Tender Feud

Her heart leaped when the cloth fell open to reveal the entrails of an animal. At least she hoped it was an animal. Only when she recalled Flora’s intention of making haggis for tomorrow’s dinner did Katrine recognize the stomach bag of a sheep. But it was still warm from its late owner. Poor sheep, Katrine thought weakly, suddenly feeling sick to her own stomach.

Holding the bloody mess as far away as possible, she hurriedly carried it into the kitchen, deposited it and the pail of buttermilk on the counter beside the housekeeper and fled back out into the fresh air. Gulping deeply, she sank down on the back step, resting her forehead on her knees, willing her nausea to leave.

She still hadn’t recovered by the time Raith rode into the courtyard. Vaguely she heard the sound of hoofbeats, then shortly, his footsteps as he crossed to her side.

“Miss Campbell…Katrine, what is it?”

At the sharp note in his voice, she lifted her pale face to Raith. He was dressed in breeches and a cambric shirt, with the sleeves carelessly pushed up to reveal hard forearms. His slashing black brows were drawn together in a frown. “What is amiss?” he repeated with more urgency.

Katrine stared at him, wondering at his expression. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought Raith MacLean was actually concerned for her. “Hector…gave me a sheep’s stomach.”

“He did what?”

Instead of replying, she tried to lower her face again to her lap. Raith put a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Tell me what happened,” he pressed, not giving up or releasing her chin until he managed to drag the story in faltering detail from Katrine. Then his scowl relaxed and he propped one booted foot on the step beside her, resting a forearm on his knee. “Is that all? I thought perhaps you’d tried to engage Hector in mortal combat again.”

Katrine stiffened at Raith’s casual reply. His mouth was quivering at one corner, as if he were repressing a smile, and there was a suspicious light in his eyes that looked very much like amusement.

Silently wishing him at Jericho, she squared her shoulders and glared at him with a mulish expression. “Perhaps you’re accustomed to such blood and gore, but I am not. I prefer to have my sheep already cooked.”

“So do I,” Raith agreed, his blue eyes gleaming irrepressibly. Before she could respond with anger, he pulled a handkerchief from his belt and strode across the yard toward the brimming rain barrel that stood against one wall of the stable. Katrine stared after him, taken aback by the surprising change in his manner. The provocative laughter she’d seen in his eyes had made her aware of his strong resemblance to his cousin Callum.

Watching Raith dip the cloth into the water, she was struck by another odd thought. If he weren’t so serious all the time, if he weren’t burdened with the responsibilities of his clan, he might very well have turned out to be a rogue just like his cousin.

Raith wrung out the handkerchief, then returned to her side, offering it to her. “Here, wipe your face. You’ll feel better.”

With a wary glance at him, Katrine accepted the damp cloth and pressed it against her forehead. It did feel cool and welcoming to her clammy skin, and it drove away the last vestiges of her nausea. She was grateful enough that she didn’t protest when Raith settled himself beside her on the step.

“Thank you,” she murmured, realizing she ought to at least acknowledge his kindness.

Raith inclined his head in a polite bow. “Certainly, Miss Campbell. I am at your disposal, as usual.” It could have been another of his sarcastic gibes, but the easy humor in his tone robbed his words of any sting. “You gave me a turn,” he admitted, that same undertone of laughter in his voice. “I’ve never seen a lass look so green and white at the same time.”

At his teasing note, a reluctant smile curved her own mouth. Sadly Katrine shook her head. “I’m adept at running a household, and I can even cook upon occasion, but I would never make a butcher. I couldn’t stomach it.”

His slow chuckle rippled through her. “Now I would call that a very bad pun.”

Katrine felt color rise to her cheeks, a color that didn’t diminish when Raith took the cloth from her and gently gave her face a final few strokes.

“Feel better?” he murmured, brushing the damp, flaming tendrils of hair back from her face and tucking them behind her ear.

“Y-yes.” The stammered word was dredged from her throat as she forced herself not to flinch from his touch. She hated this sensitive side of him. It made her feel things she didn’t want to feel, as if she could actually like Raith…or love him.

Abruptly Katrine’s thoughts skittered away from such dangerous ground. Acutely self-conscious now, she averted her gaze. She wished Raith would act like the uncivilized brute she had first thought him. She wished she had never become involved with this dangerous Highlander in the first place. She wished he would kiss her again and turn her blood to fire....

Fiercely bringing her shameful reflections under control, Katrine forced herself to ask the question that had been preying on her mind. “Is there any new word of my uncle? Callum said you had gone to meet with your kinsman.”

It was a moment before Raith answered. During this past trip he’d made good use of the ducal seal he’d taken from her uncle’s study, issuing counterfeit receipts to the Duart MacLeans in Argyll’s name for rents paid. That should get the duke’s attention, even if the abduction of his factor’s niece had not. But it wasn’t something he meant to disclose to Katrine. “No, there’s been no new word.”

She slanted a glance at Raith, studying his expression, wondering why he seemed reluctant to discuss the subject with her. “So what do you intend to do now?”

“The same as before. Wait.”

“To what purpose? I don’t even understand what you want from my uncle.”

She watched as Raith flexed his fingers around the damp handkerchief. “It’s simple. All I want is to return a portion of the money Colin Campbell and the Duke of Argyll have been bleeding from the Duart MacLeans.”

“Bleeding? But my uncle isn’t dishonest, I tell you. Perhaps he has been overzealous in carrying out the duke’s orders, but he—”