TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

  So that had been his errand the day she’d seen him so fashionably dressed. At least she knew for certain that someone was looking for her. Or had been looking for her. It was quite likely Raith MacLean had laid down a false trail for the garrison commander to follow. Moreover, even an English general would be reluctant to move against a powerful Highland laird without proof of guilt. Even if he were guilty of a crime, such a contretemps was bound to stir up trouble in the Highlands. And the English were highly anxious to avoid further bloodshed, now that a peace of sorts was finally taking root in Scotland.

  But the mention of Fort William gave Katrine reason for optimism. It was where English troops had been garrisoned to keep the peace, at the foot of Ben Nevis, the highest summit in Scotland.

  Katrine glanced hopefully at the horizon, toward the northeast. In the distance, several leagues away, she could see a tremendous mountain that she supposed was Ben Nevis. Its lofty, rugged heights seemed remarkably near…but not near enough. If she somehow managed to survive the Highland wilderness and treacherous fog and find her way through the maze of mountains undetected, she would have to swim Loch Linnhe, or find someone to ferry her across. And that was as unlikely as her sprouting wings.

  Seeing the direction of her gaze, Raith had some inkling of what she was thinking. And at the despairing look in her eyes, he experienced another twinge of guilt for having to use her in his fight against Argyll and her uncle. But there was no comfort he could offer, for he wasn’t sure himself what the outcome would be. Nor was he certain Argyll would agree to the conditions of her release.

  Unable to tell her so, Raith observed Katrine in silence, watching the play of sunlight on her hair. The sun did lovely things to her wild tresses, setting the tips afire and causing the heavy mass to glow like smoldering coals. And her face…the creamy, radiant skin was so beautiful in the rosy-golden light.

  Realizing then where his admiring thoughts were leading, he violently pushed them aside. She was nothing more than a calculating wench who would use his sympathy to her advantage if he allowed it. And he wouldn’t allow it.

  Even so, she managed to flay his guilt when she asked in a small voice, “Have you even tried to contact my uncle?”

  Raith raked a hand through his hair. Surely she realized why he couldn’t acknowledge holding her captive. The moment he did, Ardgour would be swarming with English soldiers. Suddenly he was unreasonably angry with her. She didn’t belong here in the Highlands. He didn’t want her here. And yet he had to abide her presence, at least for a while longer.

  His anger lent a harsh edge to his voice when he answered. “What would you have me do, send him a broadsheet advertising your whereabouts? There’s no one in the world I’d rather oblige than you, Miss Campbell, but I’m not so eager for a neck-stretching as all that.”

  “I suppose—” Katrine broke off, ashamed at the way her voice quavered. “I thought,” she said more firmly, “you would at least present your demands to him, so he could proceed with freeing me.”

  “I intend to, but I won’t be so witless as to identify myself. And it will be at my convenience, not yours. When the time comes I’ll use you as I see fit.”

  Her green eyes flashed as she suddenly turned to glare at him. “You’re not even a proper criminal. You don’t have the decency to conduct an abduction in the customary fashion.”

  She could never be docile for long, Raith reflected, relieved. He didn’t enjoy seeing her humbled or defeated. “No,” he retorted, “it’s your uncle who’s the proper criminal.”

  “He is not! My uncle is the most honest man I’ve ever met.”

  “Oh, indeed. Honest in his pitiless wielding of authority. But there are some qualities in a man that are to be more respected than honesty.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as compassion, for one. Your uncle discharges his duties as a factor without a care for the people he crushes underfoot. He follows that vulture Argyll’s orders to raise rents like a mindless hinny.”

  “If Argyll raised the rents, he must have had a good reason,” Katrine declared loyally.

  “Of course you would think greed a good reason.”

  Katrine squared her shoulders, meeting his scowl with one of her own.

  “You’d defend him to the death, wouldn’t you?” Raith’s voice dripped scorn. “No matter that it was Argyll treachery that caused the Duart MacLeans to forfeit their lands. No matter that the bloody Campbells betrayed their countrymen in the Fifteen and the Forty-five.”

