A hint of color tinged her cheeks. “I don’t suppose you all are bloodthirsty.” She hesitated, then rose abruptly to her feet, needing to get away from the nearness of him. “If you don’t object, I believe I shall retire to my room.” She didn’t give him time to say no, but handed the cup to Callum as she brushed past.
Both men watched her leave, surprised by her sudden flight. Then Raith glanced around him, surprised at himself. Never in his life had he been in his kitchens so much—and certainly not in the washroom.
“Ellen’s clothes, hmm?” Callum murmured.
The tone was bland, but Raith looked up to find his cousin watching him with humor. In response, a wry, reluctant grin curved Raith’s mouth. “A momentary weakening that I shall no doubt come to regret.”
“No doubt you will.”
Leaning back to rest his elbows on the table behind him, Raith let out a sigh. “What is it about a weeping woman that makes a man long to offer her comfort?”
“Lust, perhaps? A need to feel powerful?”
He didn’t answer, knowing Callum’s reply wasn’t so much serious as it was mocking—the kind of good-natured taunting they’d shared when they were boys.
“Ah, to what depths have you sunk, cousin,” Callum said in the same vein, “coddling such a provocative wench.”
Raith slowly shook his head. “She is provocative, isn’t she?”
“Devil a bit. A termagant with a lethal tongue. But there’s a sure way to deal with termagants, I’ve always found.”
He raised a black eyebrow. “And just what is that?”
“Try kissing her. She can’t be talking if her lips are occupied.” He chuckled. “But I’m not telling you anything you don’t know quite well.”
Raith gave his cousin a sharp glance, but Callum only pasted an innocent look on his face and drained the cup in his hand. Then he sauntered over and set down the decanter of Scotch on the table, flashing Raith a grin that was pure devilry. “Here. I expect you’ll be needing this rather sooner than you’d like.”
Chapter Nine
Would the English militia give up searching for her if she couldn’t be found? Would her uncle abandon her to the mercies of the MacLean clan?
It was two days after the shooting incident before Katrine had an opportunity to ask those plaguing questions, and the answers proved less than satisfactory.
She was upstairs in the linen room, for she’d been given the relatively simple task of counting sheets and inspecting them for rents. She was dressed in an attractive gown of striped cotton fustian. The blue-and-buff overskirt was spread at her hips by small side hoops and looped up at the sides, displaying the white petticoat skirt beneath, while the blue stomacher was laced over a square-cut bodice fashioned with stays. A soft white kerchief modestly covered her shoulders and bosom.
It was a comfort as well as a small victory, Katrine decided, to be wearing decent clothing for a change. At the laird’s bidding, Flora had unearthed several items of apparel from the late mistress’s wardrobe, though Flora obviously wasn’t happy about this desecration of the saintly Ellen MacDonald MacLean’s memory.
The gown was a bit short, Katrine was aware, for she was apparently taller than Ellen had been. But at least she wouldn’t trip and run the risk of having her head shot off.
She was actually humming to herself when she was surprised once again by Callum MacLean. He had come out of a room farther down the hall that was probably a bedchamber.
“Very becoming,” Callum said with his customary disarming frankness as he surveyed her from the doorway of the small chamber. His compliment was a blandishment, his glance a blatant attempt at flirtation. Katrine felt herself blushing as his gaze lingered on her bosom, but she was unaccountably flattered by the appreciative masculine gleam in Callum’s eyes. More disturbing, she found herself wondering if his cousin would approve of her attire as well.
Katrine’s good humor faded at the thought of the MacLean laird. For two days she had managed to avoid Raith entirely—or he had avoided her, she wasn’t certain. Regardless, she’d found it easier to get over her near murder than to recover from his devastating kiss or his tenderness in comforting her.
Determined to dismiss Raith MacLean from her mind, she returned her attention to the sheets, ignoring Callum until he spoke again.
“Raith left yesterday to meet with the MacLeans of Duart.”
She glanced at Callum eagerly, anxious to hear what he knew about her release. “Has he contacted my uncle then?”
“Not yet. And he won’t until he sees what Argyll means to do regarding Duart. Colin Campbell has posted a reward for information regarding your return, but so far he hasn’t retaliated against our clan.”
A reward? That was some consolation, Katrine thought. “According to Raith, the duke doesn’t even know the MacLeans are involved in my abduction.”
“Argyll has his suspicions, though, no doubt.”
But suspicions would not win her freedom, Katrine reflected morosely. She was still chagrined at having missed her best chance for release the other day when the soldiers had come in search of her. She despaired of ever having another such opportunity. No doubt Raith had posted lookouts to warn him in advance of the militia’s arrival. Even if they did return, he would lock her away or spiri