She had no idea how long the wild ride lasted. Gritting her teeth over the clammy wool, Katrine tried to remember her Christian upbringing as she was jolted unmercifully mile after mile. Even so, more than one silent but violent curse found its way to her swollen tongue. She wasn’t afraid. Desire for murder had completely usurped fear.
At last, however, the horse slowed to a walk and the punishing ride came to an end.
“Now, haud yer wheesht,” her abductor whispered, his tone more worried than menacing. “Raith would no be pleased to ken I told ye his name or that ye threatened to clype to the Sassenach soldiers.”
Hold her tongue? Katrine ground her teeth over her gag, her temper fire-hot, as hot as her hair, as her abductor’s order sank in. She would murder him. She would truly murder him. She would be avenged on this heathen clod if it took the rest of her life!
Limp, aching, her spine a quivering mass of jelly, Katrine slid to the ground. She remained immobile as she vaguely heard her captor dismount, not moving even when he reached for her and grasped her arm. But she had had enough of being terrorized. When he drew her to her feet, his huge paw supporting her, Katrine found enough strength to shake off his grip. Unable to kick his stockinged shins as she would have liked, she swung her bound hands at him in an ineffectual wallop.
Raising her gaze to glare at her abductor then, her eyes snapping, she reached up and managed to drag the gag from her mouth. “You witless jackanapes! You—you brutish makebait! I’ll see you swinging from a gibbet for this!”
The coverlet had fallen off her shoulders long ago, and somewhere along the way her nightcap had come off, but Katrine stood before the massive Scotsman, half-dressed and bedraggled, swaying on weak legs, prepared to do battle.
Wide-eyed, he looked at her, as if he were a male bovine and she a particularly pesky terrier that had nipped at his heels.
It was then that Katrine realized they weren’t alone. A chill ran down her spine as her circumstances suddenly registered. The thicket where they had stopped was lit by a golden glow, and the jingle of harness she heard was not coming from the horse that had carried her through the night.
Slowly, Katrine angled her head, her heart thudding in her chest as she found herself the object of a dozen pairs of eyes. Fierce eyes. The thicket was filled with men. Tartan-clad, hardfaced men who were brandishing pistols and holding pine-pitch torches overhead.
The sight froze her blood and instantly purged her of all the romantic notions she had nourished about wild Highlanders.
They were all staring at her, including the raven-haired villain who had broken into her uncle’s study and tied her up. He had changed his clothes somewhat; in place of his frock coat and waistcoat, he wore a dark green plaid over his shoulder, Highland fashion.
It made him look, Katrine thought, startled, even more dangerous than before. And now there was no longer any sign of the arrogant amusement with which he had taunted her in her uncle’s study. His scowl was black, his expression furious as he shifted his gaze to the lout who had stolen her.
“Lachlan, just what in the bloody devil are you about?”
Chapter Two
Raith MacLean stared at his kinsman expectantly, keeping his anger in check till he at least heard an explanation for what had gone awry—although he strongly suspected Lachlan was the cause of the present mishap. Lachlan wasn’t known for his mental brilliance, nor was this the first time the red-haired MacLean had failed to follow orders. He was supposed to have kept watch on the castle garrison, but he hadn’t been at his post when Raith finished the task in Campbell’s study. Nor had Lachlan been at the established mustering point. It seemed likely now to Raith that the brawny Scotsman had grown nervous and gone in search of him. In the darkness they must have missed each other.
Until now, however, the raid into Campbell territory had proceeded precisely according to plan. Farther south, two other detachments of MacLeans had successfully created diversions by stealing Campbell cattle and sending the duke’s factor and soldiers off on a wild chase. The factor’s absence had given Raith the opportunity to carry out his real purpose, altering Campbell’s account books.
It was a clever plan. Easier than lifting cattle, less bloody than going to war as his ancestors would have done. And more effective than both. Not only would it provide the MacLeans on the Isle of Mull some relief from the exorbitant rents the new duke of Argyll was extracting from his tenants, but the duke would feel the pinch in his purse. Raith had very carefully changed the ledgers to show greater revenues than actually were received. Unlawful, but effective. The books were so erroneous now that the duke’s factor would likely never be able to straighten out the mess.
And if need be, Raith could use Argyll’s seal that he’d taken from the study desk to issue receipts verifying the higher payments. With the seal missing, Campbell would no doubt be suspicious of any such receipts, but he would be unable to prove them invalid.
It had given Raith immense satisfaction to harry Clan Campbell in this new way, to repay in some small measure the cunning and treachery the Dukes of Argyll had always dealt the MacLeans. His own branch hadn’t suffered as greatly as had others. The MacLeans of Ardgour were one of the few septs of Clan MacLean that hadn’t forfeited their lands after the risings of 1715 and 1745, while the Duart MacLeans had lost both their remaining lands and their chief. With the laird of Duart gone, the Duart MacLeans had been without protection from the perfidy of Argyll—which was why Raith had come to their aid. As laird of Ardgour, he was bound by clan honor to protect and defend his kinsmen. When the Duart MacLeans had petitioned him for help, he had been more than willing to lead the raid on the Campbells.
The execution of his plan had proceeded without a hitch—except when he’d been discovered in Colin Campbell’s study by a flame-haired, wide-eyed wench in a nightdress. He hadn’t expected her to be there in the factor’s house. And he had no earthly idea what
she was doing here now.
Raith’s gaze shifted to the young woman with the high cheekbones that were flushed with outrage. She had sea-green eyes, flashing eyes, with a silvery hue that darkened to moss when she was angry, as she had been when he tied her up. As she was now.
But he was angry himself, having been forced to wait for Lachlan. By now he and his band should have been several leagues from here, far enough away to elude pursuit.
“Lachlan,” Raith repeated with unconcealed impatience, “why don’t you tell us what the devil you are about?”
Lachlan looked at him blankly. “Why, I fetched the lass for ye.”
A black eyebrow shot up. “Are you daft, man? What would I want with her?”
“She’s the niece of Colin Campbell.”
Raith’s dark gaze narrowed as it swung on Katrine. “Who said so?”
“She said so. Katrine Campbell is her name.”