  “That’s only your opinion!”

  “Oh, they betrayed Scotland all right. Judas always was another name for Campbell.”

  “Will you stop vilifying the Campbells!”

  “Only if you’ll cease your fasheous craiking!”

  Incensed, Katrine leapt to her feet. She hadn’t been harping. She’d only been trying to reason with him about the matter of rents. But she should have known better than to reason with a ruthless brigand. It was entirely a hopeless cause.

  Clamping her lips together, she caught up her long skirts and began climbing down the rocks, furious that she couldn’t make a quicker and more dignified exit. When she reached the bottom, she threw him a defiant glance—and nearly blushed at the sight of naked male limbs.

  Raith was on his feet, glaring down at her. “Keep away from Meggie,” he growled. “You ken me?”

  “Yes, I ken you!” she shouted back. “But you’re the one who is acting the fool now. Meggie needs someone to care for her, to keep her clean and teach her proper manners. She needs affection and understanding. I could help, but you’re too blind and pigheaded to see it! The idea that a Sassenach Campbell could possibly offer guidance and compassion to a child is obviously beyond your scope of understanding!”

  With that, she turned and stalked away, relishing the satisfaction of finally having the last word, but feeling Raith’s fierce eyes boring holes in her back all the while.

  Chapter Seven

  “When it suits him,” Katrine muttered as she rubbed soap from her eyes, angry all over again at Raith’s refusal to negotiate her release in a timely fashion. She had thought of little else since their discussion two mornings ago, and her frustrated fury was nearly hot enough to set her bathwater to boiling.

  Still fuming, she finished rinsing her hair with fresh water from the ewer and reached for a linen towel. Before she stepped from the tub, however, she glanced at the closed door to the laundry. She’d been careful to latch the door and fasten the shutters to ensure privacy, yet she had little confidence that she wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Not that she expected company. Callum MacLean might be ungentlemanly enough to spy on a lady at her bath, but he had departed yesterday for regions unknown and, as far as Katrine knew, he hadn’t returned. And since it was Sunday, Flora and the other servants had gone to kirk. The Ardgour MacLeans weren’t the popish royalists so many of the Jacobites were, but rather Presbyterians like her own clan.

  She was surprised when Flora raised no objections to her appropriating the copper hip bath in the laundry for the morning. She was anxious to wash her unruly mass of hair, and the washbasin in her room wasn’t nearly large enough for the task.

  The upstairs chambermaid had voiced her own comments, though. Wasn’t it like a Campbell, the girl observed with a sneer, to consider herself too good to bathe in the burn like a true Highlander?

  Katrine had bitten her tongue, not allowing herself to be goaded into accepting a foolish challenge. She had no desire to brave the icy waters of the stream when there was a perfectly good hip bath at her disposal. Besides, it was raining outside, a cold, miserable, drizzling Highland rain. Not having been bred to such harsh conditions, she feared she would catch an ague if she attempted such hardy bathing. And so she’d carried and heated her own water.

  After she dried herself off, she donned the fresh clothing Flora had provided her. The bodice was worn and ill-fitting, and the skirt still too long, but Katrine considered the outfi
t an improvement. It might help, she reflected, if she remembered to ask Flora for a needle and thread so she could take up the hem.

  When she had draped a linen kerchief around her shoulders, she began the task of emptying the bathwater. Filling her bucket from the tub, Katrine unlatched the door and flung it open, only to discover she had a young visitor.

  “Meggie!” she said with a soft smile. “You didn’t attend church either, I see.” Privately Katrine thought it scandalous the way the child’s religious instruction was being neglected, but she suspected there was a good reason Meggie hadn’t accompanied Flora to the kirk; no doubt the young girl was frightened of crowds.

  “You must be as lonesome as I am,” Katrine observed as the girl stood before her, looking lost and forlorn. “Would you care to keep me company this morning?”

