Tender Feud

Again, without meaning to, he found himself remembering his late wife and comparing the two women. Ellen had been delicate and kind and timid. She blushed when he teased her, shrank from him when he frowned. She had cried on their wedding night, and though he had managed to overcome her terror, their marriage bed had always been less than satisfactory. Ellen had submitted to him obediently, without protest, during his infrequent visits, but he’d always felt somehow as if he were forcing himself on her. No matter how gentle or considerate or patient he’d been, to her the act of lovemaking had been a duty.

It wouldn’t be the same with Katrine, he suspected, remembering her fiery response to his kiss. This lass with her unpredictable temper and her ability to excite him with just a glance from her snapping green eyes would give as good as she got. He wouldn’t have to exercise patience if he were to make love to her. Which was fortunate, for patience was a quality he possessed in short supply where she was concerned.

Raith’s jaw hardened at the thought. He was daft to be making such comparisons. Ellen had been a gentle soul, a lady of quiet ways, who never spoke loudly or lost her temper, unlike this flame-haired virago who was standing defiantly before him. Only once had he even heard Ellen raise her voice—when she’d screamed in agony, giving birth to his son.

The guilt and self-derision that had hounded him after her death had led to a long period of abstinence. It hadn’t been only his position as laird or his aversion to siring a bastard on any of his kinswomen that had prevented him from seeking feminine companionship. It had been his unwillingness to sire any child, to subject any woman to the kind of excruciating pain Ellen had endured, to risk her possible death. Which was also daft, considering all the children that were born into the world without complications. But then not all confinements had an attending midwife like Morag....

Katrine, discomfited by his silence, watched Raith warily, wondering what he was thinking. He was staring down at her, his eyes alive with some emotion she couldn’t name.

“Please,” she whispered into the silence. “Let me do this one thing for Meggie. I wouldn’t hurt her, truly I wouldn’t.”

The humble plea brought him out of his morbid reflections and made his heart twist. He had lost the battle, he knew it. He couldn’t deny such a simple, unselfish request—any more than he had been able to refrain from consoling her when she’d wept in his arms. Any more than he could prevent himself from wanting to draw her into his arms again right now.

Raith closed his eyes, struggling against the insidious hold this half-English Campbell was gaining over him and his senses. It had been a mistake to abduct her in the first place. He’d had no idea what a threat to his sanity this accursed female would be when he’d decided to use her against her uncle and the bloody duke of Argyll. He had to be rid of her soon, before he lost control of himself again, for he doubted that he would be able to stop at just a kiss next time. Realizing the truth of the matter, aware of how badly he wanted her, Raith swore silently.

Katrine studied his dark, planed features, wondering at the swift play of emotion across his face. Raith’s answer, when it came low and harsh, surprised her. “Very well…you may teach Meggie to draw.”

“I may?” She hadn’t expected him to give in so easily. “I—I shall need a drawing pencil and parchment.”

“Ask Flora to find them for you,” he replied tersely. “I’m sure the things you need are packed away somewhere. My wife was accomplished in the feminine refinements.”

“And I shall need a place to work with Meggie…with a table or desk.”

“There is a nursery on the floor above this one. Will that do?”

“Well…yes.”

“Then you have my permission to use it.”

He must still be feeling guilty over her near shooting, Katrine decided as she stood there staring up at him.

“Is there anything else you require, Miss Campbell?” Raith inquired in a dry tone when she didn’t move.

Katrin

e hesitated, knowing she should take advantage of his receptive mood. “Writing implements,” she murmured. “I should like to write my family in England. My sisters…my aunt…will be concerned if I don’t write. I wouldn’t tell them about my abduction,” she added quickly, seeing his face harden. “I wouldn’t…like to worry them.”

Raith sighed, knowing he had lost yet another battle. “Very well. You may write to them, as long as you make no mention of your being here or the trouble with your uncle. I shall want to inspect your letters first, of course.”

“Yes…of course. Thank you,” she whispered.

The quaver in her voice was almost his undoing. He stood looking down at her, feeling an attraction so powerful that it was almost a physical pain.

A long, quiet sensually charged spell developed between them, a spell with dangerous undercurrents of passion. He was conscious of the soft curves beneath her night rail, while she was conscious of the way the candlelight made his midnight black hair gleam and his hard blue eyes glitter.

Katrine knew she should seek her bed, but she couldn’t summon the will to move. There was something fierce, yet warm and exciting in his eyes that held her there, that made her breath catch in her throat. What if he were to kiss her again? she wondered with alarm. And why did she very much want him to?

Why did this lass fascinate him so? he wondered dazedly. What was it about her that managed to rouse his temper the way no other woman ever had, that aroused his body beyond reason? He was ready to wring her neck one minute, ready to feel her respond with passion the next.

He started to take a step toward her, to close the distance, but he caught himself at the last moment, clenching his teeth and fists, forcibly restraining himself. It was too long since he’d had a woman, Raith thought not for the first time since he’d met Katrine Campbell. He’d best start thinking about paying a visit to the comely widow in Strontian—the widow who knew how to prevent conception. And most certainly he ought to make use of the dram of whisky Callum had so wisely perceived he needed.

Determinedly, Raith stepped back a pace.

Determinedly, Katrine fled.

By unspoken consent they avoided each other. Raith wouldn’t allow himself to believe he could be attracted to a Campbell, even one as bonny and fascinating as Katrine, while she refused to admit that Raith stirred her in anything but a purely physical way, even if he did have many of the attributes of the hero she had painted in her imagination.

Raith occupied himself with clan business, Katrine with housework and teaching Meggie to draw. For two hours each afternoon she patiently worked with the child, and as in all her endeavors, she threw her whole soul into the project. Yet during the remaining hours of the day, Katrine was restless and irritable. It rained incessantly, preventing her from enjoying the beauty of her Highland sunrises. Moreover, the strict confinement only heightened her awareness of her latest dilemma, her newest pressing reason for wanting to escape captivity; she was becoming far too enamored of Raith MacLean.