Tender Feud

Determinedly, Katrine opened her eyes and peered up ahead. In the faint moonlight she could make out the broad, plaidcovered backs of the MacLeans, and the coal-black hair of their leader. His head was bent to the man beside him as he conversed in low tones. Katrine strained her ears to catch the soft murmurs that occasionally drifted back to her, but they were speaking Gaelic. No matter how intently she listened to the dissonant syllables of their Highland tongue, she could understand only a word or two.

Surreptitiously glancing to either side of her then, she took careful measure of her surroundings. Where in heaven’s name was she? All around them were high hills, with barren rocks and crags topping the highest points. Yet she couldn’t tell which peak was Ben Cruachan. Worse, the scattering of Scotch pines on their left had begun to thicken, which suggested they soon might be swallowed up by a forest.

A trail. She had to leave a trail for her clansmen to follow.

Taking a cautious breath, Katrine shifted in the saddle.

“Mind ye, I’ll turn ye tapsalteerie if ye start yer girnin’ again,” Lachlan muttered, which Katrine interpreted to mean he would turn her over his horse again if she so much as squeaked.

But she had no intention of opening her mouth or calling attention to herself. Slowly, with infinite care, she released the chestnut mane she was clutching and slid her bound hands beneath the plaid she was wearing. Her fingers groping, she found the hem of her nightshift and the two rows of delicate lace she had painstakingly stitched around the bottom, in defiance of her Aunt Gardner’s cheerless Presbyterian precepts.

She had never expected her stubbornness, Katrine reflected as inch by inch she shredded the lace, to stand her in such good stead. Nor had she expected to turn her brazen abductor’s grudging generosity to her advantage. Now she was grateful for more than the warmth of the plaid he had given her, for it shielded her actions from view.

When she had a strip of lace that she judged to be about three inches, she tore off the end, eased it over her left knee, and let the scrap drop to the ground.

She didn’t dare look behind her to see how effective her stratagem was. She wanted the lace to be spotted by the pursuing soldiers, but not be so visible that her Highland escorts would discover what she was about. Since there was no bellow of alarm from Lachlan, Katrine decided he hadn’t seen what she’d done. Slowly she let out the breath she had been holding and started the procedure over again.

She had just managed to let fall the third strip of white lace when they came upon one of the small shieling huts that were scattered throughout the glens of Scotland. The mean dwelling was silent and dark, but Katrine eyed it hopefully, wondering if it would do her any good to let out a screech and alert the inhabitants to her plight.

The same thought must have occurred to Raith MacLean, for he suddenly turned his horse and rode back toward her. Katrine’s heart sank. He obviously wanted to pass unnoticed. And no doubt he was prepared to gag her again or worse if she dared open her mouth.

She held herself stiffly as he reached her, his mere presence threat enough to make her choose the more sensible course of holding her tongue. When he reined in his horse abruptly, she froze. His gaze was fixed on the darkness beyond her.

His penetrating stare sliced into Katrine. Knowing what she would find, she slowly turned her head to look behind her. A scrap of white lace stood out clearly in the mist-shrouded moonlight.

She thought about denying her guilt. For about one second. But when she saw the hard set of his jaw, she didn’t dare even breathe.

“Ride ahead and wait for me,” he ordered Lachlan softly, the grimness of his tone making her quiver. “If she so much as whimpers, silence her.”

Katrine had the disquieting feeling he meant to use something more effective than a gag. She didn’t utter a sound as they rode a safe distance from the crofter’s hut, nor when the Highlanders gathered in a copse to wait for their leader. He wasn’t long in coming, much to Katrine’s regret.

“She’s left a trail of white lace for her uncle’s soldiers to follow,” Raith announced as he rode up to her. Even in the dim light she could see that anger had replaced the expression of amused contempt he had worn earlier. He set upon Lachlan first. “Didn’t you have the slightest notion what she was up to?”

“I didna think.” Lachlan hung his head, looking so like an overgrown puppy who had been kicked that Katrine almost felt sorry for him.

She needed her sympathy for herself, though, when Raith turned his wrath on her.

“How long have you been strewing your little clues all over the glen, Miss Campbell?”

Her throat suddenly dry, Katrine couldn’t answer. She flinched when he reached out to grasp her arm, none too gently, his long fingers curling into her soft flesh.

“How long?”

“A few minutes!” she cried. “Well,” she added when his eyes narrowed at her, “perhaps more than a few…a half hour…perhaps.”

“And how many of these bits of lace did you drop?”

“Th-three.” She hated the way her voice quivered, but she couldn’t help herself.

“I hope for your sake you’re telling the truth.” Releasing her arm then, he shocked Katrine by pushing aside the plaid she was wearing.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer as his gaze dropped, searching the front of her nightshift for incriminating evidence. Lifting the hem, he examined the remaining lace trim, comparing the missing length to the scrap in his hand. Apparently he didn’t trust her.

His lack of trust wasn’t what sent color flooding Katrine’s face, though. It was his brazenness in baring her legs almost to the thigh. And her own anger that he could intimidate her so easily.

When he let the gown’s hem drop with a contemptuous flick of his wrist, Katrine raised her chin in defiance. “A prisoner has the right to attempt escape.”