TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

Katrine did fall silent then as his lips claimed hers. She clung to him with all her might, for his kiss was wild and sweet and tender. In truth, it was more than a kiss. It was a commitment, as solid as any verbal vows made before God and man, speaking to her of love and rapture and soul-deep solace.

  A long while later, when Raith finally raised his head, it was Katrine’s turn to sigh. Slowly she opened her eyes to find him gazing down at her with a carefree, boyish smile. His face looked heart-robbingly young, his blue eyes alight with contentment and desire and promise.

  “I love you,” he murmured. “And you’re going to marry me, just as soon as I can scrape together the proper witnesses.”

  “Yes…” Katrine returned his affectionate smile with a dreamy one of her own. For the moment she was content not to protest. For the moment she and Raith were in complete agreement.

  No doubt their wills would clash in the turbulent future. No doubt they would argue and fight and make love....

  With another breathy sigh, Katrine sought Raith’s lips again.

  It was a future she wouldn’t miss for all the world.

  Epilogue

  Ardgour, Scotland, 1762

  Myriad candles blazed brightly in the master bedchamber at Cair House, illuminating a scene of bustling activity—the mistress’s confinement. The three women hovering expertly over Katrine seemed the picture of calm efficiency as they went about the commonplace business of bringing a new babe into the world. What seemed uncommon was that the laird sat beside his laboring wife.

  Katrine might have won the argument about having Morag in attendance as midwife, but Raith had made his own demands, insisting on being present for the birthing. When Katrine had been brought to bed early that morning with contractions, he had claimed a chair beside her and refused to leave—despite Morag’s objections and Callum’s amused ribbing. Raith had remained at Katrine’s side nearly the entire time, rising only twice to pace to corridor in an effort to keep his anxiety under control.

  The alternative Callum had suggested—to become totally inebriated—Raith had considered only for an instant. If Katrine’s life was at risk, he had to be there. He couldn’t leave her to bear this alone.

  It was even worse torment than he had expected. Katrine’s cries and gasps of pain drove him to distraction, but he’d had to endure them stoically. Morag and Flora had both advised him it was better for a birthing woman not to struggle against the pain or withhold her screams. Yet his stomach was churning with fear, for every cry roused bloody memories of the deaths of his first wife and child. He couldn’t watch what Morag was doing at the foot of the bed, or what Flora was doing at Katrine’s other side, or what the crofter’s wife—who herself had borne ten children—was doing behind him to prepare to receive the new bairn. Raith kept his eyes on his wife every moment, telling her with the tight clasp of his hand and low murmurs of encouragement—between prayers to the Almighty—that he loved her and was with her.

  His presence reassured Katrine. Through a haze of pain, she felt Raith’s love surrounding her, and when the final moment came, she dug her fingers fiercely into his palm for the hundredth time, and pushed the new life from her body.

  “’Tis a son,” she heard Morag pronounce with satisfaction. “A braw wee laddie.”

  An instant later the high-pitched wail of a newborn infant filled the room. Katrine, still panting from the effort, sagged back against the pillows.

  Some time afterward she opened her eyes. She wanted to hold her child, but she wanted more to comfort Raith. He looked as exhausted as she felt. His knuckles were white, his raven hair disheveled, and beneath the dark stubble, there were lines of tension around his mouth that hadn’t been there yesterday.

  “You look…” she whispered, her voice still husky from her cries, “as green as I did…when Hector gave me that sheep’s stomach.”

  “Hush,” Raith ordered, “don’t try to talk, love.” Bending over her, he gently brushed back the wisps of flaming hair that were curling in damp tendrils around her pale face. “Save your strength.”

  Katrine started to protest, but then Flora was at her other side, urging her to take a sip of herbal tea. When she had drunk dutifully, Katrine’s gaze returned to her husband, coming to rest on the strong hand that was still clutching hers. Just then she caught sight of what she had done to him while in the throes of labor; her nails had scored half-moons in his palm till it was a mass of red welts.

  “I hurt you!” she cried softly.

  Raith saw what she was staring at. “Good God, Katrine, this is nothing.”

