TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

  Dazed, Katrine stared after him. When he was gone, she slowly glanced around her. The other MacLeans had risen, their hands by habit resting on their hips where their claymores should have been as they fixed her with hostile scowls. It would perhaps be wise, Katrine reflected numbly, if she took her leave before some other MacLean decided to use her for target practice.

  With arms that felt as if the bones had turned to oatmeal, she pushed herself from Raith’s lap and struggled to her feet, clutching at her dignity. For an instant he held on to her arm, supporting her, watching her with a frown between his brows. But she didn’t look at him, didn’t speak to him. Without a word, she walked unsteadily to the door and left the room.

  She wasn’t quite sure how she made it to the kitchen, but once there, she knew she couldn’t face all the bustling servants or the sharp-eyed Flora. She slipped away and took refuge in the laundry.

  Hardly aware of what she was doing, Katrine picked up the broom and absently began to sweep, needing the soothing familiar task to calm her violated nerves. But her hands shook so badly from her narrow brush with death that she could scarcely hold the handle.

  She stiffened when Raith spoke softly from the doorway. “Are you all right?”

  A surge of self-righteous anger whipped through her. “No, I am not all right! I detest this place! I’m sick of being kept a prisoner! I’m tired of being made to look like a fool—” She broke off and glared at him. “I know, don’t say it! I’m doing that well enough…on my own.”

  Her voice quavered at the end, and although her thoughts automatically consigned Raith, his clan and the whole male population to perdition, Katrine couldn’t summon the steadiness to tell him so. Letting the broom fall, she sank down on the bench before the pine board worktable and put her trembling hands over her face. “You and your henchmen…are nothing but uncivilized, bloodthirsty heathens....”

  She began to weep then, brokenly, a soft hopeless sound that tore at Raith. It would have taken a heart exceedingly colder than his to be able to ignore her distress. He moved to her side, and sat down beside her on the bench. It seemed the most natural action in the world to draw her into his arms.

  “Shh,” he murmured, holding her close.

  Katrine buried her face against his chest and wept harder. “That brute…t-tried to kill me.”

  “Hush…cease your weeping lass, before you turn into a watering pot.” Raith stroked her vibrant hair and soothed her with soft meaningless words of comfort, the way he sometimes did for his ward. He was aware Katrine couldn’t be thinking very clearly, accepting solace from him. He couldn’t be thinking with much lucidity, either, Raith reflected, to allow himself to get this close to her, especially after what had happened between them in the glade. He was still burning with frustrated desire. Yet as her tears dampened the front of his shirt, he felt the seed of an emotion gentler, yet much headier than lust, unfurl inside him.

  It was a moment before her sobs quieted enough that she could speak with any coherence. “Why does that man hate me so much? Whatever did I do to earn such enmity?”

  Raith gave a mental sigh as he pressed his cheek against her hair. The answer to that question lay centuries deep. The bloodshed and bitterness between the MacLeans and the Campbells were scarcely ever dormant, and easily revived by even such an unwitting incident as a spilled pitcher of ale.

  Raith sighed again, aloud this time. He was to blame for letting the situation get out of hand. He should never have allowed this flame-haired virago near his men. He should have ordered her away the moment she appeared. “Hector,” he said gently, “cannot be faulted too harshly for his hatred of the Campbells. He lost most of his kin in the Fifteen and the Forty-five, and that’s not so easily forgotten.”

  “But I was the one he took in aversion, I personally, not my clan.”

  “‘Tis all one and the same to a Highlander. Besides, I’d say Hector wasn’t without provocation. First you disparage his king, then drench him with ale—is it any wonder he lost his temper?” Raith paused, and there was amusement in his voice when he next spoke. “You of all people should understand that. You’ve quite an unstable temper yourself, and every time you turn it loose, you manage to set the heather ablaze.”

  At his gentle teasing, Katrine sniffed and pulled back, raising red-rimmed eyes to his face. A glittering tear rolled down her cheek to the corner of her quivering mouth, and Raith wanted to flick it away with his tongue.

