TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

  “Are you one of the duke’s tenants?”

  Raith gave her a quelling look as he finished tying her knee bandage and proceeded to dress her blistered heels. “Thank God I’m not so cursed. The MacLeans of Duart are the ones who must suffer his despotic rule, poor devils.”

  Katrine returned his gaze thoughtfully. If memory served, it was the laird of Duart who held the chieftainship of Clan MacLean. So why was he not the one aiding his clan instead of this ruthless brigand? “I would have thought it a matter for the Laird of Duart to settle, then.”

  “There is no Laird of Duart any longer. He was butchered in the Forty-five, like so many of his kinsmen.”

  The bitterness in Raith’s tone was unmistakable. And Katrine could sympathize, having lost her own father in that rising. Indeed, there were few Scots families who hadn’t lost at least one loved one in the many years of fighting. Highlanders had always been fiercely divided in their loyalties, but after the turn of the century, when England and Scotland had united under one rule, the violence had escalated. British troops had been required to quell the frequent uprisings, and the outcome was always bloody. The worst and last was in 1745, when the clans rose up in arms for Bonnie Prince Charlie, who was the grandson of the deposed James II of England, and the son of the man many Highlanders still considered to be the true king. The rising of ‘45 had ended in bitter, bloody defeat for the Jacobites at Culloden.

  Had the MacLean of Duart been killed in battle? Katrine wondered. After the Forty-five, the prince’s supporters had been hounded relentlessly by the English victors, whose intent was to destroy the old clan feudal system. Many of the Highland chiefs had been executed; others fled into exile. Properties were confiscated by the crown. Weapons, including the dirk that Raith MacLean carried, were outlawed, as was the tartan, the badge of every clan’s individuality and pride. Only soldiers serving in the king’s armies could wear the kilt and the plaid.

  “Most of the Duart lands were lost before then,” Raith continued, interrupting her thoughts. “Through the cunning and treachery of an earlier Argyll, I might add. But what Duart estates remained went to the third duke—in payment for betrayal of his countrymen.”

  Katrine bristled at the accusation. The Dukes of Argyll had been faithful supporters of the English crown during the years of rebellion. Naturally they would be the target of animosity and slander by Highlanders like the MacLeans, who had supported the Stuart pretenders to the throne.

  But what of Raith MacLean? If he wasn’t a tenant of the duke’s, what was he? A cattle thief, Katrine remembered. Such an occupation was not uncommon in this rugged land. In order to survive after the Forty-five, many Highlanders had turned renegade and made a living by stealing their neighbor’s cattle.

  Katrine had no trouble picturing this hard-faced, blackhaired MacLean leading his clansmen in raids on other clans, to pillage or fight, or to carry out fierce acts of retaliation dictated by Highland law. Yet when she had first encountered him, he had been engaged in a task more suited to a scholar or a clerk.

  Suddenly Katrine sat bolt upright, making Raith lose hold of the bandage he was applying. “The ledgers!” she exclaimed in triumph. “You were tampering with my uncle’s ledgers. It had to do with the rents, didn’t it?”

  Glancing up, Raith narrowed his dark eyes at her, but he didn’t answer. Katrine knew she was right, though. He had come to the aid of his MacLean kin out of clan pride. He had altered the ledgers somehow to the MacLeans’ benefit. But that didn’t explain why he had taken her captive.

  “You didn’t expect to find me there, did you? Your spies never told you of my arrival.”

  The look in his eyes warned her she was treading on dangerous ground. “I planned to be in and out with none the wiser, true.”

  “So why did you go along with Lachlan’s daft abduction? You can’t have been eager to have me on your hands.”

  “You have the measure of it. The last thing I want is to be saddled with a sharp-tongued, conniving Campbell.” Again, he pronounced the name with a hateful twist as he returned to his task.

  “Then just how do I fit into your scheme? You said you didn’t want ransom.”

  “I told you. As surety. You’re the guarantee that will prevent Campbell from taking revenge on the Duart MacLeans. As long as I have you, your uncle will think twice about retaliating against Duart for this night’s work—or any other.”

