long skirt, looping the sides and tucking them in at her waist so she wouldn’t trip. Then crossing the rippling burn by way of a log bridge, she set out eagerly.
Upstairs, Raith witnessed her furtive departure from his bedchamber window.
“What the devil is she up to now?” he muttered, his fingers momentarily gripping the windowsill.
With a low oath, Raith strode naked across the floor and grabbed his hunting plaid from the clothespress. Draping it around him and belting it at the waist to form a kilt, he flung the long end across his chest and hastened from the room, intent on pursuing Katrine.
He was grateful for the restlessness that had made him leave his huge bed, for otherwise he would have missed seeing her. As it was, he’d been startled to notice her emerging from the shadow of the house below him. For a moment he had watched, wondering if she meant to try to steal a horse. If so she would find it difficult, since his men were on the alert for just such an attempt.
She would find it even more difficult to escape by way of the mountains, for the terrain was wild and treacherous for those unfamiliar with it, and even an experienced hunter could become lost. Raith didn’t think she could find her way out, yet from the first he had underestimated her resourcefulness. He didn’t intend to do so again.
And so he followed her, his sentiments the same turmoil of feelings he had harbored for her since the moment he decided to take her hostage. Apprehension that she might actually escape. Vexation that he should be put to the trouble of preventing her. Self-disgust for the attraction her hot-tempered spirit and soft radiance aroused in him. And, though he was reluctant to admit it, concern for her safety. It was this last that was uppermost in Raith’s mind as he followed the path Katrine had taken, his strides long and determined.
He crossed the log bridge over the burn; after some hundred yards, the path spilled out into a glen. Even before he reached it, he could hear the rush of another burn as it tumbled over a mass of boulders into a small but deep loch. When he came to the glen, Raith paused, his gaze searching the misty light for a slender, roy-haired wench.
He had no immediate success. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of the shimmering blue of the loch, but he saw no sign of Katrine Campbell.
Raith was halfway across the glen when he spotted her far to his left. She was sitting quite still on a flat, moss-covered boulder above the loch, near the cascading waterfall of the burn, her knees drawn up as she watched the lightening sky.
She saw him coming. He could tell by the startled way she raised her head, the sudden tensing of her body. Yet she didn’t try to flee. Instead she watched warily as he began to climb the rocks to her side.
Katrine was indeed startled by his sudden appearance—and dismayed at the effect he had on her senses. It was absurd, the way her heart leaped whenever she laid eyes on the man, she scolded herself. Even if he did possess a lion’s share of virility, Raith MacLean was her abductor, her clan’s enemy. She had no business allowing herself to think of him as a normal man, and certainly no business developing an attraction to him.
But she was unable to look away. Her gaze followed his progress as he made his way upward, watching the powerful flexing of sinews in his arms and shoulders, the firm knotted muscles in his bare calves. Then he raised a knee to negotiate the next rock and the kilt fell away, exposing a long length of bare thigh. He was naked beneath the plaid, Katrine realized with a sense of shock.
A blush flooded her face, even as she mentally chided herself again. His mode of dress might be unlawful but not so unusual. Before the Forty-five it had been common for a Highlander to wear nothing but his plaid, especially those too poor to afford cloth for shirt and jacket. Although it was usual to accompany the kilt with checkered hose and leather brogues. At the moment Raith boasted neither, so it was easy to see that his feet were strong and graceful, and his long powerful legs were sprinkled with black hair. His chest, too, was lightly furred, from what she could glimpse beneath the plaid.
Confronted with so much masculinity, Katrine didn’t quite know how to react. Certainly, she reflected, staring at him like some daft halfwit was not at all appropriate behavior under the present circumstances. Dragging her gaze from him, Katrine forced herself to look away, and by the time he reached the boulder where she sat and pulled himself up, she was intently studying a cluster of yellow primroses that grew in a shaded crevice of the rock. She was quite conscious, however, of Raith’s unsettling primitive state of dress as he stood towering over her.
“Would you mind telling me just what you are doing here?” he asked in a tone that was deceptively mild.
Katrine was grateful for the splashing gurgle of the waterfall below, for it drowned out the pounding of her heart. “I wanted to watch the sunrise.”
“You wanted to watch the sunrise.” The skepticism in his tone was laced with antagonism.
Too late Katrine became aware of his irritation. She glanced up at Raith, startled to see his black brows drawn together in a frown. “You said I could leave the house, since there’s no way I can escape.”
When he didn’t immediately reply, she wondered if he meant to withdraw his permission. Worriedly she met his gaze, her own questioning and uncertain. Raith stared at her for a long moment, before his harsh expression relaxed.
“I didn’t expect you to embark on an excursion to view the sights,” was his dry remark as he lowered himself to sit on the rock beside her.
Dismayed to find him so very near, Katrine took a steadying breath. “You’re accustomed to all this—” she waved her arm at the panorama spread before her “—but I’ve only dreamed of it.”