  “I shouldn’t have said what I did about the Old Preten—about your king. But the ale was an accident. I tripped on my hem…my skirt is too long.” She started to cry again, and his hands came up to steady her, gently gripping her shoulders.

  “Then we’ll have to find you something better to wear.” His voice was gruffly tender. “My wife’s clothes should fit you.”

  Katrine’s weeping stopped abruptly. Sniffing again, she stared at Raith, her lashes thick and wet. He was offering to let her wear Ellen’s clothing? She swallowed, suddenly remembering what else he had done for her—yanking her out of the path of a pistol ball. “It seems I’m beholden to you…for saving my life.”

  “And for letting you use me as a handkerchief.” The corners of his mouth quirked, surprising her. “I trust you’ve finished indulging in waterworks?” He reached up to brush the moisture from her cheek. “The only thing I ask, my sweet shrew, is that you make a concerted effort to keep your incendiary comments to yourself when you’re around my clan—or I’ll have to lock you in the dungeon just to protect you.”

  This time he was definitely teasing her, she realized. And smiling. A beautiful smile. A dangerous smile. Katrine stared into his eyes and was barely aware of anything but the man whose breath, tinged with warmth, touched her. She still felt shaken, but the original cause had faded from her mind.

  The sound of a throat being politely cleared came to her as if from a great distance. Befuddled, Katrine dragged her gaze from Raith to the doorway. Callum stood there, swinging the decanter of whisky from his fingers, looking as if he had been there quite some time. She wondered if he was still inebriated, then noted that his dark gaze was entirely sober and perhaps speculative.

  As she quickly and rather self-consciously wiped her eyes with her fingers, Callum pushed his shoulders from the doorframe and advanced on them, pouring a measure of whisky into the porcelain cup he’d brought. “I brought you a dram for nerves,” he said, offering the cup to Katrine. “Even a lass of your mettle could use a bit of bolstering, I fancy.”

  She stared at it blankly. “But I don’t partake of spirits.”

  Raith’s grin turned wry as he took the cup and held it to her lips. “Drink it,” he urged. “It will do you good. Go on, it’s legal. The excise taxes have been paid.”

  Katrine hesitated, then obediently took a sip.

  The resulting fire burned all the way down to her stomach, making her gasp and her already damp eyes water. She would have told them precisely what she thought of them feeding her such a vile potion, but she couldn’t find the breath to speak.

  However, she wasn’t required to at just that moment, for Lachlan appeared in the doorway. He was clutching his bonnet in his hands, looking immensely uncomfortable.

  Raith raised his eyes to the ceiling, wondering what other conscience-stricken male of his clan would show up in his washroom. Katrine, on the other hand, wondered if the spirits had affected her wits. She could have sworn there actually was shame on Lachlan’s ruddy face.

  He took a tentative step into the room. “Mistress Campbell…?” He hesitated, the brawny fingers gripping his bonnet looking as if they might rip the blue wool to shreds.

  Katrine stared at him, perplexed. “Yes?”

  But Lachlan remained tongue-tied and turned a shade more red. Raith finally took pity on his kinsman and intervened. “Lachlan, lad, what is it you wanted to say to Miss Campbell? You’ve come to offer her your apologies?”

  He looked relieved to be able to switch his gaze from Katrine t
o the laird. “Aye. She should no’ hae said something so stupid, calling the true king what she did, but she didna deserve to be shot.”

  Katrine had been thinking very much the same thing, although she didn’t appreciate Lachlan using the word stupid to describe her actions.

  But she allowed Lachlan to warm to his apology. “’Twas a fazart thing Hector did. ‘Tis beneath a MacLean to make war on a lass—all the lads are agreed.”

  “Fazart?” she repeated, not understanding.

  “Dastardly,” Callum supplied in an amused tone.

  Katrine looked at Lachlan with sudden approval. He had cut to the heart of the matter with remarkable accuracy for one usually so slow-witted. “That is the understatement of a lifetime,” she said with conviction.

  “Well, Hector was fou for certain.”

  “I suppose that means drunk? That is still no excuse. He could have murdered me.”

