Tender Feud

Raith never acknowledged her claim to his heart. Not in words. But his body spoke to her. His powerful muscles bunching beneath her roaming hands, he drove into her, loving her fiercely, as if merging with her could cleanse him of the bitter hatred that was like a poison in his blood.

Hatred. It was only in moments like this, when he was immersed in the fire storm of her passion, that he believed his hatred could be conquered by love. Only at times like this, when the hot, bright feeling exploded in his soul, that he could deny his responsibilities and forget the enmity between their clans.

But like their physical mating, the moment couldn’t last.

When it was over, a silence descended heavier than any Raith had ever known. He lay beside Katrine, his chest heaving, his damp skin slowly cooling in the aftermath of passion. The flaming sky had faded to twilight before he dared look at her. Katrine was watching him with a quiet intensity that threatened to destroy every shred of his resolve.

“We have to go.” He forced the words past his lips—and then wished he could take them back when she slowly nodded. Without voicing a single word of protest, she rose and began to gather her scattered clothing. The most difficult thing he’d ever had to do in his life was not reach for her again.

No words were spoken between them as they resumed their interrupted journey, or even later when the moon rose to light their way through the wild pass of Brandor, in the shadow of lofty Ben Cruachan. The inevitability of the moment hung between them like a shroud. The only sound was the rhythmic plodding of horses’ hooves.

And even those stopped when they neared their destination, for when Katrine drew her mount to a halt, so did Raith. In the distance loomed the black outline of Kilchurn Castle where the English militia was garrisoned.

“You shouldn’t come any closer,” Katrine whispered, vaguely surprised that she could even manage that much.

“I’ll see you safely home,” Raith returned in a voice so grim that it quelled all argument.

He took her nearly to her uncle’s door, and then helped her dismount. Afterward he stood looking down, his face a dark mask of shadow.

Hers was not so unreadable; sorrow, despair, longing were there in her upturned face for him to see. Unable to help himself, Raith reached for her and drew her close.

Katrine clung to him, holding on with a tight, quiet desperation. And when she felt his lips press against her temple, she turned her head, searching blindly for his mouth.

Yet she was the one to break off the anguished kiss. Choking back a sob, she took a deep breath and pressed her palms against his chest, forcing herself to quit clinging. “Raith…whatever it is you intend…please…be careful.”

No longer remotely able to maintain the detachment he had striven for, Raith felt a twisting emptiness grip his heart. His face contorted in pain, he bent slowly and kissed her on the cheek, much as Callum had done, a strange and tender gesture. “Go home, bonny Katie,” he whispered, his own voice trembling.

She wondered if he might have meant her home in England, but she wasn’t sure. Watching him leave, Katrine was certain of only one thing: Raith took her heart with him as he slowly rode away in the moonlight.

Chapter Sixteen

Oblivious to the gathering storm clouds, Katrine lay back among the heather, gazing dreamily at the sky. The hand resting lightly on her abdomen occasionally stroked protectively, and sometimes she murmured her thoughts out loud, as if someone were actually there to hear. Only when a chill gust of wind raised gooseflesh on the skin bared by her elbow-length sleeves did she stir enough to tuck her bare feet beneath her skirts and draw her Campbell plaid about her shoulders.

As happened frequently of late, she had stolen out to the hills behind her uncle’s house to spend the August afternoon in idle contemplation. At times like these she would usually remember only the pleasant experiences of her “ordeal,” as her uncle termed her abduction, but as the brewing storm darkened the sky, she found her thoughts drifting back to her parting from Raith.

After enduring the anguish of watching him leave, she had crept into the dark house by way of the servants’ entrance, and silently made her way upstairs to the bedchamber she had used on her last visit. She wouldn’t, couldn’t rouse her sleeping uncle; she couldn’t face him just yet. Without pausing to undress or do anything but lock her door, Katrine had thrown herself on the bed and slept from sheer exhaustion. The body and mind could only deal with so much grief, it seemed, and she had had her fill. Not until late the next morning had she awakened, and it had taken another hour of composing her shredded emotions before she was prepared to face her uncle with anything resembling composure. Marshaling her courage then, she went downstairs.

The murmur of masculine voices led her to the study—the same dark-paneled, ledger-filled room where she had met Raith what seemed like a lifetime ago. To Katrine’s surprise, a scarlet-coated officer was standing at attention beside the desk, respectfully holding his tricorne hat in his hands.

The tall, elderly gentleman behind the desk was standing, too, a fierce scowl on his face as he read the missive in his hands. He was plainly dressed in a frock coat and matching waistcoat of brown twilled wool. His white shirt and starched jabot sported a minimum of ruffles.

For a moment Katrine stood watching her Uncle Colin, memories of her late father flooding her. Her uncle’s powdered tie-wig covered hair that she knew would be a sandy red, possibly sprinkled by now with gray.

“This cannot be!” she heard him mutter. His voice was tinged with the Highland burr that she remembered from her childhood, but at the moment, his tone was far more grim than her father’s had ever been. “They truly escaped?”

The question sent fingers of apprehension curling around Katrine’s heart. Apparently the Ardgour MacLeans must have rescued their Duart kin from the tolbooth in Oban last night. She took an involuntary step forward as her uncle crumpled the scrap of vellum in his fist.

“Those cursed MacLeans! They’re determined to make fools of us. Spiriting away their fellow curs in the night, under the very noses of the guards you had posted!”

“Aye, Mr. Campbell,” the young officer replied in a weary tone. “We found the turnkey in the vacant cell shortly after the escape took place. He had been trussed up and blindfolded. He swears he never saw the culprits.”

Katrine slowly exhaled in relief. No blood had been shed, and no one yet knew the identity of the rescuers. Nor would they ever learn it from her.

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the room. “Uncle?”

Colin Campbell looked up impatiently, then his mouth dropped open. The soldier turned to eye her curiously.

Katrine cleared her throat. “I’m pleased to see you again.”