TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

  Quite sure Katrine was the cause of the chaos—not the victim—he vented an oath and tore after her.

  Katrine had already turned to run, but she wasn’t quick enough. She felt a hard arm close around her, yanking her painfully backward and lifting her off her feet, just as his hand clamped fiercely over her mouth to stop the piercing wails.

  Katrine struggled in his arms, determined this time to fight to the death—or almost the death, since she would prefer to live—and managed to kick his shins with her slippered heels. Raith swore again, before one of her legs somehow tangled with his and they both went sprawling. Even though he threw out an arm to cushion their fall and took most of the impact on his left hip, the jar knocked the breath from Katrine’s body.

  She lay there panting, aware that his hand had momentarily left her mouth, but she was unable to summon another shriek.

  “God’s teeth!” Raith ground out, breathing hard himself. “Are you bloody well trying to court death?”

  She felt his fury in every line of his body, in the arm crushing her ribs beneath her heaving breasts, in the powerful chest that was pressed against her back, in the steel-muscled thighs cradling her derriere—

  Katrine suddenly stopped breathing altogether, acutely aware of the wanton intimacy of their position. She felt his male reaction to her closeness…a slight stiffening, a definite swelling, a subtle heat flowing between them. Her own body felt hot and…and excited. There was no other word for the sweet shock of being pressed against his hard masculine contours.

  Alarmed by her own reaction as well as his, Katrine shifted her hips, trying to ease the pressure, but she only succeeded in insinuating herself more suggestively into the cradle of his thighs.

  “By the saints,” he hissed on an indrawn breath, “will you cease your blasted thrawing, you damned Sassenach?”

  His cursing at her was getting to be quite a habit, Katrine thought distractedly. “I told you, I’m only half English!”

  “And the other half a cursed Campbell!”

  She raised her head to protest, but let out a soft cry instead as her cheek grated painfully against the stubble of his jaw. Raith muttered an expletive in Gaelic that Katrine felt fortunate not to understand. Then he suddenly rolled on his side, and Katrine had to suffer the indignity of being dumped on a carpet of pine needles.

  He was on his feet in a trice, pulling her up after him. Katrine winced as a viselike grip on her arm jerked her bolt upright.

  “I should have known better than to trust you to yourself,” he seethed, barely restraining the urge to throttle her. Still gripping her arm, he spun Katrine around, marched her back to the rock and pushed her down. “If you have any desire to reach a ripe old age, you’ll sit there and keep your tongue between your teeth!”

  His biting fingers never left her shoulder as he turned and snapped out orders to his men to go in search of the horses. Nor did Raith once release his painful hold while they waited.

  At least, Katrine thought defiantly, the Highlanders had great difficulty finding their mounts in the dark. It was nearly an hour later before the last horse was led into the clearing, and by then the eastern horizon was beginning to pale with dawn. By that time Ewen had returned from hunting lace. It was small comfort that he had found only two other scraps, proving that she hadn’t been lying, for the delay had given her too much time to contemplate what Raith MacLean intended to do to her. She could see the grim set of Raith’s black-shadowed jaw in the faint light, and didn’t at all care for what it boded for her immediate future. Especially when he told his men to proceed without him.

  A feeling of trepidation welled up in Katrine as she watched his clansmen ride away. At least their presence had required their leader to behave in something of a civilized fashion toward her, for he wouldn’t want witnesses to her murder. Now there was nothing to prevent him from silencing her once and for all. It would be easy now to use his dirk to slit her throat, silently and swiftly....

  Near panic, Katrine eyed Raith. He was sitting beside her on the rock, one arm braced on his upraised knee, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dirk.

  Her heart started hammering as she saw the long fingers tighten.

  He glanced at her then, his eyes as hard as flint, and Katrine returned his fierce gaze with fright, her spine quivering.

  “You wouldn’t—” she began in a high-pitched voice, before she swallowed and continued with more bravado than sense, “you wouldn’t use your dirk on me.”

