She felt his taut body relax to the slightest degree, as did the tight grip of his fingers. Katrine knew then without a doubt he was going to kiss her again. The anticipation was almost a tangible force between them, vibrating the very air.
“Bonny spitfire,” Raith murmured again on a husky exhalation as his heated gaze fell to her wet, parted lips. Then he filled his lungs with an uneven breath and dipped his dark head again.
He claimed her mouth this time with less anger but more hunger, taking it with a hot drugging urgency that spoke not so much of domination as possession. For a moment her untried tongue remained immobile, while his thrust deep into her mouth, twining in a long, savage, sensuous pattern of withdrawal and penetration, filling her with the taste of him. His tender ravagement stirred an uncontrollable response in her. Quivering, Katrine began returning his kiss, opening her mouth fully beneath his, tentatively offering him her tongue. There was danger there, but all her fear, all her hesitation, all her shyness was swept away in a heated rush of feeling.
As if he sensed what was happening to her, Raith released his hold on her hair and moved his hand down her back, slowly, drawing her even closer, pulling her against his lean, powerful body, fitting her against his unmistakable arousal.
A tender throbbing ache echoed within her, in the very depths of her femininity. Katrine found herself responding mindlessly to his touch, winding her fingers through his ebony hair, clinging to him.
He sucked at her tongue until she whimpered a soft, breathy sound of capitulation. Then the hand that had been gripping her arm slipped between them, gliding over her bodice to close over a swelling breast. His caress was feather-light, but a fierce tightening took hold of every part of her. She shuddered against him, arching her back involuntarily, trying to press closer as her body clamored for his touch. But then his fingers slipped over the low edge of her bodice and closed over her nipple, which was taut and aching. Startled, Katrine suddenly went rigid in his arms.
He could have soothed away her alarm—that was how far gone she was—but her soft gasp jolted Raith to his senses. Forcibly, he tore his mouth away.
“God’s teeth…” he swore raggedly, the sound a harsh plea for control. Shutting his eyes, he drew a labored breath, damning himself with every curse he could think of as he fought for equanimity. It was a measure of his control that he forced himself to release his grip rather than lay Katrine down on a soft bed of bracken and take her then and there, as he wanted to.
Knowing he had to put a safer distance between them, Raith took a small step backward, and then another, though every muscle and nerve in his body cried out against it. The knowledge of what he had almost done was more painful. For a moment he’d gone a little mad with wanting her—her, an enemy Campbell, a hated Sassenach. A captive female who was temporarily under his protection. It was no excuse that she had provoked him beyond reason. No excuse at all. Abruptly Raith turned away, not trusting himself to speak or to remain a moment longer so close to Katrine without touching her or pulling her into his arms again.
Katrine watched with wide questioning eyes as he gathered his horse’s reins. His raw desire had left her shaken, his abrupt withdrawal even more so.
She thought he might say something, if only to swear at her, yet he offered her no apology, no explanation, no curse.
But when he had mounted his horse, he seemed to remember what they had been arguing about, for he threw Katrine a fierce glance. “I won’t warn you again. Keep away from Meggie.” Then, for the second time in the space of an hour, Raith turned the animal and rode away.
Katrine stood there for a long while after he had gone, her thoughts a mass of confusion and swirling emotions. Slowly she raised her fingers to her throbbing lips, remembering the possessiveness of his relentless mouth, the strength of his fierce embrace. Still shaken, she drew a long tremulous breath. She didn’t understand what had happened between them. Not at all.
Why would Raith MacLean kiss her if he hated her?
Chapter Eight
It took Katrine several moments to recover her dazed senses after Raith had gone. Then she stalked back to the house, torn between fury at his high-handedness, embarrassment at the intimacies they’d shared and wonder over his kiss and her own shocking response.
She’d been totally unprepared for the devastating effect of his rough embrace; she simply had no experience to compare with it. The sensations Raith had aroused in her made the fanciful passion she’d envisioned in her romantic dreams pale in comparison.
More unsettling by far was the knowledge that for a score of heartbeats, when she’d been caught up in the incredible feelings of desire and need, she had actually imagined Raith as the man of her fancies. Someone who could match her spirit and fire her blood. Her soul mate.
Katrine flushed. What lunacy had possessed her to compare that savage brute to the soul mate she had dreamed of finding? Defiantly she rubbed her arm where his hard fingers had bitten into her tender skin. No doubt she would be sporting bruises in the morning. Indeed, her conscience was already bruised. The hot color in her cheeks deepened as she recalled the sheer madness of returning Raith’s kisses. She could never face him again.
When she reached the yard, she skirted it warily, keeping an eye out for Raith. Fortunately there was no sign of him. The horses she had noticed before were still tethered in front of the stables, however, which made her remember Raith saying that Callum had returned. It looked as if he had brought company with him.
Katrine wondered who it was, and where Meggie had gone, as she entered the back door to find the kitchen a beehive of activity. The servants were all scurrying around preparing food and drink for the guests.
Flora, her arms wrist-deep in flour, looked up with a harried frown between her brows. “‘Tis about time ye returned.” With an abrupt gesture of her head, the Scotswoman indicated a tray on the table that was laden with several huge pitchers of ale and a decanter of what looked like Scotch whisky—no doubt made from the illegal still, Katrine thought with asperity.
“There,” Flora said, “carry that out
to the mews for the lads. They’ll be wantin’ another wee drap.”
The possibility that Raith was among the company made Katrine dig in her heels. “No!” she replied mutinously. “I won’t do it. You can just find someone else.”
“Please, lass, do as I ask.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Flora lifted the tray and shoved it into Katrine’s hands. “There’s a good lass,” she soothed before returning to her cloutie dumplings.
Staring, Katrine stood rooted in indecision. Flora had never asked her nicely before, or said please. To refuse the simple request would somehow make her into an ungrateful wretch. “Very well,” Katrine muttered, turning with the heavy tray. “But don’t expect me to serve them.”
It was with difficulty that she managed to open the door while balancing the tray and holding up her long skirts at the same time. Leaving the house, Katrine approached the mews with caution. She could hear sounds of masculine revelry coming from the rear of the ground floor, but it was the disturbing prospect of meeting Raith MacLean that set her pulse pounding in an erratic tempo. With trepidation, she made her way down a short corridor and hesitated at an open door, peering within.
The chamber before her was large and apparently served as a gathering place for the Clan MacLean, the way a great hall might have done in decades past. At one end stood a huge stone hearth, while in the center a heavy oaken table dominated much of the stone-flagged floor. It was a men’s room, starkly designed for function rather than comfort, unadorned except for the stags’ heads mounted at intervals between the mullioned windows. There were also vast spaces along the walls that should have been bristling with arms—and would have been, Katrine was sure, if not for the ban on Highlanders possessing weapons.
Some dozen men were sitting on benches around the table, sprawled at their ease, talking and laughing among themselves, not skulking like bandits as they should have been. A few of the men Katrine recognized. Callum was there, as was Lachlan, the dolt who had abducted her. And Ewen, the MacLean whom Raith had dispatched to fetch the lace she had dropped for a trail. And Raith. He sat at the head of the table to her right, giving her a glimpse of his profile. There was no sign of Meggie, not that she’d expected to find the timorous child in a gathering of so many fierce Highlanders.