Tender Feud

Handsome was too tame a word. Striking, perhaps. And still dangerous. But with an aristocratic elegance that was unmistakable. He was dressed like any civilized gentleman of wealth and position. His queued hair was drawn back neatly with a blue riband, and his tall leather boots gleamed. In between, he wore buff leather breeches, an embroidered silk waistcoat and a wide-skirted frock coat of blue velvet that reflected the dark blue in his eyes. The white, starched jabot at his throat contrasted starkly with his ebony hair and dark complexion, while the frills at his shirtfront and wrists emphasized his masculinity. In his gloved hands he carried a tricorne.

As those hard blue eyes leveled at her, Katrine felt hot color seep into her face. She knew she was staring at him, but she couldn’t look away, in spite of the humiliation of having been caught venting her temper on his wily cousin.

“It was fortunate she missed,” Raith observed dryly, his eyes still on Katrine.

“I didn’t miss!” she managed to reply tartly, still having no success in dragging her eyes from Raith’s masculine elegance. “I assure you I have a very good aim. If I had wanted to hit Mr. MacLean, I would have.”

“My friends call me Callum,” Callum interjected mildly.

“How accommodating of them, Mr. MacLean,” Katrine repeated, making it clear she didn’t intend to make free with his Christian name.

“Miss Campbell,” Raith interjected, “doesn’t observe the normal forms of address, Callum. To differentiate her friends, she merely refrains from calling them ‘lout’ or ‘thatchgallows.’” He cocked a cynical eyebrow at his cousin. “What do you think of her at present, lad, now that you’ve been treated to her temper?”

Callum shrugged. Giving Katrine a slow perusal, he smiled at her, a lazy smile. “Vaporish young women aren’t nearly as interesting as they’re purported to be. A little spirit is refreshing.”

Raith’s mouth curled at the corner. “A little spirit? The disposition of a shrew is more accurate.”

Katrine bristled, though she knew quite well she had scant basis for disputing the point. One of her English Gardner cousins had termed her “a managing shrew” after she’d boxed his ears for trying to take liberties with her. And she had often joked with her youngest sister about Roseline being an English rose while she herself was a Scottish thistle. It was true; sweet and biddable she was not. But hearing Raith announce it so pointedly raised her ire.

Before she could reply, though, his cousin was stirring up further trouble. “I can overlook a prickly disposition if the lass is bonny enough. And Mistress Campbell is certainly that. Come now, Raith,” Callum cajoled when his cousin’s mouth tightened in apparent contempt, “can you honestly ignore the winsome picture she makes with her face flushed by the hearth fire, her roy curls spilling down?”

Raith, however, was not about to respond to such a pregnant question, though he knew the answer. Ignoring Katrine Campbell was one accomplishment he could not manage. Not when she made such an alluring sight. The high color in her face, brought on by the heat and her aroused temper, resembled the flush of passion, while the damp tendrils that had escaped their confining hairpins appeared alive with their own reddish energy. It made a man want to toss aside the pins and let the wild locks twine around him.

Oh, yes, Callum was right, Raith admitted reluctantly, well aware that his rakish cousin was feeling the same masculine urges he himself was.

With an effort, he tore his gaze away from Katrine and glanced at Callum. “You might remember just who she is and why she is here.”

“Oh, I remember.”

“Then if you can’t control your lustful proclivities better than this, I suggest you keep away from her entirely.”

“As you’re doing?” Callum gibed.

Raith’s jaw flexed grimly, but he didn’t reply. He didn’t explain that he’d sought out Katrine against his better judgment. Nor did he admit his concern over her welfare. He’d never tell her, certainly, that he greatly regretted the necessity of putting her to work in his kitchens…especially now, seeing her laboring at the hearth. Yet it would have been even more cruel to imprison her behind locked doors. Keeping her occupied instead was by far the best way to prevent her from causing mischief; here she was always under the watchful eye of one of his servants.

And in truth, she didn’t seem to be doing too badly, Raith decided. Not if she was throwing a sodden linen at his cousin. Apparently he’d worried needlessly about her. He should have stayed away, Raith acknowledged silently. Particularly since his spirited, sharp-tongued captive was obviously seething to make him the new target of her wrath; he could feel the heat from her green eyes searing through him.

Katrine was indeed seething. Watching the two of them scrap over her as if she weren’t there, she needed all her strong will in order to control her desire to scream. “What is it that so concerns you?” she demanded of Raith. “Are you afraid that your cousin will seduce me or that I’ll corrupt him?”

Raith returned his gaze to her. “Either. Both.” He glanced down, pointedly appraising her stomach. “I wouldn’t want to send you home to your uncle breeding my cousin’s bastard.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock. Before she could recover the presence of mind to retort, though, before she could even think to question him about his plan to return her to her uncle, or ask Raith what steps he’d taken to negotiate her release, he turned abruptly on his heel and quit the room.

His arrogant dismissal and the sting of his words made Katrine long to do the man an injury. If he had still been standing there, she would have thrown the entire contents of the caldron at him. “Plague take the cold heart of him!” she muttered, clenching her fists.

“Is it the notion of bearing children you object to?” Callum asked laconically. “Or that they would be mine?”

Katrine gave a start, having forgotten that Raith’s cousin was even there. But when she realized what he’d said, she felt her cheeks go scarlet, as livid as her hair.

“Oh, no, I think bearing your bastards a capital idea!” she announced to the world at large. “Why not have a dozen while we are at it? Wouldn’t that be a sight? I return to my Calvinist uncle’s home with a dozen children clinging to my skirts! See how fast he turns me out of his house then.”

The bitterness in her voice apparent, she stood there glaring at Callum. He met her furious gaze with a sympathetic grin.

Embarrassed by her outburst then, Katrine averted her gaze from Callum’s and determinedly returned to tending the wash.

“Illegitimacy hasn’t the stigma here that it has in England,” he said with calm good humor. “Accidental bairns are no disgrace. Indeed, they’re cared for as tenderly as any born of wedlock. I should know—” his tone became wry “—I’m a byblow myself. My birth has never been held against me…except for my English blood, of course. That’s always been suspect.”

Remembering his earlier admission that he was half English, Katrine forgot her resentment long enough to wonder about the circumstances of his birth. But the turn of the conversation had grown decidedly too lascivious for her taste, and she decided to put an end to the topic of illegitimacy. “Thank you, Mr. MacLean, for seeking to reassure me, but I think I will forgo the chore of bearing your children. I don’t intend to be here long enough in any case.” At least she hoped she wouldn’t. She hoped her uncle was riding to her rescue at this very moment, combing the Highlands with a regiment of British troops in search of her. After all, he would have gone after any of his cattle that had been stolen—and she was his own flesh and blood. Perhaps Uncle Colin might even feel obligated to pay for her release....