  The only response she received was a solemn, wide-eyed look. But having learned Meggie’s tragic history, Katrine had expected nothing else. Setting down her bucket, she held out her hand. No matter what Raith MacLean had ordered, she couldn’t turn her back on this lonely little waif. Besides, it gave her a certain satisfaction to defy him in this small way. “Come, you can sit with me while I comb my hair. It will take me forever to remove the tangles.”

  A long moment passed, during which Meggie stared up at her proffered hand. Katrine waited patiently, knowing she couldn’t force the child’s trust, yet hoping for it all the same. Her heart warmed when the small fingers finally clasped hers. Pleased beyond measure, she led Meggie into the room, and drew up a second wooden stool before the hearth fire. “Here now, you may sit here, next to me.”

  Launching into a spate of pleasant chatter, Katrine took her own seat and began the long process of combing out her damp tresses. She kept up the one-sided conversation until she felt a slight pressure on her arm. Meggie, she saw, had reached up to touch a curling lock of red hair, and was regarding it with awe.

  Katrine paused, the hand that held the comb going still. For a moment she gazed down at the child, wondering how to reach her.

  “I know,” she said finally, “my hair is an absurdly bright color, and it always wants taming. I wish I had your hair, Meggie. Yours is so straight and fine.” She hesitated, giving the child an appraising look. “Your hair would look even prettier if it were washed and combed and tied back with a ribbon. Perhaps you might like me to help you?”

  Meggie glanced from her to the copper tub.

  “Would you like that, Meggie? I would be happy to warm the bathwater for you. Then you can show Flora and your guardian how lovely you can look.”

  At least the child understood what a bath was, Katrine thought as Meggie bent over to tug off her slippers.

  Stockings followed, before Meggie climbed down from the stool and began to struggle with the lacings of her small stomacher. Katrine tried to help her undress, but Meggie wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t like to be touched, Katrine realized when she flinched away.

  Accordingly, Katrine kept her distance, but her heart ached to see such silent suffering. She wished fervently that she could somehow ease the child’s pain. But perhaps she could, Katrine reflected as she busied herself pouring more hot water from the kettle into the tub. What Meggie needed was a healthy dose of laughter and friendship and love; Katrine had never known a child who needed it more.

  Returning the kettle to the hearth, Katrine bent down before the fire, her eyes searching for what she needed. Finding a charred sliver of wood about six inches long, she drew it out and let it cool. When Meggie had scurried into the bath and was occupied with a sliver of soap, Katrine went to the whitewashed wall nearest the door. She stood there thinking a moment before she quickly began to sketch.

  She possessed a fair amount of artistic skill, although her past governesses had been wont to complain that her taste was too wild to be proper. Indeed, her drawings were not the tame endeavors of most young ladies. Her bold slashing strokes with a charcoal pencil delineated details that made any subject more vivid, perhaps even savage.

  In this instance, however, Katrine tried to gentle her hand as she drew two portraits of Meggie. Each sketch had wide dark eyes and a sharp little chin, but one depicted a wild little gypsy with a dirty face and disheveled hair, while the other showed a young girl with a beribboned coiffure and a quiet smile.

  Then Katrine stood back, hoping that even a child who couldn’t speak possessed a little feminine vanity. “Well then, what do you think? Isn’t the one on the right much more pleasing?”

  Meggie didn’t answer, but she seemed fascinated with the portraits. She kept staring at them all through her bath, her attention so distracted that she actually went so far as to allow Katrine to wash her hair.

  “Come now,” Katrine said when Meggie had finished her bath and was swathed neck to toe in linen towels. “Why don’t you lead me to your bedchamber, and we’ll find a clean frock for you to wear. You do have some ribbons, don’t you? I hope so, for all of mine are in my trunks at my uncle’s house.”

  Again Meggie made no reply, but she reluctantly suffered Katrine to take her hand. As they passed the wall, however, Meggie paused and reached out to touch the charcoal sketch of the smiling girl. Then amazingly, she turned and smiled up at Katrine.

  If it was possible for a heart to go out to someone, Katrine’s did at that moment. Carefully, gently, she reached down to stroke the child’s dark hair. This time Meggie didn’t flinch away.

