Tender Feud

The child’s expression turned solemn again, but she didn’t balk when Katrine handed her the charcoal stick and pointed to another stone. “Now, what do you mean to draw? What about a flower? Do you think you can do that?”

Instead of drawing a flower, however, Meggie attempted to copy the sketch Katrine had done, her teeth working at her lower lip as she bent over the stone. The girl worked determinedly, creating a splotch of black charcoal that was unrecognizable. Finally she looked up at Katrine, tears of frustration in her eyes.

Oh, Meggie, I never meant to add to your distress. “Why, that is excellent, my love. Especially when you didn’t have a proper drawing pencil. But we really should start with something more simple. Let’s try a flower this time—a daisy, perhaps. Here, let me show you.”

Gently she closed her hand around Meggie’s small one, and was pleased when the child didn’t shy away from the contact. “First you make a circle, like so,” Katrine instructed, guiding her strokes, “and then lots of loops. See? There, now you try it.”

The scraggly daisy that Meggie copied was better by far than her first attempt, but Katrine could see from her doleful expression that the child wasn’t happy with her work. Briskly, Katrine stood and brushed off her skirts. “What you need, little lamb, is inspiration. And I know just where to find it. Come, the rain has ceased, so we can go outside. This batch of butter is done anyway,” she added in a mutter, casting a defiant glance at the churn. Then she held out her hand to Meggie, and her heart once more flooded with tenderness when the child trustingly took it.

There were several saddled horses in the yard, but fortunately no sign of the MacLean clan. Katrine had no doubt Raith would be little pleased to learn she had taken his ward to the glen. Looping the hem of her skirt at either side of her waist to avoid wetting it, she took Meggie’s hand and set off along the bridle path, leaping over puddles and dodging dripping stalks of bracken and clumps of yellow Scotch broom.

The afternoon was still damp and dreary, but occasionally a bright ray of sunshine broke through the dark, scudding clouds. And even on such a blutherie day—as the Scots called wet, stormy weather—the glen with its small glimmering loch and its towering green mountains in the background was a magical place.

“I’ve always thought that beauty makes the soul expressive,” Katrine told the child as she found a flat boulder for them to sit on and tried to brush away the moisture. “Take a good look, Meggie, then close your eyes and feel the beauty. Do you feel it? Now, think about the daisy you want to draw. See it in your mind…a bright yellow center and soft white petals. And when you have it, take your stick and show me what you see.”

Meggie obediently closed her eyes and sat unmoving for a long moment. Watching the small face with the sharp little chin, Katrine was struck by how much her coloring and certain of her features resembled Raith’s. The high forehead, slashing eyebrows and long black lashes could have been mistaken for his. Dismayed that she should be thinking of the MacLean laird, though, Katrine forcibly dismissed her wayward thoughts.

Eventually the child bent her head over the stick. Her effort this time was not much better, but the wobbly curving lines did resemble a daisy, and it must have satisfied her, for when Meggie looked up, she was beaming.

Katrine could have hugged the child in delight. Only the sudden recollection of Meggie’s fear of being touched stopped her. Instead, she patted the girl’s hand. “That’s superb, my lamb, and enough for today. Tomorrow we can try a different flower.”

Beside her Meggie stirred, obviou

sly restless. “I know, Meggie, what do you say we go exploring?” As usual she received no reply, but she was learning to read the child’s expressive face and could see that the idea appealed to her. Rising, Katrine offered her hand.

There were two other paths that led from the glen, Katrine had already concluded. She chose the one to the east, since during her exploring two days earlier, she had discovered a meadow and wanted to share it with Meggie.

The path wound uphill, through a glade of mountain ash, and then finally spilled out onto an open pasture where sheep were grazing. Katrine carefully skirted a shieling hut, built of stone and thatched with turf. The curling blue smoke of a peat fire escaping into the air from an opening in the low roof suggested that the hut was occupied.

