TENDER FEUD

by Nicole Jordan

  Seeing the rows of leather-bound tomes, she set her candle on a table and began to take the books down, one by one, thumbing through the pages, searching for what she needed.

  That was how Raith found her, standing on tiptoe, reaching for a book above her head, wearing a nightdress of filmy white batiste that was a few inches too short and bared her slender ankles and slippered feet.

  “Perhaps,” he said in a tight voice, “you might tell me what the devil you’re up to.”

  The suddenness of his appearance out of the darkness startled Katrine out of her wits. With a gasp of alarm, she whirled to face him, her hand flying to her throat, the book she’d been holding spilling to the carpet.

  He must have just returned, she decided staring at him as he stood in the doorway, for he was still dressed in dark riding clothes. “What…are you doing here?” she demanded breathlessly, unable to still the hammering of her heart.

  “I live here, if I’m not mistaken.” His sardonic tone matched his grim expression.

  “I know…I mean…I didn’t expect you to return just now.”

  “That’s rather obvious.” He bent his stony laird-of-the-manor stare on her as he strode into the room. “I asked you what you’re about. I don’t recall giving you permission to make free of my library.”

  Katrine took a frightened step backward as he advanced on her, coming up against the wall of shelves. “I—I was fetching a book to read.”

  He stopped a scant foot away, towering over her. Katrine watched him warily, her lips parted, her breath erratic.

  Raith, scrutinizing her with narrowed eyes, suddenly became aware of how radiant her uplifted face appeared in the amber glow of the candlelight, of how provocatively virginal her body looked swathed in the yards of feminine fabric.

  Without conscious thought, he glanced downward. The nightdress she was wearing had belonged to Ellen, he supposed, but Katrine Campbell had little in common with his late wife, with her fiery red hair falling over her shoulder in a thick braid and her swelling breasts pressing against the wispy fabric. He could make out the impression of her taut nipples with little effort.

  The sight made desire rise in his loins. Forcibly, though, Raith turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “Why,” he remarked with threatening calm, “do I get the feeling you aren’t telling me the truth?”

  When she didn’t reply, Raith stooped to pick up the book she had dropped. “Medicinal Herbs?” he read, his sharp blue gaze slicing back to her. “I suppose you intended to make good your threat to poison me?”

  “No…of course not.” Seeing the skeptical lift of his black eyebrow, Katrine raised her chin defiantly. Yet she knew it would be better to confess. She would need his permission in any case to accomplish what she planned. “Very well, if you must know, I was looking for a picture book.”

  He stared at her.

  “I hoped…to find some sketches for Meggie to copy. I want to teach her how to draw.”

  “You want to teach Meggie to draw.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?” Katrine snapped, not liking the way he managed to intimidate her with a mere look. “She hasn’t much artistic talent, but technique can be learned. I thought it might allow her to express her thoughts…to ease some of the torment she feels. It would be good for her…since she cannot talk…” Katrine’s voice trailed off lamely while Raith continued to stare down at her.

  He was taken aback by her announcement, both because she’d made it in the teeth of his warning to stay away from his ward, defying his express orders, and because the idea made perfect sense. It would be good for Meggie to have a means of communicating—and to have a woman to teach her such things. He should have thought of it himself. And he shouldn’t have been so quick to judge this Campbell lass, he acknowledged. His concern that she might use Meggie to her own advantage, he realized now, had little foundation; her interest in Meggie stemmed from genuine compassion. Odd, Raith reflected. Ellen had been afraid of the solemn child.

  Again, without meaning to, he found himself remembering his late wife and comparing the two women. Ellen had been delicate and kind and timid. She blushed when he teased her, shrank from him when he frowned. She had cried on their wedding night, and though he had managed to overcome her terror, their marriage bed had always been less than satisfactory. Ellen had submitted to him obediently, without protest, during his infrequent visits, but he’d always felt somehow as if he were forcing himself on her. No matter how gentle or considerate or patient he’d been, to her the act of lovemaking had been a duty.