  It was only later, when she’d had time to reflect, that Katrine even wondered if she had acted wisely. She had managed to scrub off the worst of the charcoal from the wall by the time Flora returned home, but when the dour Scotswoman caught sight of Meggie in a fresh frock, with her cheeks pink and glowing, her hair neatly braided and coiled, she gave Katrine a suspicious, scowling glance.

  Yet she didn’t say a word in reproach, and if she told the laird about their Campbell prisoner’s interference, Katrine never discovered it. In any case, she was soon too busy to worry about how Raith would respond to her deliberate flouting of his orders, for it seemed that he had brought a number of guests home with him. Katrine was required to help with the preparation of dinner, and when Flora set her to work polishing the huge walnut table in the formal dining room, she did as she was bidden.

  From the front part of the house, Katrine could hear the company laughing and chatting. Then she realized that there were ladies in the party, and she found herself tensing involuntarily. It was odd to think of Raith MacLean entertaining guests like any civilized gentleman—and rather disturbing. Forcing aside the thought, she turned her attention to the possibility of escape, wondering how she could possibly turn the guests’ presence to her advantage.

  For an instant she considered making herself known to the party and throwing herself on their mercy. Then she dismissed the idea. She was unlikely to find anyone in this bastion of Jacobite supporters who was sympathetic to her plight, especially a guest who was enjoying the laird’s hospitality. Besides, she was quite certain that if Raith were concerned about her being seen, he would have locked her in her room or the stables or some such place. She even briefly considered trying to secret herself in the large, well-appointed carriage that was now standing in the yard, but there really was no place to hide in it, even if she could reach it without being seen.

  After that depressing conclusion, the remainder of Katrine’s day—spent largely in the kitchen with the other servants, preparing food and washing dishes—seemed interminable. All the guests seemed to do was eat, she thought with resentment. Sometime after the long dinner there was a light supper, and then there was tea.

  Flora seemed to have forgotten Katrine’s status as a prisoner, for she sent her into the dining room with a dish. Katrine went reluctantly, anxious to avoid any sight of Raith, but fortunately the guests weren’t seated for supper yet. The immense and polished table, lighted by an enormous silver candelabrum and adorned with fragile porcelain, gave her pause. The scene didn’t look at all appropriate for a cattl
e thief. The goblets with fine chase work at each place setting and the jewel-encrusted candlesticks on the sideboard bespoke wealth and elegance.

  There must have been a harpsichord in one of the parlors, also, for later that evening in the kitchen, after Scotch porter and French claret had been provided for the gentlemen, and after the tea tray had been delivered to the entire company, Katrine heard a few tinkling notes from the instrument. When next she caught the sound of a feminine voice reading aloud, she found herself yearning for her aunt’s home and her sisters, remembering how often they had passed a pleasant evening in just such a manner.

  It was near midnight when she heard the horses being harnessed to the carriage, but more than a half hour later before Flora gave her permission to retire. Katrine was grateful to leave, for her feet and back were aching from the long hours of toil.

  Weary and heartsore, she trudged down the corridor, which was dimly lit by a wall sconce. She had just reached the narrow servants’ stairs when the sound of firm footsteps made her pause. Her pulse gave a fierce leap as Raith MacLean, resplendent in formal attire, emerged from the shadows.

  The black leather of his low-heeled evening shoes sported hammered-gold buckles, while the hose that covered his muscular calves were made of silk. His knee smalls were black satin, the full-skirted, wide-cuffed frock coat was of rich gold brocade, and the long waistcoat was both black and gold. The striking colors accentuated his dark good looks, while the fashionable, powdered tie-wig and the costly, frothing lace at his throat and wrists only enhanced his masculinity. All he required was a gleaming rapier at his side to resemble a noble English courtier.

  Katrine stared, unable to look away. He was like no other gentleman of her acquaintance, imbued with a savage beauty that made her catch her breath.

  Raith, too, stopped suddenly, as if he hadn’t expected to encounter her there. His blue eyes searched her face, then slowly dropped, lingering on her slightly parted lips, before his face suddenly became an enigmatic mask.