“Good evening, Miss Campbell,” he said with extreme politeness. “Or should I say, good night.”
His expression had resumed the familiar haughty set. Seeing it, Katrine didn’t reply, not trusting her voice. She didn’t understand why his cool greeting should depress her so, or why the sight of her Highland abductor looking so handsome and powerful and elegant should be so dismaying. Or why she was suddenly miserably aware of her own drab appearance.
But when Raith gave her the slightest bow and proceeded on his way, she followed his magnificent departing figure with her gaze, her throat suddenly tight. Why did she suddenly feel so unequal, so unattractive? Her worn brown bodice and plain peasant’s skirt were perfectly presentable and entirely suitable for the circumstances.
She stood there in the corridor, her shoulders drooping as she listened to Raith thanking Flora MacDonald for the excellent meals and service his guests had received. Then, coming to her senses, Katrine snatched up her skirts and hurried up the stairs. She didn’t find that coxcomb appealing. She didn’t! And she most certainly didn’t need or want a kind word from him, she vowed fiercely, dashing a tear from her eye.
Yet when she had made her way upstairs to her garret chamber, the small, lonely, Spartan room only emphasized the vast difference in their situations. Shutting the door behind her, Katrine threw herself down on her pallet, and for the first time since her abduction, she wept.
By morning Katrine had recovered a measure of her usual mettle, but not her lively spirits. A chill drizzling rain prevented her from slipping away to her lovely spot by the loch to view the sunrise. Feeling rebellious, she complied with poor grace when Flora set her to work churning butter.
The buttery, behind the kitchen, was a small stone room built half-underground, where milk and butter and cheese were stored. It boasted only a small window to let in light and was quite cool. Katrine frequently found herself shivering, despite the effort of plunging the wooden dash over and over again into the churn. Her only company all morning was a dairymaid who carried in pails of milk and left it to cool in the long vats of water. Seeing the plump, rosy-cheeked girl, Katrine realized there must be a farm close by that supplied the manor house with provisions.
The milkmaid spoke English but wasn’t inclined to chat, so Katrine was truly delighted when Meggie found her sometime after the dinner hour.
“Meggie!” she exclaimed with pleasure, her sour mood instantly vanishing. “You’re just the person I wanted to see.” She hesitated, noticing the child’s face was clean and her raven hair was neatly braided in a coronet. Her clothing, too, was immaculate. Eyeing the bright red skirt and tartan plaid of red and green, Katrine wondered if Flora had been shamed into caring for the young girl and helping her with her toilet.
“Don’t you look lovely this morning. The MacLean red becomes you, with your dark hair. I suppose I’m fortunate to be a Campbell, for our clan tartan is blue and green, which doesn’t clash with my red mane.”
Meggie didn’t reply, but she slowly inched her way down the steps of the small room. Immediately Katrine set her churn aside, grateful for an excuse to leave off the chore. The dash had raised blisters on her palms that smarted rather painfully, while her arms ached from the unaccustomed use of muscles.
With a smile at Meggie, she drew out a small object wrapped in a cloth that she had tucked in the waist of her skirt. “Look what I have.”
Meggie’s dark eyes lit up when she saw the charcoal stick Katrine had saved from the previous day.
“Would you like me to draw something for you, Meggie?” When the child moved closer, till she was nearly touching, Katrine took her answer to be yes. “What would you like to see?” Katrine was surprised yet pleased when Meggie raised a hand and pointed at her. “Me? You want me to draw a likeness of me? Very well.”
Slipping from her knees onto the stone-flagged floor, she searched for the largest flat stone, then flashed a conspiratorial grin at the child. “I don’t expect Flora would like us to use her walls. We should have a sheet of paper or a canvas, of course, but this will do.”
Katrine’s heart warmed when Meggie grinned in response. Quickly she proceeded to sketch a small figure with frizzy hair who was laboring over a churn. When she added a splotch or two of what was obviously spilled butter, the soft gurgle from Meggie that might have been a laugh made Katrine’s heart swell with love.
