Tender Feud

Depressed, she didn’t speak again until the dirt road suddenly became a graveled carriageway lined with birches. At the end of the carriageway, nestled among the rugged mountains of Ardgour, stood a large, thick-walled stone mansion.

“I suppose this is your ancestral seat,” Katrine murmured, awed in spite of herself. Then another thought occurred to her. “You said the English soldiers wouldn’t find you. If you have such a fine house, they surely know where you live.”

“What I said, Miss Campbell, was that they wouldn’t find you.”

His answer further dismayed her, confirming her belief that Raith meant to keep her holed away, out of sight. But after a moment Katrine rallied to match his sarcasm. “You must give me a tour of the house at once. I’m positively agog with curiosity about what treacherous doings go on in a nest of Jacobites.”

“Nothing so venomous as what occurs in a nest of Campbells, I imagine,” Raith retorted as he directed the horse off the sweeping gravel drive along the carriageway that led behind the house.

The animal obviously knew the way to the stables, Katrine realized, for it pricked up its ears and quickened its pace. The stable mews was a complex of stone-and-timber outbuildings, she saw as they approached, with barns and a carriage house. The central outbuilding was a substantial structure, two stories high, which no doubt housed horses below and men above.

The MacLean laird must have been expected, she decided, for as soon as they rode into the cobbled yard, a number of his clansmen immediately appeared, several of whom Katrine recognized from the raid. Some were still wearing the kilt, but all were scowling hostilely at her.

Katrine felt her palms go damp at her unfavorable reception; even a mob at a public hanging looked more kindly on a condemned prisoner.

“Welcome back, cousin,” an amused voice said into the grim silence.

Grateful for the interruption, Katrine glanced toward the mews at a tall, leanly muscled man who wore the lawful breeches. He had propped one shoulder against the stable wall while he chewed idly on a straw.

Looking at him more closely, Katrine noticed the resemblance he bore to her abductor. Like Raith, his hair was black and his face strong, but his cheekbones were more sculpted, and his nose was sharper and slightly hawkish. As they came to a halt a scant yard from him, however, she could see that his eyes were a gleaming charcoal rather than blue.

Those dark eyes stared boldly at her, sizing her up shrewdly. Katrine’s face flamed as he took in her nightshift and her legs, bare below the knees.

“So this is the fierce Campbell lass,” he murmured, his tone still carrying a hint of laughter.

Despite his bold perusal, Katrine mustered a shred of dignity and raised her chin. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”

“Cherish the moment, Callum,” Raith interjected with sarcasm. “It may be the last time you have it.”

“Are you truly so formidable, Miss Campbell?” Callum’s eyes twinkled roguishly as he pushed himself from the wall and strode up to them. “I’m Callum MacLean. Welcome to Cair House.”

He astonished her by taking her hand and carrying it to his lips for a salute, as formally as if she were at court. Katrine stared down into his dancing eyes, wondering how he could possibly be related to his dangerous cousin.

“I own I never expected to find good manners in a den of cattle thieves,” she confessed, matching his light tone.

The sound Raith made was something between a growl and a grunt as he swung down from the horse.

“You seem to have gotten under my dear cousin’s skin,” Callum observed with a chuckle.

Katrine eyed the grim-faced laird who was reaching up to help her dismount. Had she truly managed to disconcert him? “Good,” she replied tauntingly—a gibe that turned into a gasp as Raith dragged her from the horse and swung her roughly into his arms. Desperately Katrine clung to his neck, hoping he wouldn’t drop her out of spite.

“It isn’t hard for a Sassenach to get under the skin,” Raith retorted as he strode determinedly toward the house. “They’re like a pestilence, or a pox.”

Following more leisurely, Callum addressed Katrine over Raith’s shoulder. “My cousin likes to forget it, but I am half English myself…an accident of birth, you might say.”

He flashed her a charming grin that was at once reassuring and flirtatious, and Katrine, to her surprise, found herself returning his smile. Whatever else happened here, she was going to like Callum MacLean.

Her spirits lifting somewhat, she let herself glance around and noted that her surroundings bespoke wealth and care. The cobblestone stable yard was swept free of debris and the garden she glimpsed in the distance was neatly laid out and weeded. The wing jutting perpendicularly from the rear of the house Katrine suspected was the kitchens. The house itself was three stories of elegant stone, with dozens of mullioned windows and quite a few chimneys. Glancing up, Katrine was impressed to see the spotless windows reflecting the morning sunlight—very different from the condition of her uncle’s house.

They came to the sturdy oaken door then, and Raith waited impatiently till Callum opened it. When they stepped into a long hallway, Katrine noticed that the interior was just as elegant as the exterior, with gleaming wood floors and French brocade papering the walls above the wainscoting. When they passed what looked to be a workroom, she caught a glimpse of several female retainers busily polishing silver and mending linen.

Katrine was grateful they were all occupied, for she was spared the humiliation of being seen in the laird’s arms with her nightshift hiked up to her knees. Just then a neatly garbed maidservant came out of another door, her eyes going wide as she saw Katrine.

“Send Flora to me,” Raith snapped at the curious girl, who bobbed a curtsy and went scurrying off.

“Who is Flora?” Katrine questioned distractedly, not expecting or receiving an answer. What she really wanted to ask, though, was where he was taking her.

Raith began climbing a narrow flight of stairs. The servants’ stairs, Katrine presumed, surprised that they were going up instead of down.