  It wouldn’t be the same with Katrine, he suspected, remembering her fiery response to his kiss. This lass with her unpredictable temper and her ability to excite him with just a glance from her snapping green eyes would give as good as she got. He wouldn’t have to exercise patience if he were to make love to her. Which was fortunate, for patience was a quality he possessed in short supply where she was concerned.

  Raith’s jaw hardened at the thought. He was daft to be making such comparisons. Ellen had been a gentle soul, a lady of quiet ways, who never spoke loudly or lost her temper, unlike this flame-haired virago who was standing defiantly before him. Only once had he even heard Ellen raise her voice—when she’d screamed in agony, giving birth to his son.

  The guilt and self-derision that had hounded him after her death had led to a long period of abstinence. It hadn’t been only his position as laird or his aversion to siring a bastard on any of his kinswomen that had prevented him from seeking feminine companionship. It had been his unwillingness to sire any child, to subject any woman to the kind of excruciating pain Ellen had endured, to risk her possible death. Which was also daft, considering all the children that were born into the world without complications. But then not all confinements had an attending midwife like Morag....

  Katrine, discomfited by his silence, watched Raith warily, wondering what he was thinking. He was staring down at her, his eyes alive with some emotion she couldn’t name.

  “Please,” she whispered into the silence. “Let me do this one thing for Meggie. I wouldn’t hurt her, truly I wouldn’t.”

  The humble plea brought him out of his morbid reflections and made his heart twist. He had lost the battle, he knew it. He couldn’t deny such a simple, unselfish request—any more than he had been able to refrain from consoling her when she’d wept in his arms. Any more than he could prevent himself from wanting to draw her into his arms again right now.

  Raith closed his eyes, struggling against the insidious hold this half-English Campbell was gaining over him and his senses. It had been a mistake to abduct her in the first place. He’d had no idea what a threat to his sanity this accursed female would be when he’d decided to use her against her uncle and the bloody duke of Argyll. He had to be rid of her soon, before he lost control of himself again, for he doubted that he would be able to stop at just a kiss next time. Realizing the truth of the matter, aware of how badly he wanted her, Raith swore silently.

  Katrine studied his dark, planed features, wondering at the swift play of emotion across his face. Raith’s answer, when it came low and harsh, surprised her. “Very well…you may teach Meggie to draw.”

  “I may?” She hadn’t expected him to give in so easily. “I—I shall need a drawing pencil and parchment.”

  “Ask Flora to find them for you,” he replied tersely. “I’m sure the things you need are packed away somewhere. My wife was accomplished in the feminine refinements.”

  “And I shall need a place to work with Meggie…with a table or desk.”

  “There is a nursery on the floor above this one. Will that do?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “Then you have my permission to use it.”

  He must still be feeling guilty over her near shooting, Katrine decided as she stood there staring up at him.

  “Is there anything else you require, Miss Campbell?” Raith inquired in a dry tone when she didn’t move.

  Katrin
e hesitated, knowing she should take advantage of his receptive mood. “Writing implements,” she murmured. “I should like to write my family in England. My sisters…my aunt…will be concerned if I don’t write. I wouldn’t tell them about my abduction,” she added quickly, seeing his face harden. “I wouldn’t…like to worry them.”

  Raith sighed, knowing he had lost yet another battle. “Very well. You may write to them, as long as you make no mention of your being here or the trouble with your uncle. I shall want to inspect your letters first, of course.”

  “Yes…of course. Thank you,” she whispered.

  The quaver in her voice was almost his undoing. He stood looking down at her, feeling an attraction so powerful that it was almost a physical pain.

  A long, quiet sensually charged spell developed between them, a spell with dangerous undercurrents of passion. He was conscious of the soft curves beneath her night rail, while she was conscious of the way the candlelight made his midnight black hair gleam and his hard blue eyes glitter.

  Katrine knew she should seek her bed, but she couldn’t summon the will to move. There was something fierce, yet warm and exciting in his eyes that held her there, that made her breath catch in her throat. What if he were to kiss her again? she wondered with alarm. And why did she very much want him to?

