Helpless to move on her own, Katrine was vastly relieved when a fierce shoulder grip jerked her upright. For a startled moment she wondered if she had possibly affected Raith the way he had her. But then she scolded herself for being a gomerel. Virile though he no doubt was, Raith MacLean was indifferent to her. He simply didn’t want her leaning on him. From then on Katrine concentrated on keeping the contact between them to a bare minimum.
And after a while she nearly forgot her dire situation, so engrossed did she become in admiring the majestic beauty of the Highland hills. Sunlight glinted through alder and mountain ash trees, while all around her rose mountain crags wreathed in early-morning mist.
They were following the course of a rippling burn, and the water, as it tumbled over stones and fallen logs, created a musical symphony that seemed to echo in the stillness. Soon they began climbing straight up, toward the heavens. Dazed by the sensation of touching the sky, Katrine caught her breath as she gazed upward at the blue, blue vista. And when she glimpsed a golden eagle gliding effortlessly overhead, her spirits soared with it. In spite of everything, she hadn’t felt so al
ive in years.
Suddenly she was glad she had returned to her father’s homeland. She was in the Highlands at last. She was truly here. Excitement, long suppressed, unfurled inside her. No, she wouldn’t let a mere abduction spoil her homecoming. Instead she would enjoy the glorious morning and not think too deeply about the immediate future.
Raith watched Katrine’s absorbed awe in rigid silence, trying to ignore the feel of her, the look of her, the way her eyes were bright and keen and noticed every small detail of her surroundings. Her unruly hair shone like fire in the sunlight, and when a curling strand escaped her loosened braid and blew back across his face to burn him, Raith winced and mentally swore an oath.
He greatly regretted sending his men on ahead while he dealt with the Campbell wench. Yet he hadn’t wanted to slow his clansmen down more than they already had been, since it was dangerous for a band of armed Highlanders to be out and about during daylight hours. And if the British troops did happen to pursue, he would be the only one held responsible for Miss Campbell’s abduction. Now, however, he would have given a month’s rents from his own tenants just to have another mount present, so he would no longer have to ride with the tormenting lass.
Perhaps he was the one who should get down and walk, if he had no more control over his body than this. He’d been in a half-aroused state ever since he’d met her, and when he was touching her, when her slender body was pressed against him, moving rhythmically with the horse’s walk as it was now, his arousal was total.
There was a simple explanation for why he was so physically attracted to a Campbell, Raith thought, gritting his teeth. It had been some time since he’d had a woman, for though he knew of a dozen females on his own estate who would willingly share his bed, his position as laird and his own conscience precluded his taking advantage of their dependent status.
But lust was a simple basic need, easily satisfied. There was a comely widow in Strontian who would be delighted to accommodate him, and a lively tavern keeper’s daughter in Corran who had caught his eye during his last sojourn there. Then again, perhaps he should visit the stews of Edinburgh for a few nights of wild revelry, as he had during his university days. Or return to France and present himself at court. The ladies of France knew very well how to make a man lose himself in their perfumed charms.
And he badly needed to lose himself. Perhaps then he wouldn’t be so affected by the nearness of a woman. Especially this woman…an infuriating, hot-tempered Campbell, whose slender body ignited him like a blaze from her flaming hair.
Chapter Four
To Raith’s frustration, Katrine suddenly grew talkative, bombarding him with questions about the country they traveled. Raith answered in grudging monosyllables, till at last he lost patience. “Don’t you know how to keep a still tongue in your head?” he demanded.
Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. The hard eyes blasted her with hostility.
Bewildered by his attack, Katrine thought over her last words, but could find nothing provocative in asking him to name the lovely star-shaped blossom she had spied growing from a crevice in the rock. But she might have been talking too much, Katrine acknowledged. Or perhaps Raith MacLean simply didn’t want to converse with a Campbell.
Katrine’s spine stiffened. He didn’t like her asking questions, did he? It was a small advantage, but an advantage nonetheless.
Her eyes widened with mock innocence. “You wouldn’t gag me again, merely for admiring a flower, would you? Your conscience would smite you mercilessly for it, I daresay.”
She nearly smiled when a muscle tightened in his jaw. He looked angry enough to set her down from his horse. But she was confident he wouldn’t. He was still feeling guilty over her blisters and her scraped knee. But he should feel guilty, Katrine thought defiantly. Torturing a defenseless captive that way… And if she had anything to say about it, he would soon feel even more uncomfortable.
For the next half hour, she kept up a steady barrage of chatter, fairly oozing cordiality as she talked on and on, pausing only briefly now and again for answers that never came.
But as they crested a ridge, even Katrine fell silent.
“Oh,” she breathed, gazing down on a wild glen with its small shimmering loch surrounded by towering, savage peaks. The prospect was breathtaking, beautiful. She wished she had her paints, or at least a drawing pencil, so she could attempt to capture the stark loveliness. Yet she feared she couldn’t do it justice.
“You ken where we are?” Raith demanded suddenly.
“No, why should I?”
“I thought your own conscience might be smiting you this time. Can you not feel the blood on your Campbell hands?”
Katrine cast a puzzled glance over her shoulder at him.
“‘Tis Glencoe. Surely you’ve heard of it. Or do you Campbells so conveniently forget your cowardly treacherous deeds?”
She didn’t answer. She had indeed heard of the infamous massacre at Glencoe, but it was not a tale she liked to remember.
“Should I refresh your memory?” Raith gibed, watching her face. “Should I remind you how Sassenach troops of Argyll’s regiment led by Robert Campbell of Glenlyon billeted with the MacDonalds for a fortnight, and then betrayed every law of civilized hospitality and murdered their kind hosts?”
“No,” Katrine murmured, wishing Raith wouldn’t look at her so, with such contempt and hatred, as if he blamed her for what her kinsmen had done long before she was born. It was one of the most disgraceful days in Scottish history, the murder of forty MacDonalds by the Campbells, but it had happened nearly seventy years ago.
“They call it the Glen of Weeping now,” Raith said softly.