Tender Feud

“Go back?” She sounded confused.

“Katrine…” He sounded tortured. “Please, just go.”

She swallowed hard, wondering what she had done wrong, how she had displeased him.

“This should never have happened,” he said at last, in a voice so low she barely heard.

The enormity of what she’d nearly done finally occurred to her; like a wanton she had allowed Raith to make love to her, returning his kisses measure for measure, offering her body to him for his pleasure and her own. If he had wanted her, she would have given herself to him totally.

She ought to feel acute shame. So why instead did she feel this mortification in the pit of her stomach, not because of what Raith had done, but because of what he

hadn’t finished? And why did she feel the fierce ache of tears at the back of her throat?

Hurriedly, not wanting to break down before him, Katrine fumbled with the bodice of her gown, covering her breasts, which were tender from his lavish caresses. When she was done, she climbed quickly to her feet. But then she stood awkwardly, not wanting to leave with things so raw and unsettled between them.

“You aren’t coming?”

Raith forced himself to look at her then, but the sight of her love-swollen mouth made him close his eyes again. “I’ll follow in a minute. I can’t return in this state.”

She couldn’t pretend to misunderstand him. The evidence of his arousal was hard and bulging beneath his kilt. Ordinarily such a reference to so intimate a function of a man’s body would have brought a blush to her cheeks, but her cheeks remained pale and waxen. When the silence drew out, she turned and slowly walked away, feeling lost.

Raith lay there unmoving, guilt, anger, remorse and selfdisgust churning in his gut. How could he have allowed things to go so far? How could he have allowed himself to lose sight of who she was? A Campbell and a Sassenach. There was no more deadly a combination. Unless it was a young virgin under his protection. And Katrine Campbell was all of those.

God’s mercy, Raith thought with bitter irony. Of all women, he wanted only her.

Katrine got through the day in a trancelike state. The early morning encounter with Raith had left her dazed, with emotions staggering for balance.

Mechanically she took Meggie through her drawing lessons, but the child had to tug on her sleeve more than once to get her attention. Otherwise, Katrine’s thoughts were focused on what had nearly occurred in the glen.

She had heard enough servant talk in her time to know generally what happened when a man and a woman made love. Moreover, she had grown up on a farm, and her married sister had sometimes discussed the physical side of wedlock. Katrine had even been present when Louisa instructed Roseline about what to expect on her wedding night. At the time, Louisa’s frank references to lovemaking had embarrassed Katrine. She’d never expected to want to submit to a man’s pawing attentions. For all her dreams about finding a soul mate, she hadn’t meant it in the physical sense, merely spiritual.

But there was no denying Raith’s caresses made her blood race. And part of the reason, she was convinced, was precisely because he was a lawless Highland laird, an enemy of her clan. From the first she had been attracted to Raith because he had an aura of danger and excitement about him, something that had always been lacking in her hitherto tame existence.

During the past few weeks, though, her attraction had grown into something far more powerful, a yearning that was like a physical ache. This morning it had been so strong that she’d forgotten all the ladylike notions that had been drummed into her head since childhood; she had surrendered to him without a word of protest. She’d wanted Raith to make her a woman, his woman.

Why he had stopped was the gnawing question that wouldn’t leave her alone now. Was it because he couldn’t bring himself to make love to a Campbell? Or simply because he didn’t find her appealing enough, with her shrewish tongue and waspish temper?

After dinner, Katrine found herself standing in the small parlor, in front of Ellen MacLean’s portrait. Jealousy, bright, hot and absurd flooded through her as she stared at Raith’s beautiful young wife. She couldn’t help wondering what their physical relationship had been like. Would Raith have kissed Ellen the way he had her, with his hot mouth on her breast, his caressing hand stroking her body?

But of course. Ellen had been his wife…while she was only his prisoner. The sooner she came to terms with that, the sooner she could get hold of her battered feelings.

By that afternoon, Katrine was no closer to achieving her goal than before. While Meggie practiced the stitches she’d been taught, Katrine found herself jabbing her own needle fiercely in and out of the embroidery she held. How could she have been so blinded to propriety? she wondered furiously. How could she have been so daft as to respond to that brigand’s kisses? And how dare Raith reject her! Yet she knew she was nourishing her anger simply to keep her other, more dangerous feelings at bay. That evening, when she retired to her private bower, thoughts of the morning’s encounter returned in full force to haunt her. She lay alone and lonely on her pallet, her whirling reflections keeping her awake long into the night.

It must have been well after midnight that she heard the screaming. Meggie, Katrine thought, her heart leaping.

Scrambling out of bed, she flung open the door. The tortured sounds were definitely coming from the floor below, she realized. Without pausing to strike a light, Katrine raced down the dark corridor and then the dimly lit servants’ stairs, nearly falling in her haste. A wall sconce was burning in the hallway, revealing that the door to Meggie’s bedchamber was open. Katrine ran the last few paces, coming to a halt in the doorway.

The screams had died down to a quiet wailing, and she could see why. Raith was there before her, holding Meggie in his arms as he stood beside the child’s bed, pressing her face into his shoulder and murmuring soothing sounds over and over. He was fully dressed, Katrine noted absently, realizing that he hadn’t retired yet. The room was lit by a single candle.

Flora arrived just then, breathing hard. The housekeeper appeared to have been roused from sleep, for she was still adjusting the sash of her woolen dressing gown, and her nightcap was askew.

Raith glanced over his shoulder to find both women in the doorway. “Fetch the laudanum,” he said softly.

Flora hastened away to do his bidding, while Katrine looked at Raith quizzically, wishing she could help. “Light the lamp, will you?” he replied to her unspoken question.

She found the flint box beside the oil lamp on a small corner table, and when the room was bathed in a golden glow, Katrine went to Meggie. The child was sobbing now, a soft keening sound that tore at Katrine’s heart. It was the first time she had ever heard Meggie make even the slightest noise.

Hesitantly she laid a gentle hand on the small shoulder. She thought Meggie must have recognized her touch for she didn’t flinch. “What is troubling her?” Katrine asked in a whisper.