Raith didn’t even glance at the sight. Feeling his penetrating blue gaze on her, Katrine shifted uncomfortably and hastened to direct his attention elsewhere. “I saw a red deer. Down there,” she added with a gesture of her head. “It was drinking at the loch.”
“You’re fortunate not to have come across a wildcat.”
“A wildcat? Here?”
At the concern in her tone, the corners of Raith’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “Yes, here. Not that you have to worry. No doubt you could hold your own in any scrap.”
When she finally looked at him, he met her wide eyes with a bland smile. “Besides,” Raith added truthfully, “a mountain cat usually avoids humans and won’t fight unless provoked.”
Leaning back then, he rested his weight on his elbows and stretched his long bare legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. Katrine tensed, not quite able to ignore the brazen display of well-shaped male limbs.
“But wildcats aren’t the biggest danger,” Raith sa
id casually. “In these hills, it’s fog. The sky can be perfectly clear one moment, and the next, a mist as thick as soup can settle over the glens for days. If you were caught in such, you’d never survive the exposure.”
Katrine flashed him another glance, her raised eyebrow conveying her skepticism.
“‘Tis true, I assure you. Ask any MacLean to tell you the tale of Gillean, the first chief of our clan. He wandered lost in a fog till he was near starvation, and after four days he planted his battle-ax by a cranberry bush and lay down to die. That’s how the ax on our coat of arms originated.”
Remembering that Clan Gillean was the ancient name of the MacLeans, Katrine became curious in spite of herself. “Well, did he?” she asked when Raith fell silent. “Die, I mean.”
“No. He was found—insensible but not dead. But he was a Highlander and not an English-bred lass like yourself.”
“You’re trying to frighten me.” Her green eyes had narrowed, but Raith’s dark blue gaze met hers steadily.
“No, I’m merely issuing you a warning—and trying to save myself trouble. I don’t want to be obliged to rescue you.”
Katrine very much doubted that the Laird of Ardgour would trouble himself to rescue her if she got herself in such a fix, but she refrained from saying so. She had understood Raith’s point, though: if she cherished any hope of escaping by way of the mountains, it might not be worth the risk.
And it did give her pause to consider that she could die out there. After all, she was in no physical danger here at his home. How foolish it would be to get herself killed trying to escape when there was still a very good chance of her uncle finding her unharmed.
She refused, however, to allow Raith MacLean to spoil the beauty of the dawn by making her reflect on her captivity. Pressing her lips together, Katrine shifted her gaze to the horizon, determined to ignore her unwelcome companion.
The silence between them grew, stretching out over several minutes. Beside Katrine, Raith also watched the sunrise, but he was having difficulty keeping his thoughts directed into safe channels. His glance kept straying to the woman at his side, following the slender lines of her body.
Wondering if she always held her back so straight, he let his gaze fall to her neat, trim waist, then lower still to the flowing soft curves of her hips, his experienced eye noting the lack of hoops under her skirt. It was from memory that he recalled the well-formed length of her legs, for they were modestly covered at the moment; but it was entirely the fault of his imagination that he pictured those slim legs twined around his waist as he took his pleasure with her.
The image made his loins tighten.
Trying to banish his erotic thoughts, Raith lifted his gaze to her hair, which was a mistake. The unpowdered mass was a copper fire of wild curls, radiant in the first glowing rays of the sun.
Determined to break the spell this roy-haired Campbell witch was weaving on him, Raith cleared his throat and voiced the first thought that occurred to him. “Flora tells me you haven’t given her any trouble.” Flora’s actual words had been, “She’s no’ a laggard,” which from the dour housekeeper was high praise indeed, but Raith had no intention of extolling Katrine’s virtues as a prisoner.
And Katrine had no intention of discussing the subject with him, since it would undoubtedly lead her to lose her temper. She held her tongue, wishing Raith would go away.
“You seem to have a deal of experience keeping house,” he remarked idly.
“I am accustomed to supervising servants in my aunt’s household,” she clarified, pricked into responding. “My Aunt Gardner is persuaded that to supervise properly, one should know how to do the task oneself.”
The coolness of her tone should have persuaded him to leave, but he didn’t appear anxious to end the conversation. In fact, she felt his probing gaze all the more.
“What of the blisters on your heels? Have they healed properly?”
His choice of subject was unsettling, for it made her recall the care he had taken in binding her wounds, the gentleness of his fingers. She didn’t want to discuss her blisters, but decided it wiser to reply to his question; Raith MacLean was quite capable of checking for himself.
“Yes they have healed.”
“And your knee?”
Was he set on discomfiting her? Katrine had to stifle the urge to whisk her legs out of sight—which was absurd, since her knee was completely covered by her skirt, well hidden from his dark eyes.