“Would you like to try it, Meggie?”
The child’s expression turned solemn again, but she didn’t balk when Katrine handed her the charcoal stick and pointed to another stone. “Now, what do you mean to draw? What about a flower? Do you think you can do that?”
Instead of drawing a flower, however, Meggie attempted to copy the sketch Katrine had done, her teeth working at her lower lip as she bent over the stone. The girl worked determinedly, creating a splotch of black charcoal that was unrecognizable. Finally she looked up at Katrine, tears of frustration in her eyes.
Oh, Meggie, I never meant to add to your distress. “Why, that is excellent, my love. Especially when you didn’t have a proper drawing pencil. But we really should start with something more simple. Let’s try a flower this time—a daisy, perhaps. Here, let me show you.”
Gently she closed her hand around Meggie’s small one, and was pleased when the child didn’t shy away from the contact. “First you make a circle, like so,” Katrine instructed, guiding her strokes, “and then lots of loops. See? There, now you try it.”
The scraggly daisy that Meggie copied was better by far than her first attempt, but Katrine could see from her doleful expression that the child wasn’t happy with her work. Briskly, Katrine stood and brushed off her skirts. “What you need, little lamb, is inspiration. And I know just where to find it. Come, the rain has ceased, so we can go outside. This batch of butter is done anyway,” she added in a mutter, casting a defiant glance at the churn. Then she held out her hand to Meggie, and her heart once more flooded with tenderness when the child trustingly took it.
There were several saddled horses in the yard, but fortunately no sign of the MacLean clan. Katrine had no doubt Raith would be little pleased to learn she had taken his ward to the glen. Looping the hem of her skirt at either side of her waist to avoid wetting it, she took Meggie’s hand and set off along the bridle path, leaping over puddles and dodging dripping stalks of bracken and clumps of yellow Scotch broom.
The afternoon was still damp and dreary, but occasionally a bright ray of sunshine broke through the dark, scudding clouds. And even on such a blutherie day—as the Scots called wet, stormy weather—the glen with its small glimmering loch and its towering green mountains in the background was a magical place.
“I’ve always thought that beauty makes the soul expressive,” Katrine told the child as she found a flat boulder for them to sit on and tried to brush away the moisture. “Take a good look, Meggie, then close your eyes and feel the beauty. Do you feel it? Now, think about the daisy you want to draw. See it in your mind…a bright yellow center and soft white petals. And when you have it, take your stick and show me what you see.”
Meggie obediently closed her eyes and sat unmoving for a long moment. Watching the small face with the sharp little chin, Katrine was struck by how much her coloring and certain of her features resembled Raith’s. The high forehead, slashing eyebrows and long black lashes could have been mistaken for his. Dismayed that she should be thinking of the MacLean laird, though, Katrine forcibly dismissed her wayward thoughts.
Eventually the child bent her head over the stick. Her effort this time was not much better, but the wobbly curving lines did resemble a daisy, and it must have satisfied her, for when Meggie looked up, she was beaming.
Katrine could have hugged the child in delight. Only the sudden recollection of Meggie’s fear of being touched stopped her. Instead, she patted the girl’s hand. “That’s superb, my lamb, and enough for today. Tomorrow we can try a different flower.”
Beside her Meggie stirred, obviou
sly restless. “I know, Meggie, what do you say we go exploring?” As usual she received no reply, but she was learning to read the child’s expressive face and could see that the idea appealed to her. Rising, Katrine offered her hand.
There were two other paths that led from the glen, Katrine had already concluded. She chose the one to the east, since during her exploring two days earlier, she had discovered a meadow and wanted to share it with Meggie.
The path wound uphill, through a glade of mountain ash, and then finally spilled out onto an open pasture where sheep were grazing. Katrine carefully skirted a shieling hut, built of stone and thatched with turf. The curling blue smoke of a peat fire escaping into the air from an opening in the low roof suggested that the hut was occupied.
