Tender Feud

It was quite some time later when he closed the ledger and began searching through the desk drawers. Katrine watched as he found a small pouch and spilled the contents on the desktop. Catching a glimpse of red sealing wax, she guessed that the small metal object he was examining by candlelight was a seal. Her uncle’s seal perhaps? The duke’s?

He wrapped the seal in a linen handkerchief and tucked it in his belt, then returned the pouch to the drawer and rose gracefully. He stood looking down at her, but Katrine refused to cower this time. Even when he bent in front of her to check the tautness of the gag and the binding at her wrists, she remained rigidly still. It was only when he reached for her ankles that she jerked her feet away.

He let her go, flashing another of his rakish grins, his white teeth gleaming in his dark face. “I regret that I must leave you this way, wildcat, but you’ve given me a healthy respect for your resourcefulness.” He paused, then placed a lean finger under her chin, raising it so he could better study her face. “It really is a shame I have so little time this evening. Under other circumstances I might have been persuaded to pursue the acquaintance.”

Katrine stared at him. The churl was flirting with her!

“Shall I leave the lamp for you?” he queried as he stood.

His arrogance was beyond belief. He obviously was so certain he wouldn’t be caught that he was willing to leave a light burning while he made his escape. Nor did he seem the least concerned that she might be able to identify him.

Katrine glowered at him as he swept out an arm and mockingly made her a courtly bow. “Give my regards to Colin Campbell.” Soft amusement tinged the words, making Katrine grind her teeth over the wool as he turned to the window.

Watching him with impotent rage, she vowed she would get even with him. When her Uncle Colin returned, she would see to it that this ill-bred ruffian was hounded by every soldier and magistrate in the county of Argyll. Indeed, the duke himself would hear about this!

She was still swearing it to herself when he climbed agilely over the sill and swung the window shut behind him, making the hinges squeal.

Alone, Katrine waited for several minutes, in case he should return, before she reached up behind her head and began to struggle with the knots holding her gag in place. It was difficult with her hands tied, but at last she felt the knots give way. Gratefully she pulled the suffocating wool out of her mouth and rubbed her swollen lips. Now for the rest of her bonds.

She was reaching for her ankles when she heard another sound, a footstep outside the window.

Katrine froze, her heart starting to pound again as she glanced over her shoulder. The squealing window slowly swung open.

“Raith, where are ye, lad?” came a loud whisper as a thick, muscular arm came into view.

Katrine was startled to realize the arm belonged to someone other than the dastard who had tied her up. This man was shorter, though massively built, and his hair was nearly the color of her own beneath his blue, brimless Highland bonnet. He was also wearing an outlawed plaid draped over his shoulder, which only confirmed to Katrine his nefarious intent.

He looked as startled as she, for he stared her up and down. “I ken Raith tied ye up like that.” He spoke in a Highland burr that was thick and unfamiliar to Katrine’s anglicized ears.

“Raith…is that what you call that—that scoundrel? I’m sure the militia of the castle garrison will be pleased to know his identity!”

The red-haired fellow obviously realized his mistake in revealing his cohort’s name, for his expression turned to dismay. Quickly he clambered over the windowsill, showing thick, hairy legs that, except for knitted woolen stockings and stout leather brogues, were bare beneath his knee-length kilt. “Oh no, lassie, ye canna tell on him. Raith would hae me head.”

“Well, if he doesn’t, I will! Either way it will be just as painful.” Katrine hesitated, scowling at the new intruder. “I might, however, be persuaded to leniency, if you untie my hands this instant.”

He eyed her warily, not moving. “And who are ye?”

Katrine clenched her teeth in impatience. “I am Katrine Campbell, Colin Campbell’s niece. Now do as—”

“We dinna hae any word that Campbell had a niece.”

“I just arrived today! Now untie me, you fool, before I scream and bring the militia down on your witless head.”

For a moment she wondered if he truly was a simpleton, for he merely stared at her, glancing from her bound hands, which she had thrust at him, to the strip of wool that had been her gag but was now lying on the floor beside her. His brain must have been functioning in some capacity, however, since he apparently came to a decision; his face suddenly brightened. Kneeling before her on bare knees, he snatched up the gag.

Katrine realized two things in quick succession. She had obviously said the wrong thing. And she was going to be silenced again. Her temper boiled. She was not going to submit peacefully to having that wet wool stuffed in her mouth once more!

Regrettably she had little choice. Not that she submitted or that she did so peacefully—indeed, she fought this beefy cur with every ounce of resistance she could muster. But if her earlier captor had possessed a grip of steel, this one had double the strength, possibly due to his heftier weight. With scarcely more trouble than he would have had subduing a bairn, he wound the gag around her head and tied it. Then, wrapping a huge meaty arm around her waist, he scooped her up and flung her over an iron shoulder.

Breathless, furious, Katrine pounded at his massive plaid-covered back, but she had no more effect than a fly swatting at a bull. She was required to stop momentarily when he climbed out the window with her, for fear of having her brains dashed against the sill, but when they were through, her fists resumed beating a futile tattoo on his back. Her muffled screeches as they hurtled across the garden were ineffectual as well, for upside down, with her head bouncing like a rag doll’s, a powerful shoulder rammed into her stomach, she could scarcely breathe, let alone articulate what she would do to this boorish brute once he released her.

She left off pounding then and tried clawing at his back, but he ran on, headed toward a copse of trees. When Katrine caught a glimpse of a horse tethered to a limb, she doubled her efforts to escape, kicking and squirming as well as scratching. For her pains, she received a stinging slap to her backside. Her shriek of outrage was cut off as he slung her belly down across the animal’s saddle.

The breath knocked from her body, she lay there stunned for an instant. But when her redheaded captor left her to retrieve the reins, Katrine gave a kick of her feet and a hard push with her hands, and managed to slide off the horse, landing with a jolt on her knees. She heard her abductor muttering about troublemaking hellions as he roughly returned her to her previous position on the saddle and clambered up behind her.

The jar to her stomach as he kicked the horse into motion silenced Katrine for a few moments. She had no breath left to shriek. When she finally recovered it and resumed clawing at the massive, hairy leg beneath his kilt, a heavy hand pressed her down, battering further her already battered rib cage against the hard saddle. Katrine, exhausted and in pain, finally gave up her struggle.

Perhaps, she reflected dazedly as they hurtled through the night, she should have listened to her Aunt Gardner. Her English aunt always termed Papa’s kin the “wild heathen Highlanders,” complaining frequently that Katrine’s father had filled her head with romantic nonsense. Now, less than twelve hours after her arrival, she was being mauled and jounced along by a madman.