Murmuring an affirmative reply, she hazarded a glance at Raith. He was a lithe, lawless figure in his green hunting plaid, with his raven hair unbound and recklessly tousled, his jaw shadowed by dark stubble. A brigand of the first order.
So how could she possibly take pleasure in watching him? And why did she find his dangerous masculinity so appealing?
It wasn’t fair, Katrine thought resentfully. The sight of her hadn’t ruffled his composure one bit, while seeing him there, barefoot, nearly bare-chested in the early dawn, was having a decidedly disturbing effect on her. What was worse, the lamentable reaction of her senses was heightened whenever he merely looked at her with those hard blue eyes. Doubtless, if he were to touch her again…
Abruptly, Katrine yanked her thoughts in line. She shouldn’t be entertaining such foolish notions. She couldn’t possibly want him to touch her, couldn’t possibly be attracted to this man. He was the MacLean of Ardgour, and they were destined to be enemies. Their clans had been feuding for centuries, just as the Scots and the Sassenachs had been locked in mortal strife for an eternity.
It was this reflection about the English that made Katrine recall what she had wanted to ask about his ward. Her gaze strayed again to Raith as he watched the sunrise.
“How long has Meggie been unable to speak?” Katrine asked, glad for a reason to change the subject.
Raith didn’t seem to hold the same opinion for he frowned and didn’t reply.
In the resulting silence, Katrine studied him. His midnight black hair was the same shade as Meggie’s, and there was a slight resemblance in their facial features.
“Is Meggie your daughter?” she asked suddenly, curious to know what Raith’s relationship was to the young girl.
He darted a sharp glance at her, his eyes narrowing. “No, Meggie is not my daughter.”
Katrine took exception to his fierce tone. “It wouldn’t be a disgrace to father a sweet child like that. Indeed, your cousin told me illegitimacy doesn’t have the stigma here that it does in England.”
Raith’s jaw hardened at her annoying frankness. “I haven’t fathered any living bairns that I’m aware of. My wife died in childbed.”
“Oh.” She regarded him solemnly, suspecting that he didn’t like to discuss his wife. “I’m sorry.”
The irritation on his face softened only a degree. “I suppose Meggie is a niece of sorts. Her mother was a cousin of mine, several times removed.”
“Was it long ago that Meggie lost her parents?”
“Lost her mother. Her father was already dead. Shot as a traitor before Meggie was even born.”
“Very well then, lost her mother. How old was she?”
“Five.”
“Did the soldiers…did they…” Katrine faltered, unable to form the question.
“Did they violate her the way they did her mother? No, Miss Campbell.” His tone was low and fierce. “But they abused her all the same, before her kin arrived to avenge her. The bloody whoresons paid with their lives, but Meggie was left the way she is today.”
Katrine stared at Raith, finding it sickening even to imagine the horror the child had been subjected to. “Someone—someone should try to help her.”
“It isn’t your concern,” he replied, a scowl on his face as he sat up abruptly. “I warned you to stay away from Meggie. She doesn’t need to be reminded of what the Sassenachs did to her mother, and your mere presence in the house is cause enough.”
Katrine’s back stiffened at the inference. “It’s cruel of you to eq
uate me with those soldiers…those animals…or to suggest that I would ever condone such a heinous crime, especially against a child. No civilized person would.”
“Oh? You English—you Campbells—” He slowly enunciated the two names, as if uncertain which was the more despicable to assign to her. “You civilized folk have peculiar notions about what constitutes heinous. Treachery and murder, that’s condoned, but you balk at brutality against children? Well, tell that to Meggie, Miss Campbell. Tell that to all the Scots children who ever saw their homes torched or felt the edge of an English sword. Or all the ones who ever suffered at the hands of a Campbell. The numbers are legion, I assure you.”
Katrine found herself shrinking away from him; the fierceness in his expression actually frightened her. But there was no point in continuing this discussion or trying to defend herself from his hatred. Raith MacLean would never see her as anything but a blood enemy who wasn’t to be trusted.
“When do you intend to negotiate my release?” she asked stiffly, raising her chin.
“When it suits me!” Raith snapped in reply.
Katrine stared at him, at his smoldering eyes, and wondered just what he meant. Then a thought abruptly occurred to her. If the Laird of Ardgour had been linked with her abduction, then Cair House would at least have been visited by some of her uncle’s men, or by the English soldiers that Raith held in such aversion. She wasn’t aware of any such visits—although even if there had been, she surely would have been locked out of sight before they arrived. Yet it was clear to her now that Raith had no intention of claiming responsibility for her abduction, had never had any such intention.
“My uncle doesn’t even know you’re the one responsible, does he?” Katrine asked in dismay.
“I should hope not.”
“And the militia? They don’t know, either, who abducted me?”
“Doubtless they have their suspicions. My clan and I were invited to pay a call on the garrison commander at Fort William the other day, but I expect I satisfied his concerns.”
TENDER FEUD Page 11