  Katrine wasn’t so certain her uncle would subvert his plans or betray his sense of justice simply to save her skin, but it would be foolish to continue expressing her doubts to the man who held her in his power.

  “My uncle will come after you, you know,” she assured him with feigned confidence as he returned her slippers to her feet.

  Raith shrugged. “The MacLeans had been pursued with fire and sword by the Campbells long before the Forty-five. We know how to elude capture. They’ll not apprehend me. And they’ll not find you.”

  He said it with finality, effectively closing the subject. Then he pushed the hem of her nightdress back down and rose. “Can you go on now?”

  Disheartened again, Katrine gazed up at him. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. But you can ride with me.”

  “How noble of you to offer. Your conscience must truly be pricking you.”

  Ignoring her gibe, Raith reached down his hand. “I trust you’re willing to be sensible now.”

  “Are you certain you can tolerate my riding with you? I’m sure I wouldn’t like to inconvenience you.”

  That brought a reluctant grin to his mouth. “I’m sure you would.”

  Katrine had absolutely no desire to share a horse with him, but she was grateful not to have to walk, for her blisters truly were paining her. She allowed Raith to settle her on his horse, but this time she rode astride, finding it a more secure position. In the interest of safety, she overlooked the immodest way the bunched-up skirt of her nightshift scarcely covered her knees.

  Katrine realized the peril of the arrangement, however, as soon as Raith vaulted up behind her. It was a mistake, being this close to him. Pressed against the smooth, firm muscles of a man who’d obviously worked and fought and ridden hard all his life, Katrine suddenly felt limp and powerless. The contact was shocking, dangerous…exhilarating. And it only grew worse as Raith set the horse in motion.

  The sensations disconcerted her entirely. This wasn’t supposed to happen, this singing in her blood—not with someone like him. Raith MacLean was no dream hero conjured from her imaginings. He was an outlaw, a cattle pirate.

  But he was also a man. With a lean, lithe body that at the moment seemed the masculine complement to her own. A hard broad chest that offered support and comfort, powerful thighs that nestled hers in a flagrantly suggestive way. And his warmth. Katrine’s heart began thudding as his body heat enveloped her along with his musky male scent.

  Helpless to move on her own, Katrine was vastly relieved when a fierce shoulder grip jerked her upright. For a startled moment she wondered if she had possibly affected Raith the way he had her. But then she scolded herself for being a gomerel. Virile though he no doubt was, Raith MacLean was indifferent to her. He simply didn’t want her leaning on him. From then on Katrine concentrated on keeping the contact between them to a bare minimum.

  And after a while she nearly forgot her dire situation, so engrossed did she become in admiring the majestic beauty of the Highland hills. Sunlight glinted through alder and mountain ash trees, while all around her rose mountain crags wreathed in early-morning mist.

  They were following the course of a rippling burn, and the water, as it tumbled over stones and fallen logs, created a musical symphony that seemed to echo in the stillness. Soon they began climbing straight up, toward the heavens. Dazed by the sensation of touching the sky, Katrine caught her breath as she gazed upward at the blue, blue vista. And when she glimpsed a golden eagle gliding effortlessly overhead, her spirits soared with it. In spite of everything, she hadn’t felt so al
ive in years.

  Suddenly she was glad she had returned to her father’s homeland. She was in the Highlands at last. She was truly here. Excitement, long suppressed, unfurled inside her. No, she wouldn’t let a mere abduction spoil her homecoming. Instead she would enjoy the glorious morning and not think too deeply about the immediate future.

  Raith watched Katrine’s absorbed awe in rigid silence, trying to ignore the feel of her, the look of her, the way her eyes were bright and keen and noticed every small detail of her surroundings. Her unruly hair shone like fire in the sunlight, and when a curling strand escaped her loosened braid and blew back across his face to burn him, Raith winced and mentally swore an oath.

  He greatly regretted sending his men on ahead while he dealt with the Campbell wench. Yet he hadn’t wanted to slow his clansmen down more than they already had been, since it was dangerous for a band of armed Highlanders to be out and about during daylight hours. And if the British troops did happen to pursue, he would be the only one held responsible for Miss Campbell’s abduction. Now, however, he would have given a month’s rents from his own tenants just to have another mount present, so he would no longer have to ride with the tormenting lass.

