It was only later, when she’d had time to reflect, that Katrine even wondered if she had acted wisely. She had managed to scrub off the worst of the charcoal from the wall by the time Flora returned home, but when the dour Scotswoman caught sight of Meggie in a fresh frock, with her cheeks pink and glowing, her hair neatly braided and coiled, she gave Katrine a suspicious, scowling glance.
Yet she didn’t say a word in reproach, and if she told the laird about their Campbell prisoner’s interference, Katrine never discovered it. In any case, she was soon too busy to worry about how Raith would respond to her deliberate flouting of his orders, for it seemed that he had brought a number of guests home with him. Katrine was required to help with the preparation of dinner, and when Flora set her to work polishing the huge walnut table in the formal dining room, she did as she was bidden.
From the front part of the house, Katrine could hear the company laughing and chatting. Then she realized that there were ladies in the party, and she found herself tensing involuntarily. It was odd to think of Raith MacLean entertaining guests like any civilized gentleman—and rather disturbing. Forcing aside the thought, she turned her attention to the possibility of escape, wondering how she could possibly turn the guests’ presence to her advantage.
For an instant she considered making herself known to the party and throwing herself on their mercy. Then she dismissed the idea. She was unlikely to find anyone in this bastion of Jacobite supporters who was sympathetic to her plight, especially a guest who was enjoying the laird’s hospitality. Besides, she was quite certain that if Raith were concerned about her being seen, he would have locked her in her room or the stables or some such place. She even briefly considered trying to secret herself in the large, well-appointed carriage that was now standing in the yard, but there really was no place to hide in it, even if she could reach it without being seen.
After that depressing conclusion, the remainder of Katrine’s day—spent largely in the kitchen with the other servants, preparing food and washing dishes—seemed interminable. All the guests seemed to do was eat, she thought with resentment. Sometime after the long dinner there was a light supper, and then there was tea.
Flora seemed to have forgotten Katrine’s status as a prisoner, for she sent her into the dining room with a dish. Katrine went reluctantly, anxious to avoid any sight of Raith, but fortunately the guests weren’t seated for supper yet. The immense and polished table, lighted by an enormous silver candelabrum and adorned with fragile porcelain, gave her pause. The scene didn’t look at all appropriate for a cattl
e thief. The goblets with fine chase work at each place setting and the jewel-encrusted candlesticks on the sideboard bespoke wealth and elegance.
There must have been a harpsichord in one of the parlors, also, for later that evening in the kitchen, after Scotch porter and French claret had been provided for the gentlemen, and after the tea tray had been delivered to the entire company, Katrine heard a few tinkling notes from the instrument. When next she caught the sound of a feminine voice reading aloud, she found herself yearning for her aunt’s home and her sisters, remembering how often they had passed a pleasant evening in just such a manner.
It was near midnight when she heard the horses being harnessed to the carriage, but more than a half hour later before Flora gave her permission to retire. Katrine was grateful to leave, for her feet and back were aching from the long hours of toil.
Weary and heartsore, she trudged down the corridor, which was dimly lit by a wall sconce. She had just reached the narrow servants’ stairs when the sound of firm footsteps made her pause. Her pulse gave a fierce leap as Raith MacLean, resplendent in formal attire, emerged from the shadows.
The black leather of his low-heeled evening shoes sported hammered-gold buckles, while the hose that covered his muscular calves were made of silk. His knee smalls were black satin, the full-skirted, wide-cuffed frock coat was of rich gold brocade, and the long waistcoat was both black and gold. The striking colors accentuated his dark good looks, while the fashionable, powdered tie-wig and the costly, frothing lace at his throat and wrists only enhanced his masculinity. All he required was a gleaming rapier at his side to resemble a noble English courtier.
Katrine stared, unable to look away. He was like no other gentleman of her acquaintance, imbued with a savage beauty that made her catch her breath.
Raith, too, stopped suddenly, as if he hadn’t expected to encounter her there. His blue eyes searched her face, then slowly dropped, lingering on her slightly parted lips, before his face suddenly became an enigmatic mask.