  One slashing black brow shot up. “You think not? And just why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you need me.” She swallowed again, a trifle desperately. “It would be foolish to kill a prisoner before you could make use of her.”

  “Oh, I quite agree, Miss Campbell. But I can devise some other means of punishment for your conniving tricks…one I doubt you will find pleasant.” He released her arm, finally, but Katrine’s relief was short-lived, for he rose and offered her his hand. “Come, Mistress Campbell, your horse awaits.”

  He managed to make an insult of his courtesy, which made Katrine bridle. With disdain, she glanced from Raith to the one remaining mount. “I don’t want to ride with you.”

  “Your wishes are beside the point.”

  “Then allow me to rephrase. I won’t ride with you.”

  His hand swung out in an impatient gesture. “We’ve only the one mount. You have no choice but to ride with me—unless you would prefer to walk.”

  “Indeed I would!”

  “Suit yourself then!”

  Katrine stared at him. “You honestly mean to make me walk?”

  “I seem to recall you claimed to be an excellent walker.”

  “Yes, but in this country?” Her voice was almost a squeak as she glanced about her in the dawning gray light. The swirling fog did much to hide the rise of the surrounding hills, but she knew very well the terrain was wild and treacherous, with steep slopes and nonexistent paths that were strewn with rocks and overgrown with bracken and brambles. And she was wearing slippers.

  “I’m likely to break a leg,” Katrine protested.

  “I’ll take that risk.” Raith paused, eyeing her grimly. “Would you like to reconsider?”

  Pride goading her, she stubbornly raised her chin. “I most certainly would not!”

  In reply, he slid to one knee before her, holding up the dirk. Katrine gasped and shrank back.

  Raith gave her a withering look. “Be still!”

  To her shock and acute embarrassment, he proceeded to cut off several narrow lengths of flannel from the hem of her nightshift, which left her legs bare to midcalf. At least, though, he didn’t remove her nightshift altogether, as he had threatened to do. Her cheeks flooded with color, Katrine watched him warily as he knotted the lengths together to form one long rope.

  She hesitated when he commanded her to hold out her hands. “What do you intend to do?”

  “See to it that you don’t run away.”

  “How could I possibly manage that?”

  “I imagine,” he said in a dry voice as he reached for her fettered hands, “that given enough time you would find a way.”

  Raith looped an end of the makeshift rope around her wrists, then over the woolen strip that already bound them together. When he had done tying a secure knot, he gathered up the length of rope, then again rose to his feet. “Get up, Miss Campbell. We’ve still a long way to go.”

  He placed a hand under her elbow, helping her to rise, but as he guided her toward his horse, Katrine came to a defiant halt. “I won’t do it! I won’t walk behind you like some cow being led to market!”

  “Then I’ll be obliged to drag you behind me.”

  She wasn’t certain he would do anything so cruel, but looking up at his hard, dark face, she decided not to take that risk. She did, however, complain very vocally at such treatment as he positioned her behind his horse and played out the rope. Her face flaming with humiliation, she called Raith a thief, a brute and a
bounder, and anything else that immediately came to mind.

  He hesitated before mounting his horse. “I presume your tirade means you want to be gagged again.”

  His threat made Katrine clamp her lips shut. And when he set out on his horse, leading her behind him, she obediently, if resentfully, followed.

  Mostly it was an uphill climb, but it could have been worse. The sky eventually grew lighter and the better part of the fog burned away, allowing her to see where she was going. And Raith at least went slowly, stopping the black horse whenever she had to pick her way through a difficult spot to avoid turning an ankle.

  They were headed north, she could tell now, with sometimes a veer to the west. Katrine tried to remember what lay ahead. Over the years she had poured through dusty tomes to discover everything she could about the Highlands, to satisfy the keen interest in her heritage.

  But she soon gave up trying to picture a map in her head and concentrated instead on maintaining her uneasy footing. The terrain grew rugged and wild as they climbed, with clumps of yellow gorse that scratched at her bare ankles and gray-green heather bushes as high as her shoulder. Her captor slackened his pace now and then to accommodate her, but the backs of her calves began aching, and her dew-soaked slippers began rubbing blisters on her stockingless heels.