  Shaking her head, she brought his hand to her lips, pressing her mouth consolingly against his palm. “I’m sorry.”

  Raith reciprocated with her own hand, kissing her slender fingers one by one, reverently, with restrained ardor. “You’re the one who had to suffer the pain. If I could have borne it for you, I would have.”

  Katrine’s smile was weak but full of tenderness. “I know, but this is one task only women can do.”

  They looked at each other, their gazes locking in shared affection. Then Raith squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. “God, I don’t ever want to go through that again,” he said with heartfelt fervor.

  Before Katrine could answer, Morag’s triumphant voice interrupted. “Yer son, m’lord.”

  Recalling himself, Raith glanced over his shoulder. Morag stood there, holding out the squalling baby whom she had cleaned and wrapped in swaddling.

  Hesitantly, Raith reached for him. At Morag’s low-voiced instructions, he took the child in his arms, holding him tentatively against his chest, supporting the fragile head with his hand. Amazingly the child’s cries quieted to a whimper.

  For a long moment Raith stared down at his son, a look of awe on his face. When he finally looked up, his expression had changed to gratitude. “Thank you…Morag,” Raith said quietly. “For bringing them safely through.”

  The old woman nodded solemnly, only the glimmer of moisture in her eyes betraying the emotion of the moment.

  Katrine watched the exchange with relief and joy swelling in her heart. She had wanted to heal another bitter wound, and she had succeeded.

  Yet she was also impatient to share her son. “Raith, I thought you said he was our child, not simply yours or mine,” Katrine complained. “Do you ever intend to let me see him?”

  Her husband sent her a smile of pleasure. “You may do more than that, madam.” Carefully, Raith slid onto his knees, laying the infant on the mattress beside her.

  Lifting her head from the pillow, Katrine stared. “Oh, isn’t he beautiful?” she exclaimed softly with the kind of blind admiration only a mother could feel. The tiny face was crinkled and red, while a thatch of black fuzz gave the infant a rakish air.

  Raith eyed his son with skepticism, but agreed dutifully, if untruthfully, with Katrine’s observation. Then he amended it into a compliment as he reached for her hand. “Not as beautiful as his mother.”

  Katrine smiled as the fingers she had kissed moments before threaded through hers. “How can you say you wouldn’t go through this again? He is worth ten times the pain.”

  “Ye’d best leave now, m’lord,” Morag broke in, her trained eye on the new baby. “The mistress will be wanting to clean up and feed the bairn.” As if on cue, the infant screwed up his face and let out a wail that vied with the bagpipes in power and volume. “Aye, ‘tis a hungry laddie, he is,” Morag said in a soft croon.

  “From the sound of his lungs, he takes after his mother,” Raith commented with amusement.

  Biting back a smile, Katrine shot him an admonishing glance. “Go away now, Raith. I have to feed your son.”

  He didn’t obey, however, as Katrine drew the squalling child closer and freed her milk-swollen breast from her nightshift. Still on his knees, Raith watched, fascinated, as the tiny mouth began rooting for the nipple.

  Katrine was too preoccupied with attending to her child properly to be embarrassed that her husband was flouting p
ropriety by staying to observe. A warm glow filled her as her son instinctively found her nipple. It was a strange, joyful sensation, knowing that she was providing sustenance for such a small life.

  Some time later Raith lifted his gaze to Katrine. She was watching their son, her pale, weary face glowing with pride and love. The beauty of the sight made Raith’s throat ache. He couldn’t have spoken just then, any more than he could have torn himself away.

  It was Flora who finally broke the spell. When the child had finished suckling and had fallen asleep, the dour housekeeper proceeded to take the laird to task for getting in the women’s way.

  And Raith was indeed beginning to feel extraneous. While Flora took the infant, Morag bent over Katrine, urging her to drink another potion. By the time Katrine finished the draft, her eyelids were drooping with fatigue.

  Reluctantly Raith rose to his feet. “I’ll let you sleep,” he told her, pressing a light kiss on her brow.

  “I am a little tired,” she murmured with a wan smile.

