Tender Feud

She sniffed. “Not at the cost of your life.”

“There are other lives at stake besides mine.”

The hint of hardness in Raith’s tone made her recall what kind of man she was dealing with. A leader. A fighter. A man who couldn’t be swayed when his clan’s survival was at stake. She gazed up at him, thinking how much he resembled the fierce Highlander she had first met. The dangerous stranger who had abducted her in order to save his clansmen. The proud, bitter lover who had claimed her heart and then sent her away.

Her eyes filled with tears again. “It isn’t fair,” she whispered. “Now I’m going to lose you all over again.”

A tender smile gentled his mouth. “You aren’t going to lose me, Katrine.”

“Yes, I am. The duke will hang you, and then I won’t have a husband, and Meggie won’t have a guardian.”

Reaching up, Raith cradled her face in his hands. “My sweet love, no one is going to hang me. Why won’t you trust me?”

“Why should I trust you? You’re a cattle thief. You’ve never done anything but abduct me and threaten me and beat me black and blue—”

“I didn’t do anything to you that you didn’t deserve. You threw my best claymore in the loch—”

“Yes, you did, you…you brute!”

Raith chuckled. “Ah, Katie, that’s what I love about you, your reluctance to speak your mind. No doubt you’ll still be arguing with me when we’re old and gray and on our deathbeds—”

He broke off as the faint scuffle of footsteps sounded from outside the door. Katrine tensed, clutching at Raith’s arms. “Someone is coming! Dear God, the duke…”

“They are not the same thing,” Raith said wryly, “although Argyll likes to consider himself as holding the same divine station as the Almighty.”

His irreverence distressed Katrine; his unconcern made her want to scream. It was possibly too late for escape, but Raith’s blithe attitude seemed almost profane for a man who might very well be condemned to death in the next few moments.

“Raith, please,” she pleaded frantically, hearing the footsteps grow louder. “At least take the pistol.”

“No, that would only complicate matters. Trust me, Katrine,” he murmured as he bent and pressed a light kiss on her lips. “I would like you to remain and hear what the duke has to say…unless you would rather prepare for our wedding?”

She wanted to protest. She wanted to weep on his shoulder and beat on his chest and hold him protectively in her arms. She wanted to save him from the dire fate that awaited him in the person of the duke. But there was no time. The key was grating in the lock. Raith set her away just as the heavy door swung open.

Katrine whirled, watching in fear as an older gentleman stepped into the room. Of the same approximate age as her uncle, he wore a heavy satin topcoat, an elaborately pomaded wig and expensive silver-buckled shoes. He could be none other than the duke, she reflected, for he radiated the overpowering Argyll personality, while his stiff bearing indicated his long years of military service. His full name was General John Campbell of Mamore, now the fourth Duke of Argyll, and he had fought under the merciless Cumberland during the Forty-five. Katrine clenched her hands together to prevent them from shaking.

In contrast, Raith swept Argyll a mocking bow. “My lord duke. I am gratified that you could come.”

As the door swung shut behind him, Argyll bent his head a fraction, in the merest of civil gestures. “Ardgour.”

The dislike between the two men was palpable, Katrine noted. She bit her lip as the sharp gray eyes turned to her. “You must be Miss Campbell.” He gave her no time even to curtsy, however, before he returned his gaze to Raith. “I am a busy man, Ardgour, and have no patience for this,” the duke stated brusquely. “Shall we get on with it? I believe you owe me an explanation for your conduct toward this young lady.”

Raith lifted a dark eyebrow. “Forgive me, your grace, but I fail to see how I owe you any such thing.”

Argyll’s mouth turned down in a scowl. “You abducted my factor’s niece, bedded her, got her with child, and now you have the audacity to deny any responsibility toward her?”

Katrine could feel the sudden sharp increase of tension in the air. Raith never moved, but somehow his stance changed, his muscles tightened. He looked rigid and alert, and as dangerous as she had ever seen him. When he next spoke, he did it grimly, slowly, enunciating every word. “What occurred between Katrine and myself is strictly for us to

settle. You have no say in the matter.”

“Her uncle most certainly does. Indeed, he has every right to demand restitution.”

“Her uncle has already given his permission—nay, his encouragement—for us to marry. That is all you need to know.”

Argyll’s scowl deepened. “You’re as aware as I that, as her chief, I have an obligation to protect her.”

“I am gratified to say that Katrine is one Campbell who has never needed your protection. Nor does she want it.”

Beneath the face paint, a slow flush of red suffused the duke’s cheeks, reflecting his rising anger. When he glanced briefly at Katrine, she didn’t dare reply. She couldn’t understand why Raith was deliberately antagonizing the duke, but she fervently wished he would stop.