Here, two days before, when she came across a grizzled old shepherd attending his flock, he had brandished his crook at her and looked as if he might set his dog on her. The Highlander’s ferocity had only underscored Raith’s warning about the dangers of trying to escape into the mountains. She would be on her own then, without even the dubious protection offered by the laird.
The path rose upward once more, and as they crested a hill and came down again, she heard the soft rushing of water—the continuation of the burn that ran directly behind Cair House, Katrine decided.
She was about to move on when an odd gleam in the shadows caught her eye. Drawing Meggie off the path, Katrine made her way through the stand of birch trees to a large clearing. There, near the burn, she found an odd collection of equipment that had nothing to do with shepherding: several vats of varying sizes, a large brick structure that looked to be a kiln and two large copper pots sporting long tubes.
Katrine rather suspected they had stumbled on a still where malt whisky was made illegally. She was aware of the sentiments the Scots held regarding excise laws, and she was Scottish enough that even she could sympathize. The taxes levied by the English government not only were exorbitant, but Highlanders could see no good reason to pay for the privilege of making their native drink. In the hills, illicit distilling flourished, and cheating the customs officer was even considered an honorable duty.
Katrine would have liked to inspect the still further, for she was curious about the various implements, but Meggie lost interest and began tugging on her hand. Obediently Katrine allowed herself to be led back to the path.
Eventually they reached a wide meadow that was edged on the far side by trees. Katrine’s lips curved in a mischievous smile. “Shall we have a race, Meggie? To those trees? How fast can you run?” She glanced down at the child, pleased at the bright-eyed, eager look she received in response. “Very well, let’s go!”
She broke into a run, pretending to try her best to win, but gradually she let Meggie draw ahead of her. Sprinting breathlessly over the wet grass, Katrine found herself laughing. She hadn’t behaved with such abandon since she herself was a child.
That was how Raith found them—racing across the meadow like gypsies, with their skirts rucked up above their knees. A fierce surge of relief and fury flooded through him as he urged his horse into a canter. Relief not only because Katrine had been nowhere in sight during the unexpected visit the English soldiers had paid just now to Cair House. Relief because he had reached her in time. Beyond the next copse of trees lived the midwife who had been present at his wife’s lying-in.
Morag. Even the thought of her made his stomach muscles clench. His mind was crowded with memories of Ellen’s agonizing death and bloody images of his stillborn son.
Raith hadn’t stopped to analyze his feelings, but he didn’t want Katrine anywhere near the old crone, let alone his young ward. When the two of them reached the edge of the meadow, however, they came to a halt. Realizing they didn’t mean to go farther just yet, Raith forced himself to slow his horse, not wanting to startle them by galloping up in a fury. But he kept his gaze riveted on Katrine as he rode toward her.
She looked flushed and windblown, for though her fiery hair was tied back with a ribbon, a dozen curling tendrils spilled around her face, accentuating the radiance of her glowing skin. Like Meggie, she was bent over at the waist, trying to catch her breath, and as Katrine turned in his direction, he could see the laughter, alive and bright, that shone in her green eyes. Raith clenched his teeth, fighting the conflicting urges to carry her off to his bed or turn her over his knee.
Katrine’s laughter faded as she looked up to find Raith’s blue eyes impaling her. She froze where she stood, all her senses alert in a wary reaction to his presence. He was wearing an open-necked, loose-sleeved shirt and trews—closely woven tartan trousers that molded his long, powerful legs above his supple boots.
He had a smile for Meggie as he reined in his horse, but Katrine could see that the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Come ride with me, Meggie,” Raith invited in a pleasant tone that Katrine suspected was also feigned. “I’ll take you back to the house. Your cousin Callum has returned and he’s been asking for you.”
Meggie looked up at Katrine, flashing her a glance that said she was longing to go with him. At the realization that the child was so willing to abandon their play, Katrine felt suddenly betrayed and resentful. Which was absurd. Meggie obviously loved Raith and cherished his attention. And it was entirely an unworthy sentiment to begrudge the child a few moments of his affection.
