Raith was indeed considering murder. Just when he’d man
aged to recover from their last clash of wills, to reassert his resolve to keep away from her, Katrine did something else outrageous that sent him reeling and struggling for balance.
“There is no marriage,” he repeated grimly, “and there never will be. I don’t intend to marry again. If I did it wouldn’t be to a sharp-tongued Sassenach Campbell.”
“Aye, better off hangit than ill-married,” another voice muttered, which Katrine translated to mean “better off cursed than wed to a nagging wife.”
She thought it might be Hector who had disparaged her, but she was certain it was Lachlan who came to her defense. “I ken ‘tis a douce wife Mistress Campbell will be,” he declared, proclaiming her modest and prudent.
“She’s no’ so fair as the late mistress,” someone else observed, comparing her to Ellen.
“Aye, but she’s well-enough looking in her way,” another MacLean commented.
A muscle flexed in Raith’s jaw. He was surprised Katrine had other supporters besides Lachlan—and angry as well because he was losing control of the situation. His clan considered his marriage their business—which to some extent was justified— but he had to put an end to this absurd discussion before it got further out of hand.
He had opened his mouth to do so when Hector spoke again. “Why the de’il should the laird want to wed her?”
“Aye, why?” Ewen MacLean persisted.
In frustration, Raith realized he wouldn’t escape this conversation. His clan was prepared to discuss his marriage and wouldn’t let it lie.
He crossed his arms belligerently, which had the added advantage of preventing him from stalking across the room and shaking Katrine till her teeth rattled. “Yes, Miss Campbell, why don’t you tell us all why I should want to marry you?”
Katrine swallowed; she could feel all eyes on her. She had some grounds for her claim, she knew. She was a young lady of quality whose innocence had been taken, however willingly, by an unmarried gentleman of means. But it was highly uncomfortable to have to mention such a thing in polite company, or in front of all these rugged Highlanders.
“Because it would be the honorable thing to do,” she murmured, embarrassed.
Raith’s eyes narrowed so dangerously that Katrine retreated a hasty step. The look he was giving her said clearly that he hadn’t been the only one at fault, and that she would have to live with the consequences.
“You’ll have to come up with a better reason than that,” Raith replied, ignoring the blush suffusing her cheeks, determined that she wouldn’t succeed in this underhanded trick. He’d already done the honorable thing by keeping his distance—a feat that had required almost superhuman effort after the shattering beauty of making love to her. Yet now she was crying foul. Whether she was acting out of revenge, or the misguided belief that she was in love with him, he’d be hanged if he would allow her to force his hand.
Raising her chin, Katrine tried another tack. “Very well. You need me. I can help your clan in the feud with Argyll.”
“Aye, a marriage, ‘twould bond the Campbells to the MacLeans, for certain,” Lachlan mused.
“Och, but ‘tis a scunner thing to be wedding the blood of a fasheous Campbell with the blood of Clan Gillean,” Hector retorted, calling the MacLean clan by its more ancient name.
Katrine bristled at his use of the word scunner, for Hector had termed a union of their two clans disgusting. Her ire rose at the idea that she wasn’t good enough to be admitted into their clan.
“I can take care of Meggie,” she said defiantly, “better than any one of you MacLeans can, I should think.”
“I intend to hire a governess,” Raith parried.
“Bairns!” Lachlan interjected triumphantly. “The Laird of Ardgour needs an heir.”
“Yes, you need an heir,” Katrine declared.
Raith clenched his teeth, feeling his control slipping, and his temper with it. This conversation should never have come up, certainly not in front of his clan. He took a step toward Katrine, then checked himself. He had to get out of here, he realized. At once, before he throttled her.
Recognizing his action for what it was, Katrine felt the sinking despair of defeat. She was grateful to Lachlan for championing her, but she knew from the hard glint in Raith’s eyes it was no use; he was not about to be persuaded.
Raith stared at her another uncomfortable moment, before he suddenly turned and strode determinedly to the door, growling a brusque, “I’m for Fort William,” as he stormed from the room.
Katrine slowly sank down on the bench beside Raith’s cousin. “And you need me for you,” she whispered in a voice so low only Callum could hear. He reached out and touched her hand in a sympathetic gesture.
A long silence prevailed then.
“Why Fort William?” someone finally asked.