  Why did this lass fascinate him so? he wondered dazedly. What was it about her that managed to rouse his temper the way no other woman ever had, that aroused his body beyond reason? He was ready to wring her neck one minute, ready to feel her respond with passion the next.

  He started to take a step toward her, to close the distance, but he caught himself at the last moment, clenching his teeth and fists, forcibly restraining himself. It was too long since he’d had a woman, Raith thought not for the first time since he’d met Katrine Campbell. He’d best start thinking about paying a visit to the comely widow in Strontian—the widow who knew how to prevent conception. And most certainly he ought to make use of the dram of whisky Callum had so wisely perceived he needed.

  Determinedly, Raith stepped back a pace.

  Determinedly, Katrine fled.

  By unspoken consent they avoided each other. Raith wouldn’t allow himself to believe he could be attracted to a Campbell, even one as bonny and fascinating as Katrine, while she refused to admit that Raith stirred her in anything but a purely physical way, even if he did have many of the attributes of the hero she had painted in her imagination.

  Raith occupied himself with clan business, Katrine with housework and teaching Meggie to draw. For two hours each afternoon she patiently worked with the child, and as in all her endeavors, she threw her whole soul into the project. Yet during the remaining hours of the day, Katrine was restless and irritable. It rained incessantly, preventing her from enjoying the beauty of her Highland sunrises. Moreover, the strict confinement only heightened her awareness of her latest dilemma, her newest pressing reason for wanting to escape captivity; she was becoming far too enamored of Raith MacLean.

  Her efforts to the contrary, he was always in her thoughts. She found herself alternately worrying whether or not he would kiss her again, and whether or not she wanted him to—and how she would respond if he did. She knew very well she ought to box his ears if he dared take any more liberties, but she very much feared she would wind up returning his kisses, as she’d done before. Oh, if only her uncle would rescue her! Katrine wished she had remembered to ask Raith that night in the library if anything had come of his visit to the Duart MacLeans, but she wasn’t about to approach him with the question now, or even with the letters she had written to her sisters and aunt in England. Those she gave to the housekeeper to give to him. She didn’t dare to go near him herself. She didn’t trust herself.

  She did, however, occasionally berate the Ardgour laird under her breath for taking so long to resolve the issue of her release, and when Flora overheard her muttering about Raith’s heartlessness, the dour housekeeper responded with one of her Scots adages: “Give your tongue more holidays than your head.” Katrine accurately took it to mean “spend less time talking and keep your thoughts on your work.” Still, she couldn’t help thinking about Raith.

  She had been at Cair House for a fortnight by her calculations, when she discovered more about his late wife. She had accompanied Flora into a small, elegant sitting room to fetch a sketch pad to use in her drawing lessons, when her attention was caught by a portrait hanging over a damask-covered settee. The likeness was of a young lady dressed in the height of fashion, her hair curled and pomaded and piled high on her head, her porcelain complexion accented by powder and patch. She was small and delicate and quite beautiful.

  “Is that Ellen MacDonald?” Katrine asked, somehow already knowing the answer. Even before Flora nodded brusquely, Katrine found herself staring at the MacLean’s late wife.

  Her costume was exquisite. The heavy overskirt of ivory brocade was arranged over wide hoops, open in front and looped up at the sides to show a wide expanse of satin petticoat. The square, low-cut bodice boasted a satin stomacher, while each elbow-length sleeve ended in a fall of costly lace. Katrine couldn’t help feeling inferior, but it had less to do with the gorgeous gown than with the woman herself.

  “She was very beautiful,” Katrine admitted in a small voice.

  “Aye, that she was. And with the sweetest nature ye’d ever hope to find.”

  The pointed glance Flora gave her made Katrine lapse into silence. To be compared to such a paragon of virtue, grace and beauty was highly depressing.

  She was thinking of Ellen that afternoon when Raith paid a visit to the nursery to observe Meggie’s progress. Immediately Katrine tensed, discomfited by where her thoughts had been.