Here, two days before, when she came across a grizzled old shepherd attending his flock, he had brandished his crook at her and looked as if he might set his dog on her. The Highlander’s ferocity had only underscored Raith’s warning about the dangers of trying to escape into the mountains. She would be on her own then, without even the dubious protection offered by the laird.

The path rose upward once more, and as they crested a hill and came down again, she heard the soft rushing of water—the continuation of the burn that ran directly behind Cair House, Katrine decided.

She was about to move on when an odd gleam in the shadows caught her eye. Drawing Meggie off the path, Katrine made her way through the stand of birch trees to a large clearing. There, near the burn, she found an odd collection of equipment that had nothing to do with shepherding: several vats of varying sizes, a large brick structure that looked to be a kiln and two large copper pots sporting long tubes.

Katrine rather suspected they had stumbled on a still where malt whisky was made illegally. She was aware of the sentiments the Scots held regarding excise laws, and she was Scottish enough that even she could sympathize. The taxes levied by the English government not only were exorbitant, but Highlanders could see no good reason to pay for the privilege of making their native drink. In the hills, illicit distilling flourished, and cheating the customs officer was even considered an honorable duty.

Katrine would have liked to inspect the still further, for she was curious about the various implements, but Meggie lost interest and began tugging on her hand. Obediently Katrine allowed herself to be led back to the path.

Eventually they reached a wide meadow that was edged on the far side by trees. Katrine’s lips curved in a mischievous smile. “Shall we have a race, Meggie? To those trees? How fast can you run?” She glanced down at the child, pleased at the bright-eyed, eager look she received in response. “Very well, let’s go!”

She broke into a run, pretending to try her best to win, but gradually she let Meggie draw ahead of her. Sprinting breathlessly over the wet grass, Katrine found herself laughing. She hadn’t behaved with such abandon since she herself was a child.

That was how Raith found them—racing across the meadow like gypsies, with their skirts rucked up above their knees. A fierce surge of relief and fury flooded through him as he urged his horse into a canter. Relief not only because Katrine had been nowhere in sight during the unexpected visit the English soldiers had paid just now to Cair House. Relief because he had reached her in time. Beyond the next copse of trees lived the midwife who had been present at his wife’s lying-in.

Morag. Even the thought of her made his stomach muscles clench. His mind was crowded with memories of Ellen’s agonizing death and bloody images of his stillborn son.

Raith hadn’t stopped to analyze his feelings, but he didn’t want Katrine anywhere near the old crone, let alone his young ward. When the two of them reached the edge of the meadow, however, they came to a halt. Realizing they didn’t mean to go farther just yet, Raith forced himself to slow his horse, not wanting to startle them by galloping up in a fury. But he kept his gaze riveted on Katrine as he rode toward her.

She looked flushed and windblown, for though her fiery hair was tied back with a ribbon, a dozen curling tendrils spilled around her face, accentuating the radiance of her glowing skin. Like Meggie, she was bent over at the waist, trying to catch her breath, and as Katrine turned in his direction, he could see the laughter, alive and bright, that shone in her green eyes. Raith clenched his teeth, fighting the conflicting urges to carry her off to his bed or turn her over his knee.

Katrine’s laughter faded as she looked up to find Raith’s blue eyes impaling her. She froze where she stood, all her senses alert in a wary reaction to his presence. He was wearing an open-necked, loose-sleeved shirt and trews—closely woven tartan trousers that molded his long, powerful legs above his supple boots.

He had a smile for Meggie as he reined in his horse, but Katrine could see that the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Come ride with me, Meggie,” Raith invited in a pleasant tone that Katrine suspected was also feigned. “I’ll take you back to the house. Your cousin Callum has returned and he’s been asking for you.”

Meggie looked up at Katrine, flashing her a glance that said she was longing to go with him. At the realization that the child was so willing to abandon their play, Katrine felt suddenly betrayed and resentful. Which was absurd. Meggie obviously loved Raith and cherished his attention. And it was entirely an unworthy sentiment to begrudge the child a few moments of his affection.