Tender Feud

Ill may you always see, Katrine amended silently as she retrieved the last pitcher. She had just reached Raith when Ewen rose to his feet and solemnly lifted his mug. “To James Francis Edward, the true king over the water.”

“The true king?” Katrine muttered under her breath, irked that these Highlanders persisted in ignoring the fact that King James II, father of the James Francis Edward Stuart whom the MacLeans were toasting, had been deposed in favor of a Protestant more than seventy years ago. “The Old Pretender is what you mean.”

She realized at once it was a witless thing to say. She could hear the shocked intake of breath all around the table, while the MacLeans who had started to rise froze halfway out of their seats.

The elderly man on her right whose tankard she was filling gave her a fearsome scowl that chilled her blood. Unnerved, Katrine took a step away, unconsciously seeking protection from Raith on her left. But she never reached him. Instead, she stepped on the hem of her skirt and tripped, barely catching herself on the table’s edge. The pitcher fell from her hands, spilling its contents across the table in a flood, drenching a grizzled old fellow who she thought might be the shepherd who’d threatened her two days before.

“Dhe!” the old man roared, leaping to his feet.

Katrine barely had time to register the Gaelic curse before he pulled a pistol from his belt and aimed it directly at her. At the same instant, she felt hard fingers gripping her skirt and suddenly found herself being wrenched into Raith’s arms.

The explosion that shattered the room was deafening. Katrine lay sprawled awkwardly across Raith’s lap, stunned by the sudden turn of events, while Raith thundered in Gaelic at the man.

Trying to catch her breath, Katrine lifted her shocked gaze to the smoking pistol in the old man’s gnarled hand. Chalky paleness seeped into her cheeks at the sight. He had come within an ace of blowing her head off.

Her gaze rose another degree. The old man was glaring hatred at her, his gray beard quivering with rage, despite Raith’s tirade. Then, with another curse and a sullen look, the shepherd turned and stalked from the room.

Dazed, Katrine stared after him. When he was gone, she slowly glanced around her. The other MacLeans had risen, their hands by habit resting on their hips where their claymores should have been as they fixed her with hostile scowls. It would perhaps be wise, Katrine reflected numbly, if she took her leave before some other MacLean decided to use her for target practice.

With arms that felt as if the bones had turned to oatmeal, she pushed herself from Raith’s lap and struggled to her feet, clutching at her dignity. For an instant he held on to her arm, supporting her, watching her with a frown between his brows. But she didn’t look at him, didn’t speak to him. Without a word, she walked unsteadily to the door and left the room.

She wasn’t quite sure how she made it to the kitchen, but once there, she knew she couldn’t face all the bustling servants or the sharp-eyed Flora. She slipped away and took refuge in the laundry.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, Katrine picked up the broom and absently began to sweep, needing the soothing familiar task to calm her violated nerves. But her hands shook so badly from her narrow brush with death that she could scarcely hold the handle.

She stiffened when Raith spoke softly from the doorway. “Are you all right?”

A surge of self-righteous anger whipped through her. “No, I am not all right! I detest this place! I’m sick of being kept a prisoner! I’m tired of being made to look like a fool—” She broke off and glared at him. “I know, don’t say it! I’m doing that well enough…on my own.”

Her voice quavered at the end, and although her thoughts automatically consigned Raith, his clan and the whole male population to perdition, Katrine couldn’t summon the steadiness to tell him so. Letting the broom fall, she sank down on the bench before the pine board worktable and put her trembling hands over her face. “You and your henchmen…are nothing but uncivilized, bloodthirsty heathens....”

She began to weep then, brokenly, a soft hopeless sound that tore at Raith. It would have taken a heart exceedingly colder than his to be able to ignore her distress. He moved to her side, and sat down beside her on the bench. It seemed the most natural action in the world to draw her into his arms.

“Shh,” he murmured, holding her close.

Katrine buried her face against his chest and wept harder. “That brute…t-tried to kill me.”

“Hush…cease your weeping lass, before you turn into a watering pot.” Raith stroked her vibrant hair and soothed her with soft meaningless words of comfort, the way he sometimes did for his ward. He was aware Katrine couldn’t be thinking very clearly, accepting solace from him. He couldn’t be thinking with much lucidity, either, Raith reflected, to allow himself to get this close to her, especially after what had happened between them in the glade. He was still burning with frustrated desire. Yet as her tears dampened the front of his shirt, he felt the seed of an emotion gentler, yet much headier than lust, unfurl inside him.

It was a moment before her sobs quieted enough that she could speak with any coherence. “Why does that man hate me so much? Whatever did I do to earn such enmity?”

Raith gave a mental sigh as he pressed his cheek against her hair. The answer to that question lay centuries deep. The bloodshed and bitterness between the MacLeans and the Campbells were scarcely ever dormant, and easily revived by even such an unwitting incident as a spilled pitcher of ale.

Raith sighed again, aloud this time. He was to blame for letting the situation get out of hand. He should never have allowed this flame-haired virago near his men. He should have ordered her away the moment she appeared. “Hector,” he said gently, “cannot be faulted too harshly for his hatred of the Campbells. He lost most of his kin in the Fifteen and the Forty-five, and that’s not so easily forgotten.”

“But I was the one he took in aversion, I personally, not my clan.”

“‘Tis all one and the same to a Highlander. Besides, I’d say Hector wasn’t without provocation. First you disparage his king, then drench him with ale—is it any wonder he lost his temper?” Raith paused, and there was amusement in his voice when he next spoke. “You of all people should understand that. You’ve quite an unstable temper yourself, and every time you turn it loose, you manage to set the heather ablaze.”

At his gentle teasing, Katrine sniffed and pulled back, raising red-rimmed eyes to his face. A glittering tear rolled down her cheek to the corner of her quivering mouth, and Raith wanted to flick it away with his tongue.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did about the Old Preten—about your king. But the ale was an accident. I tripped on my hem…my skirt is too long.” She started to cry again, and his hands came up to steady her, gently gripping her shoulders.

“Then we’ll have to find you something better to wear.” His voice was gruffly tender. “My wife’s clothes should fit you.”

Katrine’s weeping stopped abruptly. Sniffing again, she stared at Raith, her lashes thick and wet. He was offering to let her wear Ellen’s clothing? She swallowed, suddenly remembering what else he had done for her—yanking her out of the path of a pistol ball. “It seems I’m beholden to you…for saving my life.”

“And for letting you use me as a handkerchief.” The corners of his mouth quirked, surprising her. “I trust you’ve finished indulging in waterworks?” He reached up to brush the moisture from her cheek. “The only thing I ask, my sweet shrew, is that you make a concerted effort to keep your incendiary comments to yourself when you’re around my clan—or I’ll have to lock you in the dungeon just to protect you.”