With a smile to hide her pique, Katrine nodded. “Of course you should go, my love. Perhaps we can come here again some other time.”
“I think not,” Raith said repressively, bending down to grasp Meggie’s hand when she reached up to him. In one smooth motion he had pulled the child up before him on his horse, which made Katrine realize they had ridden together before. Not wanting to spoil Meggie’s treat, Katrine determinedly bit back the retort that sprang to her lips, though she favored Raith with a defiant glare.
He seemed not to notice. He turned his mount without another word or glance at her, once more leaving her with nothing but her own fury for company.
Meggie, however, bless her soul, peered around his broad shoulder and waved goodbye. Katrine felt tears sting her eyes at the sweetness of the gesture.
She watched till they were out of sight, then began the long trek back to the house, depression, defiance and worry warring within her. She had a strong suspicion that she hadn’t heard the last of this issue. Raith wasn’t done with her yet.
She was right. She met him just before she reached the glade, as he was coming back to meet her. When she would have stalked past him without a word, he drew his horse to a halt, blocking the path. The expression on his face was hard and set as he stared down at her.
“I warned you about the fog, Miss Campbell. No one here would regret your death much, but I won’t have you endangering Meggie by bringing her here.”
The look Katrine returned was mutinous. “We stayed to the path,” she muttered, watching as he swung down from his horse. “At least most of the time.”
“I don’t care. You’re not to come here again, with or without Meggie.”
The arrogant spread of his legs as he rested his hands on his lean hips irritated her nearly as much as his commanding tone. “Do you know what I think?” she demanded.
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
Katrine ignored his sarcasm. “I think you’re afraid I’ll find something on one of my walks. Something illegal. Like a distillery, perhaps. And that I’ll be able to report it to the English revenue staff when I’m free.” She eyed him triumphantly. “It would only be further proof that your clan is engaged in unlawful activities.”
At her not-so-subtle threat, Raith tightened his grip on the reins, determined not to allow her to incite him to violence. “You’re daft,” he said through his teeth, “if you think I would be worried about the English revenuers. It’s Meggie who concerns me. In the first place, you couldn’t protect her or yourself if you came across any of the vagrants that roam these hills, either beast or human. And in the second place
, coming here with you will only encourage Meggie to wander off alone.”
Katrine’s spine went rigid. Though she disliked admitting it, she hadn’t actually considered those possible consequences. At the very least she should have warned Meggie not to visit the glen without the company of an adult. But Raith’s superior tone raised her already heated temper another degree.
“I don’t believe for a moment that you’re concerned about that child!” she retorted as she made to brush past him. “You don’t seem to care that Meggie never has any supervision.”
Katrine was brought up short as Raith’s fingers fastened around her upper arm. He hauled her around, and his eyes held her fiercely. “You damned Sassenach, she doesn’t need supervision! What she needs is protection from you.”
His voice was hard and angry, and with each word his eyes became harder, colder. But Katrine was in a temper to match his tirade. The accusation wounded, insulted and angered her. She let the anger swell, cherishing its capacity to mask her hurt. “Meggie does not need protection from me! I would never willingly put her or any other child in danger. Nor would I ever use an innocent bystander for my own gain. Unlike others I know.”
If she hoped to make him feel guilty, she didn’t succeed, for he only gritted his teeth while his blue eyes narrowed in warning. “I may not have a dungeon, Miss Campbell, but I can lock you away well enough.”
“So do it! Lock me away! I’m sick of your threats anyway, and I refuse to tolerate them a moment longer!”
“I’ve not begun to threaten you!” Raith’s fingers pressed painfully into the soft flesh of her arm, as if he might shake her. “Let me say it clearly, so there’s no mistake. If you harm a hair on Meggie’s head, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
Harm Meggie? Harm that innocent child? Katrine was too incensed to speak.
“And if you dare think to win my ward’s confidence and use her to help you escape, you can just think again.”
TENDER FEUD Page 13
