TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

  And in only a moment, Raith, too, recognized the futility of resisting her any longer, of fighting himself. His lips gentled, his embrace softened. In response, Katrine molded herself against him, her fingers blindly seeking his thick raven hair.

  Moments of sweet madness followed, when mouths and tongues and bodies and hearts seemed as one, seemed destined to become one.

  “Katie,” he murmured, his voice dipping into hoarseness as he drew away.

  His eyes had gone dark blue again, she saw. The hot blue of barely leashed, soul-deep desire.

  “Raith…make love to me.”

  “Yes…” And when he took her mouth again with hungry authority, she felt his desperation, his need.

  Her own shaking excitement was barely controllable as he divested her of her nightshift and carried her to the bed. She thought he would take off his own clothing then, but he followed her down onto the soft mattress, his lips worshiping her silken skin until Katrine was restless and aching for more than the devastating touch of his mouth. She ached for completion. She wanted to feel his hard, magnificent body naked against her, wanted to feel him moving deep within her.

  “Raith, please,” she demanded on a soft moan.

  He left her impatiently then, to strip off his clothes, watching her all the while. He had managed to dispose of the ribbon that bound her hair and had loosened the thick braid till it was a glorious mass of untamable curls. Her hair seemed to flame in the gilded lamplight, while her eyes had darkened to the green of mountain grass in a Highland summer. Raith thought he had never seen anything so lovely.

  When she reached out her arms to him, he came to her without doubts as to his need for her. Stretching out beside her, he fitted their bodies together as they were made to be. Slowly, in a movement as natural and inevitable as breathing, he sank inside her, gliding into her womanly softness in a long smooth continuous thrust that soon had Katrine gasping and arching her hips in an ancient rhythm.

  Adapting to that splendid rhythm, Raith took her possessively, with tenderness and fierce hunger, till she was sobbing his name. Murmuring his own incoherent words of desire, he buried himself ever deeper within her silken warmth, seeking to ease his torment, seeking shelter from the reality he had insisted on recognizing, seeking the oneness he had never felt with any other living soul, the overwhelming feeling of rightness.

  He found it with her, a world of sheer joy and tumultuous, hurtling pleasure, a world of delight and dreams and endless possibilities. And they left it together, their breaths and heartbeats mingling as they slowly returned to physical earth.

  Sighing sweetly, Katrine lay unmoving beneath him, sated and content, knowing herself complete. Sighing heavily, Raith lay unmoving, sated but discontent, knowing himself for a fool. For with the return of reason came the relentless invasion of memories…his stillborn son, his late wife. Ellen had been out of her mind those final hours—and he must be out of his mind now to risk Katrine’s life, Raith concluded. He couldn’t let this go on. The price was too dear. He cared for her too much. He cared....

  The admission startled him. In what instant had his motives of vengeance been replaced by the simple desire that burned in him now and had nothing to do with lust? He wanted her safe, wanted her protected.

  Rolling on his side, he gathered Katrine’s relaxed, sleepy body in his arms. Her wild hair spilled over his chest and throat, making him feel as if he were surrounded by flame, but he forced aside the sensation as he considered the transformation of his sentiments. What he felt was not love—he could never love a Campbell. The emotion was more like a fever burning in his blood. A fever he was powerless to fight.

  But why was he so helpless? Why did he have so little control where Katrine was concerned? Why was he even attracted to her? Again and again she had infuriated him, tried his patience, challenged his authority, cut up his peace, stirred up his clan, rearranged his life and his priorities, burrowed into his soul....

  Shying away from the thought, Raith settled Katrine more comfortably against him, then drew up the sheet over them both as he pondered the problem.

  “What’s to be done with you?” he murmured at length, his mouth moving against her hair. But the answer was obvious. He had to find a way to protect her as well as his clan. Which meant putting her out of reach, where he couldn’t touch her, where he wouldn’t be tempted or driven to disregard his resolve…as he had tonight.

  When Raith finally reached a decision, there was a hollowness in the pit of his stomach that he refused to examine too closely. But at least he was able to sleep, for he could see an end to the torment that had plagued him during the past weeks.

