“Not noble, Katie. Merely a fact of life. We can’t turn our backs on our kinsmen.”

“No, certainly not,” she murmured, thinking how it was loyalty that had precipitated her own situation.

Callum must have followed her thoughts, for his voice dropped in sober warning. “I hope you realize the risk Raith is taking in returning you to your clan. A word from you could have him arrested. Argyll would take great pleasure seeing him dance on a gibbet—and the rest of us as well.”

“I wouldn’t…I could never—”

“I know that, and so does Raith. Still, it puts us in a tenuous position.” Callum threw an idle glance over his shoulder at his cousin. “Raith has never been comfortable giving control of his fate into other hands. That’s what has him pacing the deck like a caged wildcat.”

Katrine’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “Pacing? But he hasn’t moved in the past half hour.”

“In his thoughts, bonny Katie. In his thoughts he’s worn a hole in my deck.”

“And you expect me to sympathize? No doubt he’s planning a raid on my kin.”

Callum grinned. “Among other things.”

“How can you stand there, acting so nonchalant? People could be killed! You and Raith might be killed.”

“Would you miss me then, Katie?”

“Oh, you’re impossible!” She flung Raith a darkling look. “Both of you.”

“Why don’t you tell that to Raith?”

“I think I shall!”

It was only as she was marching across the deck that she realized Callum had purposely provoked her, probably to distract her from her morose thoughts. And his strategy had worked momentarily; she was ready to do battle again.

“Raith?”

He stiffened, not turning around.

Watching the rigid set of his shoulders, Katrine took a deep breath. “It isn’t too late. There is still time to talk this over peaceably. You could come with me and speak to my uncle. He might be convinced to petition the duke. That’s the only way to end this feud, I tell you.”

Raith turned then, his hard blue gaze scrutinizing her, piercing her with its chill. “You honestly think Argyll would yield.” It wasn’t a question but a statement, voiced with disdain.

“I…I think you should at least make the attempt.”

His stony expression never softened as he glanced beyond her at his cousin, who had ambled up. “Before we put in at Oban,” Raith told Callum, “I want you to set a course for Mull. Miss Campbell deserves to see for herself the extent of Argyll’s treachery.”

The finality of his tone at last convinced Katrine tha

t her cause truly was hopeless. She felt the merciful numbness wrap around her aching heart again.

Callum held up his hands in a mocking gesture of submission. “As you wish, cousin.” Reaching Katrine’s side, Callum tucked her arm in his. “Come below with me, Katie, out of the chill. Flora expressly bade me to keep you plied with hot tea so you wouldn’t brood.”

Wretchedly, Katrine nodded, her eyes burning with tears that she refused to let fall in front of Raith. But when she allowed Callum to escort her below to the ship’s galley and saw him carefully measuring out dried tea leaves into a teapot, she choked back the hysterical urge to laugh. She appreciated the kindness of the dour housekeeper, but just now Flora’s belief in the restorative powers of tea only seemed absurd.

No, Katrine thought miserably, the tears beginning to flow. A thousand cups of hot tea could never heal the rent in her heart caused by Raith’s rejection of her love.

The ship detoured briefly to the Isle of Mull where the ruined castle of Duart stood, so Katrine could see for herself the fate of the Duart MacLeans at Argyll’s hands. Subdued and silent, she watched as the brigantine cut through the choppy sea, bringing the island ever closer. She had managed to quit crying, but she was bleakly aware of Raith’s grim silence as he stood beside her at the gunwale.

The island mountains were not as savage as the peaks they had recently left behind. Indeed, Mull was almost pretty, with its rich hues of green and purple. In contrast, the dark headland overlooking the Sound of Mull appeared dramatic, as did the fortress of crumbling stone, which was perched upon the great mass of rock a few hundred yards from the sea. Katrine could see it looming in the distance, a grim reminder of the stormy and often violent history of the Highland clans, a testimony to the destruction wrought by man through war and neglect.

The Duart MacLeans, Callum had told her, had been dispossessed of their castle three generations ago after it was assaulted and partially destroyed by government forces. After the forfeiture to the crown, the ownership of the castle passed to the earl of Argyll, who let it further fall to ruin.

“Behold Duart Castle, Miss Campbell,” Raith said finally, his tone laced with the bitterness she had come to expect from him. But this time she felt she could understand. The once proud MacLean stronghold was now roofless, its thick tower walls, embrasured battlements and crenellated parapet decaying into dust, its narrow window slits looking out on a bare waste of moorland and bog.

Tags: Nicole Jordan Historical
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