  Occupied with her woes, Katrine for once had little to say. She was determined to bear the pain with fortitude, though she stored up an arsenal of names to call her cursed MacLean captor when she next deigned to speak to him. He would answer for this, she vowed as she trudged along. Her green eyes flashed her promise of vengeance whenever he glanced over his shoulder at her.

  It became a point of honor with her not to lag. Gritting her teeth against the pain of her protesting leg muscles and chafed heels, she strove to keep up, all the while planting silent curses on the heads of the churls who’d abducted her and the devil’s kin who was their leader. She would show them a Campbell could stand up to any torture a MacLean might dish up!

  Perhaps that was why she found it so mortifying when, after nearly an hour of walking, on a relatively flat spot, she stubbed her toe and tripped over a root. Katrine went sprawling, barely managing to thrust out her tethered hands in time to save herself from real injury. She lay there on the damp ground trying to catch her breath, blinking back the sudden tears. A blister had broken on her left heel and she had scraped her right knee in the fall.

  And the Highland cur who was the cause of her wounds was simply sitting there on his horse regarding her skeptically. She could feel his dark gaze boring through her as he deliberated coming to her aid.

  He must have decided she wasn’t shamming, for she heard him dismount. Katrine tried to rise on her own then, determined to refuse his help, but she miscalculated the extent of her injury and put too much weight on her bruised knee. She sank back down with a soft cry of pain.

  The fingers that closed around her arms were surprisingly gentle as he helped her to a sitting position. He saw the weeping blister on her foot then, and his mouth turned grim. “Why the devil didn’t you say something?”

  So she was the one at fault, was she? Katrine clenched her teeth, praying for a lightning bolt to strike him dead. When one didn’t, she added one more notch on the tally of scores that needed settling. “You were so eager to put a period to my existence,” she snapped, “that I hesitated to interfere.” When the harshness of her tone made Raith glance up at her, she glared at him. “A Campbell would not mistreat a prisoner so.”

  She felt a small amount of satisfaction at the expression of guilt and remorse that flashed across his dark features. But she wanted him to feel totally shamed. “Pray don’t concern yourself unduly,” she said through gritted teeth as he drew her slippers from her feet. “Just because I am cut and bleeding doesn’t mean I require your assistance.”

  “Don’t be more of a gomerel than you can help.”

  “What is a gomerel?” She knew very well that he was calling her a fool, but she wasn’t about to admit she understood the insult.

  He didn’t answer, however, but instead returned to his horse and delved into a leather sporran, the Scots pouch that served as a pocket or purse and was usually worn in front of the kilt. Katrine watched as he unwrapped the seal he had taken from her uncle’s study, and again wondered what he had been doing there. Seeing the grim cast of his countenance, she decided he was unlikely to tell her if she asked. Besides, Katrine remembered belatedly, she wasn’t deigning to speak to him.

  She remained determinedly silent as he returned with the linen handkerchief and water flask and sat down before her. And she only allowed a small gasp to escape her when he placed her slim feet in his lap and proceeded to cool her blisters with the dampened handkerchief. She scarcely felt the sting, his touch was so gentle, and yet his fingers on her skin aroused the same devastating warmth as before, like tiny bolts of lightning striking the sensitive nerve endings.

  She went totally still. Every time she was near this man, was touched by him, she felt a strange excitement, separate and apart from the fear or fury she knew she should feel.

  Against her will, Katrine studied him, watching the thick jet black sweep of lashes that fanned his bronzed cheeks, wondering how she could have found his dark good looks unappealing or frightening. The black stubble on his jaw contributed to his air of fierceness, true, but concern had softened the hard male features, making him seem less formidable, less disreputable, even human.

  Then the blue eyes lifted to hers, and her breath caught in her throat; they had gone dark again, the color of thunderclouds in a midnight sky. How could she have forgotten how dangerous he was?

  “Your knee is bleeding,” he murmured, his voice sounding as raspy as his beard had felt.