  Beside him Katrine dozed, only to waken a short while later, blinking at the unaccustomed lamplight. The realization that she was in Raith’s bed, pressed against his hard body, cradled in his arms, stole over her slowly, bringing with it a kind of quiet joy and the wish that she could always wake up this way. Her head was pillowed on his shoulder, and she drew back slightly, gazing at him with wonder. His body was so beautiful…lean and powerful, with corded muscles in his shoulders and arms, and a sprinkling of black hair on the chest. His face, too, was beautiful to her. Despite the faint shadow of stubble, in sleep he looked young and unguarded and incomparably vital.

  But she wasn’t fooled by the peaceful, handsome face. Neither her pleading nor their lovemaking had made a whit of difference in his attitude toward her or their marriage, or altered his plans for his raid on Clan Campbell. She knew that for a certainty. Suddenly her quiet joy was replaced by quiet desperation.

  Carefully, so as not to disturb Raith, Katrine eased from the bed and dressed in her nightclothes. She kept an eye on his slumbering form as she went to the hearth to gather up his weapons. Her heart was beating so loudly she wondered if it might wake him. But she had no choice. The killing and hatred had to stop, and if there was any way she could prevent further bloodshed, she would do it. Even if it infuriated Raith. Even if he wanted to murder her.

  She thought of placing all the weapons on the round targe, using the Highland shield as a tray, but soon realized the resuiting burden would be too heavy and cumbersome to manage. She settled on only the heavy claymore and targe. Even those were almost too weighty for her to carry, but she managed to slip from the room without waking Raith, then steal downstairs, leaving the house by way of the back door.

  The moon was full, providing ample light for her to see the path to the glen. Katrine made her way there as quickly as she could, heading directly for the loch. She meant to deliver Raith’s weapons into the shimmering depths, and when that was done, she would return to the buttery. If it took her all night and a hundred trips, Katrine vowed, she would empty the MacLeans’ secret cache of every weapon she could find.

  But first she would see to Raith’s. The targe made a tremendous splash as it hit the moonlit surface, and Katrine watched with grim satisfaction as it and the claymore disappeared from sight.

  Raith heard the splash from some distance behind her. He had woken to find both Katrine and his claymore gone, and upon searching, had spied her from his bedroom window. Puzzled, he’d set out in quick pursuit.

  Realizing now what she had done, Raith came to an abrupt halt. “God’s blood,” he breathed. For a moment he felt only rage and impotence. Then impotence vanished. He had never been a violent man with women, but he knew then what it was to anticipate murder with relish.

  “Katrine!” he bellowed, and sprinted after her.

  At his shout, she whirled in alarm. Her startled brain commanded her muscles to move, but they were frozen in place as Raith came hurtling toward her, his dark face a mask of fury.

  “You cockle-headed gomerel! You’re completely daft! By God, I’ll badger you within an inch of your worthless life!”

  She had always known he became far more Scottish in his speech when his emotions gained the upper hand. At the moment he was sounding very Scottish. Finally jolted into action, Katrine turned to run.

&
nbsp; She was fairly fleet, but she was no match for Raith. Even though he stubbed his toe on a gorse bush—which slowed him momentarily and elicited a violent curse from him—he managed to cut her off before she had taken five strides. With the fierceness of a Highland storm, he seized her arm, dragged her along behind him, settled himself on the nearest decent-sized boulder, flung her over his knee and, despite her struggling, proceeded to blister her backside.

  “You damned…interfering…daft…Sassenach!” Each word was punctuated by his thwacks and her shrieks. He hadn’t bothered to raise her nightshift, but the flat of his hand still stung enough to bring tears to her eyes. Yet that was nothing compared to the blow to her pride. Yelping in humiliation, Katrine flailed at Raith with her fists, calling him a string of names, every vicious word she could think of.

  Suddenly though, as abruptly as he’d begun, Raith ceased his paddling and clamped her arms again. Whether he meant to lift her up or shove her away, even he wasn’t sure, but when she continued to struggle, he lost his grip. Katrine spilled from his lap and tumbled to the ground in an undignified heap.