  He had turned to go when her sleepy voice called him back. “Raith?”

  “Yes, my love?”

  “You didn’t need…all those eminent surgeons…after all,” she mumbled drowsily.

  “No,” he replied softly. Thank God, no, he thought as he let himself quietly from the room and went downstairs.

  Callum had been loitering in the study, pretending to read. When Raith joined him, he raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Raith grinned for the first time in fifteen hours. “A son.”

  Callum grinned as well. His expression relaxing, he held up the decanter of malt whisky that was resting at his elbow. “This calls for a toast. Besides, you look like you could use a dram.” Callum chuckled. “What the devil happened to you up there? You didn’t look this battered after Culloden.”

  Raith laughed himself, knowing he looked as if he had just survived a battle, knowing also that he felt absurdly pleased and proud of it.

  “And Katrine, how is she?”

  “Fine. They tell me for a first child it was a relatively easy birth.” He hesitated, his face sobering. “God, I didn’t want to lose her.” Raith closed his eyes and found himself shuddering. If she had died, the brightness in his life would have been extinguished. He couldn’t imagine living his life in darkness again.

  “Well, you didn’t lose her,” Callum said practically. “And Ardgour now has an heir.”

  Raith let out a long, slow breath. “Yes.”

  “What will you name him?” Callum asked when they each had a full glass.

  “Damned if I know. I was afraid to think that far ahead.”

  “Well then, let us drink to your heir. May you have many more—”

  “Cousin, if you value your life, you won’t wish another such ordeal on me.”

  Flashing a provoking grin, Callum slapped Raith on the back. “I imagine Katrine will have something to say to that.”

  “I imagine she will,” Raith agreed, his tone wry.

  “Well, at least you can send the surgeons home now.”

  Raith nodded. He hadn’t told Katrine about the three surgeons from Edinburgh he had summoned a week ago. He’d billeted them at Corran and sent for them the moment Katrine went into labor.

  “They weren’t happy about you requiring all three of them,” Callum continued. “Professional pique, I think. And no doubt they’ll be highly indignant about not being called upon after they’ve come all this way. If I were you, I’d offer each of them a cask of your finest malt in addition to his fee. And you’d better invite them to spend the night in the house.” Callum paused, slanting his cousin a sly look. “There was never any need for secrecy, in any case. Katrine knew they were here.”

  His glass halting halfway to his lips, Raith stared. “She knew?”

  Callum’s lips curved smugly. “There isn’t much Katie misses, you know that. She’s a canny sort, your Katrine.”

  “Why didn’t she say something? I expected her to take my head off if I so much as hinted that I didn’t trust Morag.”

  “Katrine thought you needed the reassurance—and you did. Those surgeons were all that kept you from tearing out your hair this morning. Ah, cousin, you must love her a great deal.” Callum shook his head in disbelief. “I never thought to see you so daft over a lass.”

  “Wait till your turn comes.”

  “A long time from now, I trust. No, cousin, there’s no one left for me. You’ve claimed Katie and her sisters are married.”

  Raith chuckled. “We’ll see. Finish your dram, cousin. I have to find Meggie and tell her she has a new brother.”

  It was several hours later, near midnight, that Raith was admitted into his wife’s room again. He was freshly dressed and shaved, and he brought Callum and Meggie with him.

  “Dunna stay for long, mind ye,” Flora warned. “The mistress needs her sleep.” Flora and Morag left then, both looking pleased with themselves; they were finally able to rest now that mother and child were doing so well. The crofter’s wife had already been sent home.

  Raith approached the bed first, to find his baby son sleeping in the curve of his wife’s body. “Katrine, you have visitors.”

  Katrine opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at him. Then she saw Meggie and beckoned with one hand. “Come here, my love, and see our new little lamb.”

  Meggie stepped forward eagerly. Despite the lateness of the hour, she was wide-awake, her dark eyes shining as she stared down at the sleeping infant. “So bonny,” she whispered.

