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.
“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.”