Tender Feud

“Thank you,” Katrine said again when Morag set down before her a steaming cup of soothing herb tea.

Without speaking, Morag settled herself into the other chair, her gaze observing, measuring, as she sipped from her own cup. Yet her frank blue eyes were more curious than condemning.

“I ken why ye’ve coom,” she declared after a moment. “The laird willna let ye bide here.”

Katrine didn’t know why she should be surprised by the accuracy of Morag’s supposit

ion. Even shunned as the midwife was, she would have heard every detail of Katrine’s dealings with the MacLeans.

“Nay, I dinna have the sight,” Morag said when Katrine was silent. “But I ken Raith MacLean verra weel.”

“Have you ever known him to change his mind?”

“Seldom.”

Her hopes sinking like Raith’s claymore in the loch, Katrine gazed at Morag in consternation. “Then you don’t think he would ever marry me? That he could ever come to love me?”

“I’ll answer ye true. The laird maun learn to open his heart before he could ever go so far.”

Katrine bit back a heavy sigh. It was only what she had expected to hear. “I don’t suppose there is any chance of ending the feud between our clans, either,” she said miserably.

“Have ye never heard our Highland saying—’drie yer ain wierd’? Do ye ken what that means?”

Reflecting on how much Morag sounded like Flora, Katrine nodded. “I think it means to face up to one’s destiny.”

“Aye, and if it be the laird’s destiny to wed ye, then he will. If the MacLeans and the Campbells are to cease their feuding, then so it will be.”

Katrine shook her head sadly. “I’ve always thought one should try and make one’s own destiny.”

Morag surprised her again with a mischievous grin that creased the rosy cheeks. “I didna say ye couldna help it along. Which,” she added, reaching over to give Katrine’s hand a motherly pat, “I hear ye’ve been doing. Never would I have thought a lass would be so bauld as to tell the laird he was wed to her.”

Katrine was grateful for Morag’s comforting gesture, for it eased the hurting of her heart. Forcing a smile, she met the old woman’s twinkling gaze. “I was desperate.”

“Aye, ye’re in love wi’ him.”

“Why can you see that and Raith can’t?”

“Maybe he doesna want to see it.” Morag patted her hand again. “Now drink yer tea like a good lass. ‘Tis my ain secret receipt, said to cure to worst of ailments—even broken hearts.”

It was an implausible claim, but the mere absurdity elicited a genuine smile from Katrine. How could Raith have spurned this kindred soul? she wondered, regarding Morag’s sympathetic expression. Then she remembered Ellen and the obvious love Raith had felt for his late wife.

Katrine was about to ask Morag about Ellen when she heard impatient footsteps outside the cottage, then an abrupt rap on the door. Morag went to answer it, while Katrine rose quickly to her feet, her hand stealing up to cover her suddenly pounding heart.

As she had expected, Raith stood at the doorway. Through the haze, she could see that his face was as grim as she had ever known it. Her first inclination was to run. Not because she was afraid of him, but because hiding might delay the inevitable.

Yet even as she heard Raith tell Morag he was looking for the Campbell lass, his eyes were searching the dim interior of the cottage. The next instant his piercing gaze found her.

Rather than appear a coward, Katrine lifted her chin and stepped forward. “You weren’t obliged to search for me. I wasn’t attempting to escape.”

Her tone was purposefully belligerent, so she was surprised to see Raith’s hard expression relax the slightest degree. He actually looked relieved to find her safe. And his next words confirmed it, though his tone was one of censure. “I was worried that some harm might have befallen you,” he said tersely. “You could have become lost in the fog.”

“Well, you needn’t have worried. I found my way easily enough. I came to Morag because I needed a poultice for my abused posterior.”

At her pointed reference to the thrashing he had given her, a muscle clenched in his jaw. He made a slight movement, as if he might come after her, then checked himself.

He refused to step over the threshold, Katrine realized. He wouldn’t voluntarily enter Morag’s house.

The two women shared a look of mutual condolence before Raith spoke again, his tone harsh. “Come, I’ll escort you back to the house. We leave for the coast in one hour.”