  When Raith’s blue eyes found hers over Meggie’s head, Katrine glanced away self-consciously. Was he also mentally comparing her to his late wife? Katrine was wearing a practical day gown of gray serge that once belonged to Ellen, and though her brilliant red hair was brushed and coiled into unaccustomed near submission, she couldn’t hope to compete with the memory of Ellen’s dainty elegance.

  With effort Katrine gave up brooding about the late mistress and roused herself to greet the laird with civility, and to exhibit her pupil’s advancement as an artist. Meggie was dressed in a clean frock, her dark hair neatly drawn back with a ribbon, and she proudly showed Raith her sketch of a rather lumpy butterfly.

  At the tender smile of approval he bestowed on his ward, Katrine felt an unwanted emotion stirring within her. No wonder she had found herself responding to his kiss earlier. Any woman would be attracted to a man who was capable of such gentleness toward a child.

  But his gentleness with Meggie didn’t extend to herself…except when she’d been shot at and he had comforted her…except when he’d allowed her to write to her family....

  Katrine listened to his praise of Meggie with only half an ear, giving a start when Raith concluded in a quiet tone, “Miss Campbell is to be commended.”

  He was looking at her again, Katrine realized, and there was no sign of the usual fierceness or disdain on his features.

  “Thank you,” Raith applauded her in that same softened voice.

  The words settled inside her, warming her. For once she had done something he hadn’t found fault with. But it was a relief when, after a few more moments, he left her alone with Meggie.

  From then on, however, Katrine had trouble concentrating on the lesson. Finally she cut it short and took Meggie down to the kitchens for a treat—which was a mistake, she soon discovered. Flora, along with several of the servants, was busy cooking and baking, and had no time to spare for the child. Katrine settled Meggie in a corner with a dish of crowdie pudding, then donned an apron and went to work preparing hotchpotch, a Scottish dish of mutton chops and vegetables.

  When Meggie was done with licking the last drop of pudding from her spoon, Flora sent the young girl away and delegated Katrine to fetch a pail of buttermilk from the buttery. Katrine complied eagerl
y, anxious to be outside. The rain had finally stopped, and an occasional shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds to brighten the afternoon. She fairly skipped over the cobblestones—until she spied Lachlan MacLean entering the small stone building of the buttery. Wondering what errand had brought him there, Katrine slowed her steps. When she reached the door, she peered silently inside.

  Lachlan was kneeling in one corner before one of the long cooling vats, but it was the sight of the heavy claymore in his hands that startled Katrine. She would have sworn he had been unarmed when he entered the buttery. There was some sort of cupboard beneath the vat, she realized.

  Just then Lachlan shut the small door to the cupboard and rose to his feet. Katrine jumped back, out of sight, her heart pounding. She was certain she had seen something she wasn’t supposed to have seen.

  Stepping back around the side of the building, she waited until she saw Lachlan hastening toward the mews with the claymore. Her curiosity burning, she ventured into the buttery and carefully scanned the corner where he had been. She could see nothing out of place, yet there had to be a false panel beneath the vat. She’d seen it with her own eyes.

  What she discovered after several moments of prodding and probing made her sit back on her heels. A secret weapons cache. A deep underground cupboard that was filled to the brim with arms of all kinds…broadswords and claymores and dirks, flintlock muskets and pistols, blunderbusses, targes—the round, flat shields used by fighting Highlanders—and bullet bags. She had little doubt that she would find the accompanying powder flasks beneath one of the adjacent vats, unless Raith considered it too dangerous to store gunpowder so close to the house and had secreted it elsewhere.

  Raith. Katrine felt her heart start to pound slowly, painfully against her ribs at the thought of him. Not only were these tools of destruction—in sufficient quantities to conduct a small war—but it was treason for such weapons to be in the possession of a Highlander. A hanging offense. While she might cherish the thought of Raith MacLean cooling his heels in jail for an eternity, the thought of his being hanged was quite another matter. Yet that might be his fate anyway if it could be proved that he was the one who had abducted her. Did she want him to hang?