Katrine returned his gaze thoughtfully. If memory served, it was the laird of Duart who held the chieftainship of Clan MacLean. So why was he not the one aiding his clan instead of this ruthless brigand? “I would have thought it a matter for the Laird of Duart to settle, then.”
“There is no Laird of Duart any longer. He was butchered in the Forty-five, like so many of his kinsmen.”
The bitterness in Raith’s tone was unmistakable. And Katrine could sympathize, having lost her own father in that rising. Indeed, there were few Scots families who hadn’t lost at least one loved one in the many years of fighting. Highlanders had always been fiercely divided in their loyalties, but after the turn of the century, when England and Scotland had united under one rule, the violence had escalated. British troops had been required to quell the frequent uprisings, and the outcome was always bloody. The worst and last was in 1745, when the clans rose up in arms for Bonnie Prince Charlie, who was the grandson of the deposed James II of England, and the son of the man many Highlanders still considered to be the true king. The rising of ‘45 had ended in bitter, bloody defeat for the Jacobites at Culloden.
Had the MacLean of Duart been killed in battle? Katrine wondered. After the Forty-five, the prince’s supporters had been hounded relentlessly by the English victors, whose intent was to destroy the old clan feudal system. Many of the Highland chiefs had been executed; others fled into exile. Properties were confiscated by the crown. Weapons, including the dirk that Raith MacLean carried, were outlawed, as was the tartan, the badge of every clan’s individuality and pride. Only soldiers serving in the king’s armies could wear the kilt and the plaid.
“Most of the Duart lands were lost before then,” Raith continued, interrupting her thoughts. “Through the cunning and treachery of an earlier Argyll, I might add. But what Duart estates remained went to the third duke—in payment for betrayal of his countrymen.”
Katrine bristled at the accusation. The Dukes of Argyll had been faithful supporters of the English crown during the years of rebellion. Naturally they would be the target of animosity and slander by Highlanders like the MacLeans, who had supported the Stuart pretenders to the throne.
But what of Raith MacLean? If he wasn’t a tenant of the duke’s, what was he? A cattle thief, Katrine remembered. Such an occupation was not uncommon in this rugged land. In order to survive after the Forty-five, many Highlanders had turned renegade and made a living by stealing their neighbor’s cattle.
Katrine had no trouble picturing this hard-faced, blackhaired MacLean leading his clansmen in raids on other clans, to pillage or fight, or to carry out fierce acts of retaliation dictated by Highland law. Yet when she had first encountered him, he had been engaged in a task more suited to a scholar or a clerk.
Suddenly Katrine sat bolt upright, making Raith lose hold of the bandage he was applying. “The ledgers!” she exclaimed in triumph. “You were tampering with my uncle’s ledgers. It had to do with the rents, didn’t it?”
Glancing up, Raith narrowed his dark eyes at her, but he didn’t answer. Katrine knew she was right, though. He had come to the aid of his MacLean kin out of clan pride. He had altered the ledgers somehow to the MacLeans’ benefit. But that didn’t explain why he had taken her captive.
“You didn’t expect to find me there, did you? Your spies never told you of my arrival.”
The look in his eyes warned her she was treading on dangerous ground. “I planned to be in and out with none the wiser, true.”
“So why did you go along with Lachlan’s daft abduction? You can’t have been eager to have me on your hands.”
“You have the measure of it. The last thing I want is to be saddled with a sharp-tongued, conniving Campbell.” Again, he pronounced the name with a hateful twist as he returned to his task.
“Then just how do I fit into your scheme? You said you didn’t want ransom.”
“I told you. As surety. You’re the guarantee that will prevent Campbell from taking revenge on the Duart MacLeans. As long as I have you, your uncle will think twice about retaliating against Duart for this night’s work—or any other.”
Katrine wasn’t so certain her uncle would subvert his plans or betray his sense of justice simply to save her skin, but it would be foolish to continue expressing her doubts to the man who held her in his power.
“My uncle will come after you, you know,” she assured him with feigned confidence as he returned her slippers to her feet.
Raith shrugged. “The MacLeans had been pursued with fire and sword by the Campbells long before the Forty-five. We know how to elude capture. They’ll not apprehend me. And they’ll not find you.”
He said it with finality, effectively closing the subject. Then he pushed the hem of her nightdress back down and rose. “Can you go on now?”
Disheartened again, Katrine gazed up at him. “Do I have a choice?”
“No. But you can ride with me.”
“How noble of you to offer. Your conscience must truly be pricking you.”
Ignoring her gibe, Raith reached down his hand. “I trust you’re willing to be sensible now.”
“Are you certain you can tolerate my riding with you? I’m sure I wouldn’t like to inconvenience you.”
That brought a reluctant grin to his mouth. “I’m sure you would.”
Katrine had absolutely no desire to share a horse with him, but she was grateful not to have to walk, for her blisters truly were paining her. She allowed Raith to settle her on his horse, but this time she rode astride, finding it a more secure position. In the interest of safety, she overlooked the immodest way the bunched-up skirt of her nightshift scarcely covered her knees.
Katrine realized the peril of the arrangement, however, as soon as Raith vaulted up behind her. It was a mistake, being this close to him. Pressed against the smooth, firm muscles of a man who’d obviously worked and fought and ridden hard all his life, Katrine suddenly felt limp and powerless. The contact was shocking, dangerous…exhilarating. And it only grew worse as Raith set the horse in motion.
The sensations disconcerted her entirely. This wasn’t supposed to happen, this singing in her blood—not with someone like him. Raith MacLean was no dream hero conjured from her imaginings. He was an outlaw, a cattle pirate.
But he was also a man. With a lean, lithe body that at the moment seemed the masculine complement to her own. A hard broad chest that offered support and comfort, powerful thighs that nestled hers in a flagrantly suggestive way. And his warmth. Katrine’s heart began thudding as his body heat enveloped her along with his musky male scent.