This time he was definitely teasing her, she realized. And smiling. A beautiful smile. A dangerous smile. Katrine stared into his eyes and was barely aware of anything but the man whose breath, tinged with warmth, touched her. She still felt shaken, but the original cause had faded from her mind.
The sound of a throat being politely cleared came to her as if from a great distance. Befuddled, Katrine dragged her gaze from Raith to the doorway. Callum stood there, swinging the decanter of whisky from his fingers, looking as if he had been there quite some time. She wondered if he was still inebriated, then noted that his dark gaze was entirely sober and perhaps speculative.
As she quickly and rather self-consciously wiped her eyes with her fingers, Callum pushed his shoulders from the doorframe and advanced on them, pouring a measure of whisky into the porcelain cup he’d brought. “I brought you a dram for nerves,” he said, offering the cup to Katrine. “Even a lass of your mettle could use a bit of bolstering, I fancy.”
She stared at it blankly. “But I don’t partake of spirits.”
Raith’s grin turned wry as he took the cup and held it to her lips. “Drink it,” he urged. “It will do you good. Go on, it’s legal. The excise taxes have been paid.”
Katrine hesitated, then obediently took a sip.
The resulting fire burned all the way down to her stomach, making her gasp and her already damp eyes water. She would have told them precisely what she thought of them feeding her such a vile potion, but she couldn’t find the breath to speak.
However, she wasn’t required to at just that moment, for Lachlan appeared in the doorway. He was clutching his bonnet in his hands, looking immensely uncomfortable.
Raith raised his eyes to the ceiling, wondering what other conscience-stricken male of his clan would show up in his washroom. Katrine, on the other hand, wondered if the spirits had affected her wits. She could have sworn there actually was shame on Lachlan’s ruddy face.
He took a tentative step into the room. “Mistress Campbell…?” He hesitated, the brawny fingers gripping his bonnet looking as if they might rip the blue wool to shreds.
Katrine stared at him, perplexed. “Yes?”
But Lachlan remained tongue-tied and turned a shade more red. Raith finally took pity on his kinsman and intervened. “Lachlan, lad, what is it you wanted to say to Miss Campbell? You’ve come to offer her your apologies?”
He looked relieved to be able to switch his gaze from Katrine t
o the laird. “Aye. She should no’ hae said something so stupid, calling the true king what she did, but she didna deserve to be shot.”
Katrine had been thinking very much the same thing, although she didn’t appreciate Lachlan using the word stupid to describe her actions.
But she allowed Lachlan to warm to his apology. “’Twas a fazart thing Hector did. ‘Tis beneath a MacLean to make war on a lass—all the lads are agreed.”
“Fazart?” she repeated, not understanding.
“Dastardly,” Callum supplied in an amused tone.
Katrine looked at Lachlan with sudden approval. He had cut to the heart of the matter with remarkable accuracy for one usually so slow-witted. “That is the understatement of a lifetime,” she said with conviction.
“Well, Hector was fou for certain.”
“I suppose that means drunk? That is still no excuse. He could have murdered me.”
“Aye, I ken,” Lachlan agreed forlornly, hanging his head. “‘Tis a sad day when a MacLean stoops to the foul ways of a cowardly Campbell.”
Katrine could have taken offense but she decided she could afford to be magnanimous, with three of the MacLean men, including the laird, practically on their knees to her. Indeed, she rather regretted that the unparalleled moment would end so soon.
“Thank you, Mr. MacLean,” she said virtuously to Lachlan. “I accept your apology on behalf of your kinsman. I will contrive to forgive him. And please tell Hector, if you will, that I regret causing him any grief. I would be happy to wash the ale out of his clothing, if he has no one else to do it for him.”
Lachlan looked at her directly then, a pleased, if not quite smiling, expression on his face. Mumbling an incoherent reply, the massive MacLean tugged his forelock, punched his bonnet back on his red head and escaped from the room.
“I’ve never,” Callum observed with a chuckle, “known Lachlan to show such concern over a lass. It looks as if you have a new swain, bonny Katie.” At the sobriquet, Katrine favored him with a quelling glance, but he only grinned. “Finish your dram, like a good lass.”
Her scowl returned full force. “I see how it is now. Not satisfied with shooting me, you mean to poison me—or at the very least, render me senseless.”
“You’ve found your tongue, I see,” Raith murmured.
Katrine turned her frown on Raith then, but when she met his blue eyes, she suddenly remembered how gently he had held her just a moment ago, and how fiercely he’d kissed her shortly before that. She became quite self-conscious again. “Fortunately for me I have,” she retorted. “It happens to be the only protection I have among this crew of—of—”
“Uncivilized, bloodthirsty heathens?”