  “Yes, he is bonny, isn’t he?” Katrine murmured with affection. Although Meggie was able to speak in complete sentences these days, she remained a shy, quiet child. Katrine’s heart never failed to contract whenever Meggie initiated a conversation.

  “What is his name?” Meggie asked. Glancing up at her husband, Katrine met his blue eyes with love in her own. “I thought we might name him Allan, after Raith’s father.”

  Raith’s smile was slow and infinitely sweet. “I think he should be called James, after yours.”

  Callum raised his gaze to the ceiling. “Heaven preserve us, do you two mean to argue at a time like this? Name the lad after both your fathers and be done with it. Allan James.”

  Raith reached out to take Katrine’s hand tenderly in his. “What say you, my love?”

  “I like it. Meggie, what do you think?”

  “Yes.” Meggie nodded solemnly.

  “Allan James, it is,” Raith decreed, smiling into Katrine’s eyes. For a moment, they gazed at each other, sharing a glance of intimacy, their entwined fingers tightening.

  “Sweet Lucifer.” Callum shook his dark head, though his tone held the familiar charming hint of laughter. “All this cooing is becoming maudlin. Come, Meggie, I’ll put you to bed. I think these two would prefer to be alone.”

  When Meggie’s face fell, Raith bent down to give his ward a hug. “You can come back in the morning and see Allan James when he’s awake. No doubt he’ll be pleased to have you as a playmate.”

  Somewhat consoled, Meggie nodded. When Callum had finished gallantly kissing Katrine’s fingers, Meggie took the hand her roguish cousin offered and allowed herself to be ushered from the room.

  When they were gone, Raith edged himself onto the bed. “I intend to stay.” Ignoring his wife’s surprised protest, he propped his back against the headboard and draped his arm over Katrine’s pillow, their son between them. “This is our bed, last time I checked. I don’t mean to abdicate my rights just because Allan James has come along.”

  “But Morag said I need to feed him again.”

  “Go right ahead, my love. I want to watch.”

  His demand was immodest, she knew, but rather than discomfiting her, it pleased Katrine inordinately that Raith should show such interest in his son. When the baby stirred a short while later, Katrine opened her bodice and drew him close. Almost at once, Allan hungrily clamped his tiny mouth on her breast, suckling hard on the nipple.

  “I’
m envious,” Raith said about the tiny cooing sounds the baby made.

  Katrine found herself blushing, not at her husband’s provocative comment, but at the reminder of the intimate, wicked, wonderful things he himself had done to her breasts in the past several months…the sweet caresses, the tender assaults. Indeed, the past months of marriage had been incredibly perfect, with just enough spirited disagreement to add spice to their relationship. Even their fiercest arguments had ended right here in this bed. And through it all was the soul-deep knowledge that they were right for each other. The flame of their love had kept her warm during the harsh Highland winter, Katrine reflected, and would for years to come, if she had any say in the matter.

  The thought made her glance up. Seeing the tender expression in Raith’s face as he gazed down at his son, Katrine smiled softly. Raith wanted children, whether he knew it or not, and she planned to give him more. Many more.

  As if he felt her watching him, Raith shifted his gaze to her and grinned. She felt the impact of his loving look so strongly that her pulse leaped. He was so handsome, this Highland laird that she had married. She was amazed that he bore so little resemblance to the fierce stranger who had accosted her that night in her uncle’s study. Love had softened him, gentled him, made him the true soul mate she had dreamed of finding. He no longer spent his days hating and feuding with the Campbells. Raith had kept his word, and so had the duke of Argyll. There had been little trouble between their clans since they had struck their bargain.

  “I’ve sent a message to your uncle,” Raith commented as if reading her mind. “He should arrive day after tomorrow.”

  Katrine’s brow furrowed. “You will receive him politely, won’t you, Raith?”

  “Yes, I’ll receive him politely, my sweet shrew. I’ll be so gracious he will think he’s royalty.” Raith’s mouth curved ruefully. “And if Argyll sends a christening gift, as he’s threatened to do, I might even accept it.”

  Katrine returned his gaze, her green eyes wide and searching. “Do you ever have any regrets that you married a Sassenach Campbell?”