Tender Feud

When she finally looked at him, he met her wide eyes with a bland smile. “Besides,” Raith added truthfully, “a mountain cat usually avoids humans and won’t fight unless provoked.”

Leaning back then, he rested his weight on his elbows and stretched his long bare legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. Katrine tensed, not quite able to ignore the brazen display of well-shaped male limbs.

“But wildcats aren’t the biggest danger,” Raith sa

id casually. “In these hills, it’s fog. The sky can be perfectly clear one moment, and the next, a mist as thick as soup can settle over the glens for days. If you were caught in such, you’d never survive the exposure.”

Katrine flashed him another glance, her raised eyebrow conveying her skepticism.

“‘Tis true, I assure you. Ask any MacLean to tell you the tale of Gillean, the first chief of our clan. He wandered lost in a fog till he was near starvation, and after four days he planted his battle-ax by a cranberry bush and lay down to die. That’s how the ax on our coat of arms originated.”

Remembering that Clan Gillean was the ancient name of the MacLeans, Katrine became curious in spite of herself. “Well, did he?” she asked when Raith fell silent. “Die, I mean.”

“No. He was found—insensible but not dead. But he was a Highlander and not an English-bred lass like yourself.”

“You’re trying to frighten me.” Her green eyes had narrowed, but Raith’s dark blue gaze met hers steadily.

“No, I’m merely issuing you a warning—and trying to save myself trouble. I don’t want to be obliged to rescue you.”

Katrine very much doubted that the Laird of Ardgour would trouble himself to rescue her if she got herself in such a fix, but she refrained from saying so. She had understood Raith’s point, though: if she cherished any hope of escaping by way of the mountains, it might not be worth the risk.

And it did give her pause to consider that she could die out there. After all, she was in no physical danger here at his home. How foolish it would be to get herself killed trying to escape when there was still a very good chance of her uncle finding her unharmed.

She refused, however, to allow Raith MacLean to spoil the beauty of the dawn by making her reflect on her captivity. Pressing her lips together, Katrine shifted her gaze to the horizon, determined to ignore her unwelcome companion.

The silence between them grew, stretching out over several minutes. Beside Katrine, Raith also watched the sunrise, but he was having difficulty keeping his thoughts directed into safe channels. His glance kept straying to the woman at his side, following the slender lines of her body.

Wondering if she always held her back so straight, he let his gaze fall to her neat, trim waist, then lower still to the flowing soft curves of her hips, his experienced eye noting the lack of hoops under her skirt. It was from memory that he recalled the well-formed length of her legs, for they were modestly covered at the moment; but it was entirely the fault of his imagination that he pictured those slim legs twined around his waist as he took his pleasure with her.

The image made his loins tighten.

Trying to banish his erotic thoughts, Raith lifted his gaze to her hair, which was a mistake. The unpowdered mass was a copper fire of wild curls, radiant in the first glowing rays of the sun.

Determined to break the spell this roy-haired Campbell witch was weaving on him, Raith cleared his throat and voiced the first thought that occurred to him. “Flora tells me you haven’t given her any trouble.” Flora’s actual words had been, “She’s no’ a laggard,” which from the dour housekeeper was high praise indeed, but Raith had no intention of extolling Katrine’s virtues as a prisoner.

And Katrine had no intention of discussing the subject with him, since it would undoubtedly lead her to lose her temper. She held her tongue, wishing Raith would go away.

“You seem to have a deal of experience keeping house,” he remarked idly.

“I am accustomed to supervising servants in my aunt’s household,” she clarified, pricked into responding. “My Aunt Gardner is persuaded that to supervise properly, one should know how to do the task oneself.”

The coolness of her tone should have persuaded him to leave, but he didn’t appear anxious to end the conversation. In fact, she felt his probing gaze all the more.

“What of the blisters on your heels? Have they healed properly?”

His choice of subject was unsettling, for it made her recall the care he had taken in binding her wounds, the gentleness of his fingers. She didn’t want to discuss her blisters, but decided it wiser to reply to his question; Raith MacLean was quite capable of checking for himself.

“Yes they have healed.”

“And your knee?”

Was he set on discomfiting her? Katrine had to stifle the urge to whisk her legs out of sight—which was absurd, since her knee was completely covered by her skirt, well hidden from his dark eyes.

Murmuring an affirmative reply, she hazarded a glance at Raith. He was a lithe, lawless figure in his green hunting plaid, with his raven hair unbound and recklessly tousled, his jaw shadowed by dark stubble. A brigand of the first order.

So how could she possibly take pleasure in watching him? And why did she find his dangerous masculinity so appealing?

It wasn’t fair, Katrine thought resentfully. The sight of her hadn’t ruffled his composure one bit, while seeing him there, barefoot, nearly bare-chested in the early dawn, was having a decidedly disturbing effect on her. What was worse, the lamentable reaction of her senses was heightened whenever he merely looked at her with those hard blue eyes. Doubtless, if he were to touch her again…