  Perhaps he was the one who should get down and walk, if he had no more control over his body than this. He’d been in a half-aroused state ever since he’d met her, and when he was touching her, when her slender body was pressed against him, moving rhythmically with the horse’s walk as it was now, his arousal was total.

  There was a simple explanation for why he was so physically attracted to a Campbell, Raith thought, gritting his teeth. It had been some time since he’d had a woman, for though he knew of a dozen females on his own estate who would willingly share his bed, his position as laird and his own conscience precluded his taking advantage of their dependent status.

  But lust was a simple basic need, easily satisfied. There was a comely widow in Strontian who would be delighted to accommodate him, and a lively tavern keeper’s daughter in Corran who had caught his eye during his last sojourn there. Then again, perhaps he should visit the stews of Edinburgh for a few nights of wild revelry, as he had during his university days. Or return to France and present himself at court. The ladies of France knew very well how to make a man lose himself in their perfumed charms.

  And he badly needed to lose himself. Perhaps then he wouldn’t be so affected by the nearness of a woman. Especially this woman…an infuriating, hot-tempered Campbell, whose slender body ignited him like a blaze from her flaming hair.

  Chapter Four

  To Raith’s frustration, Katrine suddenly grew talkative, bombarding him with questions about the country they traveled. Raith answered in grudging monosyllables, till at last he lost patience. “Don’t you know how to keep a still tongue in your head?” he demanded.

  Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. The hard eyes blasted her with hostility.

  Bewildered by his attack, Katrine thought over her last words, but could find nothing provocative in asking him to name the lovely star-shaped blossom she had spied growing from a crevice in the rock. But she might have been talking too much, Katrine acknowledged. Or perhaps Raith MacLean simply didn’t want to converse with a Campbell.

  Katrine’s spine stiffened. He didn’t like her asking questions, did he? It was a small advantage, but an advantage nonetheless.

  Her eyes widened with mock innocence. “You wouldn’t gag me again, merely for admiring a flower, would you? Your conscience would smite you mercilessly for it, I daresay.”

  She nearly smiled when a muscle tightened in his jaw. He looked angry enough to set her down from his horse. But she was confident he wouldn’t. He was still feeling guilty over her blisters and her scraped knee. But he should feel guilty, Katrine thought defiantly. Torturing a defenseless captive that way… And if she had anything to say about it, he would soon feel even more uncomfortable.

  For the next half hour, she kept up a steady barrage of chatter, fairly oozing cordiality as she talked on and on, pausing only briefly now and again for answers that never came.

  But as they crested a ridge, even Katrine fell silent.

  “Oh,” she breathed, gazing down on a wild glen with its small shimmering loch surrounded by towering, savage peaks. The prospect was breathtaking, beautiful. She wished she had her paints, or at least a drawing pencil, so she could attempt to capture the stark loveliness. Yet she feared she couldn’t do it justice.

  “You ken where we are?” Raith demanded suddenly.

  “No, why should I?”

  “I thought your own conscience might be smiting you this time. Can you not feel the blood on your Campbell hands?”

  Katrine cast a puzzled glance over her shoulder at him.

  “‘Tis Glencoe. Surely you’ve heard of it. Or do you Campbells so conveniently forget your cowardly treacherous deeds?”

  She didn’t answer. She had indeed heard of the infamous massacre at Glencoe, but it was not a tale she liked to remember.

  “Should I refresh your memory?” Raith gibed, watching her face. “Should I remind you how Sassenach troops of Argyll’s regiment led by Robert Campbell of Glenlyon billeted with the MacDonalds for a fortnight, and then betrayed every law of civilized hospitality and murdered their kind hosts?”

  “No,” Katrine murmured, wishing Raith wouldn’t look at her so, with such contempt and hatred, as if he blamed her for what her kinsmen had done long before she was born. It was one of the most disgraceful days in Scottish history, the murder of forty MacDonalds by the Campbells, but it had happened nearly seventy years ago.

