Tender Feud

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.

“And that,” Raith muttered to himself, “is the dilemma.” She was innocent of her uncle’s tyranny and Argyll’s treacherous greed. Or as innocent as any Campbell could be.

Sighing, Raith forced himself to avert his gaze. But he couldn’t dismiss Katrine’s presence as easily, for he took another breath and inhaled her sweet scent—lavender with a hint of pine from the forest floor. Did he have a right to draw her so presumptuously into this feud? To use her as a pawn in the dangerous game he was playing, challenging Argyll’s sovereignty?

There could be only one answer to that question, Raith knew, remembering the proud Duart men who had humbled themselves to plead with him for aid. Even if he wasn’t their laird, they were MacLeans. He had a responsibility to ease their burdens if he could.

And he could. He would use any means at his disposal, even if it entailed holding hostage a helpless, innocent female. When it came to weighing a Campbell’s plight against the suffering of his clansmen, he had only one choice.

And at any event, Katrine Campbell wasn’t at all helpless, he thought sardonically. He had never met a female who fit that description less. She had already tested his patience to the limit with her frequent attempts to thwart him. He’d had to keep his wits about him just to be a match for her resourcefulness. And defending himself against her sharp rejoinders had been an exercise in mental swordplay. If she hadn’t drawn blood with her sharp tongue yet, it doubtless was only due to weariness and the suddenness of her abduction. She hadn’t rallied her forces yet, that was all.

“And God help the poor devils in her path when she does,” Raith muttered under his breath. His mouth twisted in a grimace as he considered the irony of the situation. He was the one who had abducted her. He was supposed to be in charge. So why did he feel so little control? Why did he feel so beleaguered already, before he had even reached his destination?

Just then Katrine stirred in his arms, settling herself more comfortably between his thighs. Raith stiffened, his muscles immediately tensing at the feel of slender, barely covered curves pressed against his groin. When she didn’t waken, though, he swallowed the oath that had sprung to his lips and forced his thoughts along less carnal lines.

At the moment he was required to bear her nearness with fortitude, but as soon as he reached Cair House, he would be rid of her. His house was large enough that he wouldn’t have to lay eyes on her if he didn’t wish to. He could banish her to the kitchens and never see her again. His servants could be counted on to watch over her there.

The reflection helped to cool his overheated blood, and with a little fierce determination Raith managed to ignore almost entirely the soft femininity that threatened his control.

They rode in silence for nearly an hour, but as they left the hills behind and neared Loch Linnhe, Katrine stirred again, this time coming slowly awake. She lay quietly against Raith’s shoulder for a moment, absorbing the hard warm strength of him. Drowsily she opened her eyes, her gaze taking in the strong bronzed column of a neck rippling with sinew, and an aggressive stubble-covered jaw.