  Katrine was suddenly intently aware of his dormant strength, of her own vulnerability. “How observant of you,” she returned, but her tone was weak, totally lacking its previous waspish sting.

  She recovered her defiance, though, when he pushed up the hem of her nightshift to expose the cut on her knee. “Sirrah! What do you think you—”

  “I’m not accosting your virtue,” Raith said dryly. “Your knee wants cleaning.”

  “I can do it myself!”

  “Indulge me.”

  “Why ever should I?”

  He glanced up at her, his gaze mocking. “Because I’ve already begun the task. And because you’re in no position to manage it yourself.”

  Straining her wrist bindings, Katrine clenched her hands. “Look you, I won’t have you ogling my ankles again.”

  His mouth twitched. “I’ll avert my gaze. Now be still for once.”

  Carefully, almost tenderly, he wiped away the blood and examined the abrasion. “You’ll live,” he pronounced, ignoring Katrine’s infuriated glare and the tense way she was holding herself.

  “You needn’t sound so regretful.”

  “I’m not. I never intended to hurt you. But you do have a way of straining a man’s patience.” Sighing, Raith leaned back, resting his weight on the heels of his hands as he peered up at the blue sky, as if searching for answers. “What am I to do with you?”

  Katrine felt a small measure of satisfaction that she had the power to vex him. “I don’t suppose you would consider letting me go?”

  The glance he shot her told her very well what he thought of the question, but he was a long time in replying. “No, but there’s no point in keeping you trussed up any longer, I imagine.”

  When he drew out his dirk, Katrine decided she must be growing used to his manner of wielding a blade, for she didn’t gasp. But her heart sank as he sliced away the wool fettering her hands. He wouldn’t have released her if he felt the slightest doubt that she might escape or be rescued.

  Disconsolately, Katrine rubbed her chafed wrists, hardly paying attention when Raith retrieved the lengths of flannel he had earlier cut from her nightshift and used to lead her along.

  “What are you doing now?” Katrine demanded when he
knelt before her again.

  “Assuaging my conscience.” His tone was dry, yet it took her a moment to understand his cryptic words. He meant to bind her injuries, she realized as he wound the soft cloth around her knee.

  Somewhat surprised that he would show such consideration for her, Katrine roused herself from her despondency to question him about why he had taken her prisoner. “Do you hate my uncle in particular or merely all Campbells in general?”

  Raith gave a grunt in reply, and at first she thought that might be his only answer. “Colin Campbell?” he said finally. “Now there’s a thief for you…worse than most.”

  Katrine’s eyes widened with skepticism. She couldn’t imagine her strict, upstanding Uncle Colin stooping to thievery or anything else illegal. He was a strict Covenanter, one of those anti-Romanist Scots who were bound to defend Presbyterianism as the only true Christian faith, and he was every bit as piously honest as her Aunt Gardner in England.

  “Thief is rather a strong word, is it not? Just what is he supposed to have done to warrant such a term?”

  “Not too strong a word for a Campbell who lines his coffers with MacLean silver.”

  Katrine could have pointed out that if her uncle was lining any coffers, it would be the Duke of Argyll’s, not his own. As factor of the duke’s western lands, including the isles of the Highland coast, he would meticulously see to it that the duke received the rents due him, not a penny more or less. But she thought better of making such an inflammatory comment.

  “Well, perhaps Uncle Colin only means to see justice served. When I arrived yesterday, I overheard him declaring that the MacLeans refused to pay Argyll’s rightful feu-duty.”

  Her remark was inflammatory anyway; Raith’s black brows drew together in a sudden, fierce scowl. “The old duke was barely cold in his grave before the new one arbitrarily raised the feu-duties far beyond the ability of his tenants to pay. There’s no justice in tyranny.”

  The new duke was the fourth Duke of Argyll, the new head of the powerful Clan Campbell, Katrine surmised. She had read in the papers, just before leaving England, of the third duke’s sudden death by illness, and remembered the black armband her uncle had been wearing.