  Furious, she leaped to her feet and faced him with fists clenched, her breasts heaving in outrage. They had stopped being lovers and were mortal enemies again. The fact that Raith wore only breeches and was displaying the bare muscular chest and beautifully sculpted shoulders that had so awed and delighted her only a short while ago meant less than nothing to her now. She wanted only vengeance. Oh, how she longed for it! If she hadn’t thrown his claymore in the loch, she would have run him through with it.

  Raith wasn’t even looking at her, though. He had dropped his head into his hands, as if he could no longer bear the sight of her.

  Yet it was his own actions Raith didn’t want to face. He shook his head in disbelief, assailed by disgust and self-reproach. “I’ve never,” he murmured, his voice low and ragged, “taken my hand to a woman. Never even thought of it. It won’t happen again, I swear it.”

  Her anger arrested, Katrine stared at him in the moonlight. He deserved to feel guilty for beating her, certainly, but she was willing to make excuses for him. He hadn’t acted without provocation. She had driven him to the end of his patience. And while she would doubtless be sore in the morning, he hadn’t truly hurt anything but her pride. She was prepared to be magnanimous and forgive him, since he seemed so contrite.

  Yet his words hadn’t actually been an apology, Katrine realized with sudden wariness. After the recent events, they even seemed ominous. It won’t happen again, I swear it, could just as easily have been a renewal of his vow never to touch her again, never to make love to her again.

  “Raith?” she asked hesitantly, wishing he would explain.

  He didn’t answer. He simply sat there, his fingers clutching his hair. Unaccountably, his stillness disquieted her more than his rage had done.

  “Raith?” she repeated more anxiously, her whole body tensing.

  When his voice came softly, stealing through the silence, it sliced into her heart like a rusty knife. “It won’t happen again.... Tomorrow I’ll send you home.”

  “What?” Her voice was suddenly hoarse, desperate.

  He raised his head, finally meeting her eyes; in the silver light, his own were agonized. “Tomorrow I’m returning you to your uncle.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Swirls of mist curled in ghostly streamers about Katrine’s head as she made her way to the glen. Shivering, she drew her woolen shawl more closely about her. The gray dawn was as heavy and chill as her spirit, the fog frequently obscuring the path and more than once making her lose the way. But seeking out Morag was something she was driven to do.

  After Raith’s abrupt announcement last night, Katrine had argued, even pleaded with him to reconsider, but he’d remained adamant. Despite her objections, he meant to return her to her uncle.

  During the remainder of the sleepless night—which she spent in her own bedchamber—Katrine had racked her brain for ways to persuade Raith to change his mind. She even considered trying to hide from him until he could be brought to see reason. But that, she’d concluded, would have been pointless. Where would she hide? And who would convince him that she belonged at his side if she weren’t there to do it? No, she thought with despair, remembering Raith’s grim, intractable expression when he’d escorted her back to her bedroom. All she could do was delay the moment of departure as long as possible.

  And so at first light she had left the house. She couldn’t explain her need to find Morag, except that she felt an affinity for the old woman she had never actually met. Morag, too, had been rejected by Raith. Even if the Scotswoman couldn’t provide answers, she at least might be willing to commiserate.

  In the fog, the neat stone cottage was hard to see. Katrine found it more by smell than sight, following the odor of peat smoke. She almost stumbled over the woman, who was kneeling in the herb bed at one side of the trim path, clipping twigs. Yet it seemed almost as if her visit was expected, for the woman rose at once, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Ye’re the Campbell,” she pronounced with scarcely a glance at Katrine’s red hair. “‘Tis I ye’ve coom to find.”

  “You are Morag?”

  “Aye. Morag MacLean.”

  Clearly Morag recognized her, but the woman was not at all what Katrine expected. Morag was quite old, true, but she was also short and stout, with round, rosy cheeks and silver-white hair. She looked a cheerful sort, rather than the dour Scot character that populated the Highlands.

  “Coom in and bide awhi’. I’ll make tea.”