“Good evening, Miss Campbell,” he said with extreme politeness. “Or should I say, good night.”
His expression had resumed the familiar haughty set. Seeing it, Katrine didn’t reply, not trusting her voice. She didn’t understand why his cool greeting should depress her so, or why the sight of her Highland abductor looking so handsome and powerful and elegant should be so dismaying. Or why she was suddenly miserably aware of her own drab appearance.
But when Raith gave her the slightest bow and proceeded on his way, she followed his magnificent departing figure with her gaze, her throat suddenly tight. Why did she suddenly feel so unequal, so unattractive? Her worn brown bodice and plain peasant’s skirt were perfectly presentable and entirely suitable for the circumstances.
She stood there in the corridor, her shoulders drooping as she listened to Raith thanking Flora MacDonald for the excellent meals and service his guests had received. Then, coming to her senses, Katrine snatched up her skirts and hurried up the stairs. She didn’t find that coxcomb appealing. She didn’t! And she most certainly didn’t need or want a kind word from him, she vowed fiercely, dashing a tear from her eye.
Yet when she had made her way upstairs to her garret chamber, the small, lonely, Spartan room only emphasized the vast difference in their situations. Shutting the door behind her, Katrine threw herself down on her pallet, and for the first time since her abduction, she wept.
By morning Katrine had recovered a measure of her usual mettle, but not her lively spirits. A chill drizzling rain prevented her from slipping away to her lovely spot by the loch to view the sunrise. Feeling rebellious, she complied with poor grace when Flora set her to work churning butter.
The buttery, behind the kitchen, was a small stone room built half-underground, where milk and butter and cheese were stored. It boasted only a small window to let in light and was quite cool. Katrine frequently found herself shivering, despite the effort of plunging the wooden dash over and over again into the churn. Her only company all morning was a dairymaid who carried in pails of milk and left it to cool in the long vats of water. Seeing the plump, rosy-cheeked girl, Katrine realized there must be a farm close by that supplied the manor house with provisions.
The milkmaid spoke English but wasn’t inclined to chat, so Katrine was truly delighted when Meggie found her sometime after the dinner hour.
“Meggie!” she exclaimed with pleasure, her sour mood instantly vanishing. “You’re just the person I wanted to see.” She hesitated, noticing the child’s face was clean and her raven hair was neatly braided in a coronet. Her clothing, too, was immaculate. Eyeing the bright red skirt and tartan plaid of red and green, Katrine wondered if Flora had been shamed into caring for the young girl and helping her with her toilet.
“Don’t you look lovely this morning. The MacLean red becomes you, with your dark hair. I suppose I’m fortunate to be a Campbell, for our clan tartan is blue and green, which doesn’t clash with my red mane.”
Meggie didn’t reply, but she slowly inched her way down the steps of the small room. Immediately Katrine set her churn aside, grateful for an excuse to leave off the chore. The dash had raised blisters on her palms that smarted rather painfully, while her arms ached from the unaccustomed use of muscles.
With a smile at Meggie, she drew out a small object wrapped in a cloth that she had tucked in the waist of her skirt. “Look what I have.”
Meggie’s dark eyes lit up when she saw the charcoal stick Katrine had saved from the previous day.
“Would you like me to draw something for you, Meggie?” When the child moved closer, till she was nearly touching, Katrine took her answer to be yes. “What would you like to see?” Katrine was surprised yet pleased when Meggie raised a hand and pointed at her. “Me? You want me to draw a likeness of me? Very well.”
Slipping from her knees onto the stone-flagged floor, she searched for the largest flat stone, then flashed a conspiratorial grin at the child. “I don’t expect Flora would like us to use her walls. We should have a sheet of paper or a canvas, of course, but this will do.”
Katrine’s heart warmed when Meggie grinned in response. Quickly she proceeded to sketch a small figure with frizzy hair who was laboring over a churn. When she added a splotch or two of what was obviously spilled butter, the soft gurgle from Meggie that might have been a laugh made Katrine’s heart swell with love.
“Would you like to try it, Meggie?”