  “They call it the Glen of Weeping now,” Raith said softly.

  Tearing her gaze from his, Katrine turned to face forward again, the wild beauty of the glen spoiled for her. She resented Raith for that, and for the way he’d made her feel like a complete worm for being a Campbell.

  The Highlanders lived by a staunch set of rules, a very Scottish set of rules, with long memories for past deeds. In the Highlands, acts of violence led to blood feuds and fierce retaliation, with descendants taking revenge for crimes committed generations before. And by the harsh Scots code, she was just as guilty for acts committed by others of her family, whether she had personally participated or not.

  Trying to shake off her latest depression, Katrine fixed her artist’s eye on the view, contemplating what scene she would choose if she had a sheet of canvas. She was determined not to let Raith’s enmity dampen her spirits.

  Even so, she was glad to leave the scene of such breathless beauty. When they came out on the far side of the pass of Glencoe, she took a slow breath, inhaling deeply of the crisp, cool early-morning air, as if she might cleanse herself of the remembered horror of Glencoe.

  Not for a moment, though, would Raith allow her to forget who she was. When they passed a burned-out crofter’s hovel, he made certain Katrine knew who was responsible for the destruction.

  “Courtesy of the English soldiers,” Raith said caustically, his sarcastic tone grating on her nerves.

  Katrine wrenched her gaze from the crumbling blackened stone of the hut to glare back at him. “I’ve no doubt you committed crimes that are just as atrocious when you harried the Campbells!”

  “Cease your blathering, or by the devil, I’ll do it for you.”

  She pressed her lips together in a tight line. Raith MacLean spoke the King’s English as well as she, but it seemed the farther into the Highlands they traveled, the more Scottish he became. Or perhaps his speech only changed when his emotions were aroused. As they were now. His fierce anger was reflected in his eyes, the smoky dark blue of Highland thunderclouds.

  Katrine looked at him, at the hard-planed handsome face, and bit her lip. It was dangerous for her to bait him, this heartless man who had stolen her from her home and family. And so far her defiance had done her little good.

  Suddenly she was tired of fighting him, tired of having to defend herself from his hatred and contempt. Katrine’s s
houlders slumped as she turned away.

  The capitulation of her spirits signaled the fatigue she had been keeping at bay, and weariness seeped back into her limbs with a vengeance. She was so very tired. Perhaps she ought to try to sleep. At least then her wayward tongue wouldn’t provoke him further and induce him to make good his threats to tie her up again, or worse. She let her head droop, hoping she could manage to stay upright on the moving horse and thus avoid contact with the man behind her.

  She couldn’t. A short while later, when Katrine dozed off, her body relaxed back against him. Raith jerked her upright again, startling her awake.

  “God’s teeth, sit up and quit using me for a pillow!”

  She obeyed for the space of a dozen heartbeats, but shortly fatigue claimed her again, and she sank against him once more. A faint warning bell sounded in Katrine’s head at the intimate contact, but she ignored it. The lithe muscular chest was warm at her back, warm and comforting, and at the moment she didn’t have the will to deny herself this slight solace.

  And Raith wasn’t merciless enough to refuse it to her. He held himself rigidly, silently swearing to himself, and let her sleep.

  When the light weight grew too uncomfortable to bear, he shifted in the saddle, nestling her limp body more securely in the curve of his shoulder. Katrine’s head fell back, giving him a glimpse of her face. Against his will, Raith stared down at her, surveying the fine bone structure and pale, glowing skin. Not beautiful perhaps, but arresting all the same. With a subtle loveliness that struck a responsive masculine chord in him. A protective chord, even.

  When a fiery curl fell across her cheek, Raith slowly reached up to brush it back. It was merely a reflex action, he told himself, remembering who and what she was: a Campbell, and a half-English one at that.

  Yet as he gazed down at her, he felt a tightness in his chest, an unwanted emotion stirring in him. She looked completely trusting with those flashing green eyes closed and the silky auburn lashes shadowing her pale cheeks. Trusting and innocent.