  “Thank you,” Katrine murmured, relieved at her kind reception.

  She followed Morag into the cottage, but had to pause a moment to adjust her vision and her breathing. The interior was dark and gloomy, for the single window was shuttered, while peat smoke filled every cranny. Her eyes watering, Katrine could just make out the furnishings of the neat but and ben.

  At one end of the oblong structure the steep roof rose in a conical shape and ended in a smoke hole, beneath which burned peats surrounded by stones. The floor was of well-swept earth, but the stone sides of the cottage were blackened by years of peat fires, as were the slender poles that supported the thatched roof. In the far corner, closest to the fire, a bed lay upon the floor, covered by a thick rug.

  Katrine had difficulty breathing in the smoky atmosphere, but she was determined not to show it by coughing or even covering her mouth. Still she was relieved when she was invited to “Sit doon, if ye will,” for the smoke was thinnest near the ground. Ducking to avoid the dried herbs that hung from every square inch of ceiling, she made her way past two wide tables laden with iron pots and earthenware jars, to a smaller table complemented by two straight-backed chairs. Seating herself in one of the chairs, Katrine watched as Morag bent over the fire and prepared the tea.

  She wanted to initiate a conversation, but didn’t know quite how to begin. When her hostess remained silent, Katrine found her thoughts as well as her gaze wandering. Morag was wealthy by Highland standards, she realized. With the byre that was attached to the cottage, she would have no need to bring livestock into the house as so many crofters did. No, the accommodations might be simple, but they would be highly practical for Morag’s vocation of midwifery.

  Remembering why she had come, Katrine focused her gaze again on the bustling old woman, who was garbed in red and green MacLean tartan. Instinctively she knew Morag would be skilled at her work. Instinctively, also, she liked the woman.

  “Thank you,” Katrine said again when Morag set down before her a steaming cup of soothing herb tea.

  Without speaking, Morag settled herself into the other chair, her gaze observing, measuring, as she sipped from her own cup. Yet her frank blue eyes were more curious than condemning.

  “I ken why ye’ve coom,” she declared after a moment. “The laird willna let ye bide here.”

  Katrine didn’t know why she should be surprised by the accuracy of Morag’s supposit
ion. Even shunned as the midwife was, she would have heard every detail of Katrine’s dealings with the MacLeans.

  “Nay, I dinna have the sight,” Morag said when Katrine was silent. “But I ken Raith MacLean verra weel.”

  “Have you ever known him to change his mind?”

  “Seldom.”

  Her hopes sinking like Raith’s claymore in the loch, Katrine gazed at Morag in consternation. “Then you don’t think he would ever marry me? That he could ever come to love me?”

  “I’ll answer ye true. The laird maun learn to open his heart before he could ever go so far.”

  Katrine bit back a heavy sigh. It was only what she had expected to hear. “I don’t suppose there is any chance of ending the feud between our clans, either,” she said miserably.

  “Have ye never heard our Highland saying—’drie yer ain wierd’? Do ye ken what that means?”

  Reflecting on how much Morag sounded like Flora, Katrine nodded. “I think it means to face up to one’s destiny.”

  “Aye, and if it be the laird’s destiny to wed ye, then he will. If the MacLeans and the Campbells are to cease their feuding, then so it will be.”

  Katrine shook her head sadly. “I’ve always thought one should try and make one’s own destiny.”

  Morag surprised her again with a mischievous grin that creased the rosy cheeks. “I didna say ye couldna help it along. Which,” she added, reaching over to give Katrine’s hand a motherly pat, “I hear ye’ve been doing. Never would I have thought a lass would be so bauld as to tell the laird he was wed to her.”

  Katrine was grateful for Morag’s comforting gesture, for it eased the hurting of her heart. Forcing a smile, she met the old woman’s twinkling gaze. “I was desperate.”

  “Aye, ye’re in love wi’ him.”

  “Why can you see that and Raith can’t?”

  “Maybe he doesna want to see it.” Morag patted her hand again. “Now drink yer tea like a good lass. ‘Tis my ain secret receipt, said to cure to worst of ailments—even broken hearts.”