  “Aye, I ken,” Lachlan agreed forlornly, hanging his head. “‘Tis a sad day when a MacLean stoops to the foul ways of a cowardly Campbell.”

  Katrine could have taken offense but she decided she could afford to be magnanimous, with three of the MacLean men, including the laird, practically on their knees to her. Indeed, she rather regretted that the unparalleled moment would end so soon.

  “Thank you, Mr. MacLean,” she said virtuously to Lachlan. “I accept your apology on behalf of your kinsman. I will contrive to forgive him. And please tell Hector, if you will, that I regret causing him any grief. I would be happy to wash the ale out of his clothing, if he has no one else to do it for him.”

  Lachlan looked at her directly then, a pleased, if not quite smiling, expression on his face. Mumbling an incoherent reply, the massive MacLean tugged his forelock, punched his bonnet back on his red head and escaped from the room.

  “I’ve never,” Callum observed with a chuckle, “known Lachlan to show such concern over a lass. It looks as if you have a new swain, bonny Katie.” At the sobriquet, Katrine favored him with a quelling glance, but he only grinned. “Finish your dram, like a good lass.”

  Her scowl returned full force. “I see how it is now. Not satisfied with shooting me, you mean to poison me—or at the very least, render me senseless.”

  “You’ve found your tongue, I see,” Raith murmured.

  Katrine turned her frown on Raith then, but when she met his blue eyes, she suddenly remembered how gently he had held her just a moment ago, and how fiercely he’d kissed her shortly before that. She became quite self-conscious again. “Fortunately for me I have,” she retorted. “It happens to be the only protection I have among this crew of—of—”

  “Uncivilized, bloodthirsty heathens?”

  A hint of color tinged her cheeks. “I don’t suppose you all are bloodthirsty.” She hesitated, then rose abruptly to her feet, needing to get away from the nearness of him. “If you don’t object, I believe I shall retire to my room.” She didn’t give him time to say no, but handed the cup to Callum as she brushed past.

  Both men watched her leave, surprised by her sudden flight. Then Raith glanced around him, surprised at himself. Never in his life had he been in his kitchens so much—and certainly not in the washroom.

  “Ellen’s clothes, hmm?” Callum murmured.

  The tone was bland, but Raith looked up to find his cousin watching him with humor. In response, a wry, reluctant grin curved Raith’s mouth. “A momentary weakening that I shall no doubt come to regret.”

  “No doubt you will.”

  Leaning back to rest his elbows on the table behind him, Raith let out a sigh. “What is it about a weeping woman that makes a man long to offer her comfort?”

  “Lust, perhaps? A need to feel powerful?”

  He didn’t answer, knowing Callum’s reply wasn’t so much serious as it was mocking—the kind of good-natured taunting they’d shared when they were boys.

  “Ah, to what depths have you sunk, cousin,” Callum said in the same vein, “coddling such a provocative wench.”

  Raith slowly shook his head. “She is provocative, isn’t she?”

  “Devil a bit. A termagant with a lethal tongue. But there’s a sure way to deal with termagants, I’ve always found.”

  He raised a black eyebrow. “And just what is that?”

  “Try kissing her. She can’t be talking if her lips are occupied.” He chuckled. “But I’m not telling you anything you don’t know quite well.”

  Raith gave his cousin a sharp glance, but Callum only pasted an innocent look on his face and drained the cup in his hand. Then he sauntered over and set down the decanter of Scotch on the table, flashing Raith a grin that was pure devilry. “Here. I expect you’ll be needing this rather sooner than you’d like.”

  Chapter Nine

  Would the English militia give up searching for her if she couldn’t be found? Would her uncle abandon her to the mercies of the MacLean clan?

  It was two days after the shooting incident before Katrine had an opportunity to ask those plaguing questions, and the answers proved less than satisfactory.

  She was upstairs in the linen room, for she’d been given the relatively simple task of counting sheets and inspecting them for rents. She was dressed in an attractive gown of striped cotton fustian. The blue-and-buff overskirt was spread at her hips by small side hoops and looped up at the sides, displaying the white petticoat skirt beneath, while the blue stomacher was laced over a square-cut bodice fashioned with stays. A soft white kerchief modestly covered her shoulders and bosom.

  It was a comfort as well as a small victory, Katrine decided, to be wearing decent clothing for a change. At the laird’s bidding, Flora had unearthed several items of apparel from the late mistress’s wardrobe, though Flora obviously wasn’t happy about this desecration of the saintly Ellen MacDonald MacLean’s memory.

  The gown was a bit short, Katrine was aware, for she was apparently taller than Ellen had been. But at least she wouldn’t trip and run the risk of having her head shot off.

  She was actually humming to herself when she was surprised once again by Callum MacLean. He had come out of a room farther down the hall that was probably a bedchamber.

  “Very becoming,” Callum said with his customary disarming frankness as he surveyed her from the doorway of the small chamber. His compliment was a blandishment, his glance a blatant attempt at flirtation. Katrine felt herself blushing as his gaze lingered on her bosom, but she was unaccountably flattered by the appreciative masculine gleam in Callum’s eyes. More disturbing, she found herself wondering if his cousin would approve of her attire as well.

  Katrine’s good humor faded at the thought of the MacLean laird. For two days she had managed to avoid Raith entirely—or he had avoided her, she wasn’t certain. Regardless, she’d found it easier to get over her near murder than to recover from his devastating kiss or his tenderness in comforting her.

  Determined to dismiss Raith MacLean from her mind, she returned her attention to the sheets, ignoring Callum until he spoke again.

  “Raith left yesterday to meet with the MacLeans of Duart.”

  She glanced at Callum eagerly, anxious to hear what he knew about her release. “Has he contacted my uncle then?”

  “Not yet. And he won’t until he sees what Argyll means to do regarding Duart. Colin Campbell has posted a reward for information regarding your return, but so far he hasn’t retaliated against our clan.”

  A reward? That was some consolation, Katrine thought. “According to Raith, the duke doesn’t even know the MacLeans are involved in my abduction.”

  “Argyll has his suspicions, though, no doubt.”

  But suspicions would not win her freedom, Katrine reflected morosely. She was still chagrined at having missed her best chance for release the other day when the soldiers had come in search of her. She despaired of ever having another such opportunity. No doubt Raith had posted lookouts to warn him in advance of the militia’s arrival. Even if they did return, he would lock her away or spiri
t her into hiding. He could never allow her to be discovered.

  Even more dismaying, unless she were actually found in Raith’s power, she would have difficulty proving the charges of abduction. It would be her word against his—and this was still Scotland, with Scottish laws and a Scottish judicial system that would no doubt be sympathetic to one of their own kind. Even Argyll, as powerful as he was, would not be able to move without proof. And Raith was too clever to make that proof available. When he finally presented his demands, he was likely to do so anonymously; he had implied as much the other day.

  “Well, I wish something would happen soon,” she said with ill-concealed resentment. “You have no right to keep me here.”

  “Perhaps it won’t be too much longer. I rather suspect my dear cousin is as anxious to be rid of you as you are to be gone.”

  “That would be impossible,” Katrine said curtly. “If he’s so anxious to see me gone, all he has to do is present his demands to my uncle.”

  “Raith is still deliberating what demands to make,” Callum said mildly.

  “No doubt that brigand is entertaining thoughts of collecting the reward for my return himself.”

  Callum gave her an amiable grin as he turned to leave. “I don’t think the idea has occurred to him. I’ll suggest it.”

  When Callum was gone, Katrine continued to brood about her situation. The thought was distasteful, but it was becoming obvious that she might be a prisoner for a long while. Yet she’d never been one to repine about a situation she couldn’t control. As long as she was there, she might as well make the best of her predicament. She might even do some good—by making herself useful to little Meggie. She had scarcely seen Meggie recently, but she desperately wanted to help the child, Raith’s harsh injunction to keep away from her notwithstanding.

  That night Katrine waited till the household was asleep before lighting a candle and stealing downstairs. She had never been allowed in the front part of the house before, except for the dining room, so it took a while for her to discover the library.