TENDER FEUD

  TENDER FEUD

  NICOLE

  JORDAN

  NEW YORK TIMES Bestselling Author

  Copyright © 2011 Anne Bushyhead.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher.

  first published in the United States by Harlequin Books 1991.

  Cover design by Hot Damn Designs

  Kindle ISBN: 978-1-937515-02-7

  Dear Readers,

  When it comes to historical settings, the British Regency period has been my first love since I was ten years old and my mother read PRIDE AND PREJUDICE and THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL aloud to me. So naturally, when I began dreaming of writing my own stories, the Regency era called to me. My very first historical romances, VELVET EMBRACE and DESIRE & DECEPTION, were set in Regency times. After that I branched out to other settings and periods: The British West Indies and American South (MOONWITCH), the wild Scottish Highlands (TENDER FEUD), a Victorian desert sheik tale (LORD OF DESIRE), and four stories set in the American West.

  I’m happy to say that all nine of these classic tales have been reissued in eBook format. Since I wrote them a number of years ago, I think you’ll find them slightly different in style—more emotional as opposed to the livelier nature of my more recent works, The Courtship Wars and Legendary Lovers series in particular. Still, my classic historical tales bear my trademark storytelling and sensuality.

  I hope you enjoy this visit with my early novels. And if you want to learn more about all my books, visit www.NicoleJordanAuthor.com

  Best wishes and happy reading!

  Nicole Jordan

  To that terrific trio, Pat, Sandra and Melody.

  Thanks for being there.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Also Available

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  Chapter One

  Argyll, Scotland, 1761

  Perhaps she had gone daft. Perhaps the fierce stranger who’d clamped a hand over her mouth was merely a figment of a vivid imagination.

  Then again, perhaps she was truly wide awake, entirely in possession of her faculties and actually being accosted in her uncle’s study in the middle of the night.

  Katrine Campbell stared up in astonishment at the hardfaced, raven-haired stranger. Whatever she’d expected when she returned to Scotland after an absence of fifteen years, whatever romance and adventure her passionate heart had yearned for, this was not it.

  In truth, nothing had gone quite the way she’d planned.

  She had arrived from England that afternoon, close on the heels of her letter, only to find her Uncle Colin in the midst of an uproar. From what Katrine could gather, a hundred head of Campbell cattle had been spirited away by the Duke of Argyll’s tenants, supposedly in retaliation for increased rents. As factor for the duke’s western lands, Colin Campbell was determined to see the culprits punished.

  “Those cursed MacLeans!” he ranted at the young British officer who’d brought the news. “I’ll see them strung from the gallows for this. They’ve harried Clan Campbell for the last time!”

  It was not the most propitious time to make herself known to her uncle, Katrine realized, nor to gain his permission for a prolonged visit. Indeed, she only had time to persuade him to let her stay the night before he stormed from the house, grumbling about unwanted relatives and cattle-raiding MacLeans.

  She was almost grateful to the marauding MacLeans—or whoever had orchestrated the cattle raid—for delaying the moment and distracting her Uncle Colin’s attention. It gave her more time to prepare her arguments. A childless widower like her uncle was unlikely to relish being saddled with a long-absent niece. But she hoped to persuade him to allow her to remain for a month or so and perhaps keep house for him, which, from the looks of the filthy mullioned windows and dust-covered tomes in his untidy study, he badly needed.

  Determined to make herself useful, she went about setting her uncle’s bachelor household to rights while ignoring the disdainful sniffs of his ill-mannered maidservant. After supper, Katrine wrote letters to both her sisters and her Aunt Gardner in England to tell them of her safe arrival. It was quite late when she finally claimed a bedchamber for herself and went to bed.

  She was listening for her uncle’s return when she heard the slight noise—a soft squeal—the kind of sound made by an unoiled hinge, coming from somewhere on the lower floor.

  Hoping to gain an interview with her uncle, Katrine rose quickly and drew the wool coverlet around her shoulders. Her trunks hadn’t yet arrived, but she needed something to cover her nightshift. After finding her slippers, she checked to see that her fiery hair was still braided and tucked sedately beneath her frilled nightcap. Then, carrying her candle, she made her way downstairs to his study. A narrow beam of light shone from beneath the closed door.

  She tapped softly but didn’t wait to be bidden admittance, instead entering as she spoke. “Uncle, did you discover the culprits who—”

  Katrine stopped short.

  The man seated at the writing desk with his back to her was not her uncle.

  In the space of a heartbeat she saw that the stranger wore a coat of black broadcloth and his ebony hair was tied back in a queue. In the same instant, she also registered that one of her uncle’s ledgers was spread open on the desk, illuminated by lamplight, and that the mullioned window she had cleaned so dutifully that afternoon was also open.

  “I beg your pardon,” she began in confusion, but the words were scarcely said before the black-garbed stranger came swiftly to his feet and was across the room, effectively silencing her by clapping a hard hand over her mouth.

  Katrine’s startled green eyes widened as she stared at him in the glow of her candle. His face was strong, with prominent cheekbones and an aggressive jaw that was marred by two or three days’ growth of beard. His eyes were dark and deep-set beneath slashing black brows. Dhu…the Gaelic word for black. It was the first thought that came to her. That, and dangerous.

  It suddenly occurred to Katrine to be afraid. She had apparently surprised an intruder in her uncle’s home.

  She realized then that she ought to struggle, to call for help, but the calloused palm remained clamped over her mouth as he drew her into the dark-paneled study and silently shut the door.

  “Not a word from you,” he warned softly, which startled Katrine further. It was a gentleman’s voice, educated and accustomed to command, though it held a definite Scottish burr. And the deep-set eyes watching her from beneath slashing brows weren’t black, she realized, but dark blue; they only seemed black because they were so thickly lashed.

  As he took her candle from her unsteady hands, Katrine stared at him helplessly, wondering if he had come to steal from her uncle.

  “When I take my hand away,” he said in that low, cultured voice, “you’ll not scream.” It was an order, not a request, though he seemed to be waiting for her agreement.

  Her heart hammering against her ribs, Katrine slowly nodded, hop
ing God would forgive her for lying to someone who would accost an innocent female, a man who was possibly a thief. The moment he had removed his hand, she took a quick breath and filled her lungs, letting loose a bloodcurdling scream that might have been heard clear to Edinburgh…and certainly the short distance to Kilchurn Castle where the British militia was garrisoned.

  He reacted instantly, his hand flying up to cover her mouth once more. This time, however, Katrine was prepared for him. Desperately she raised her slippered foot and brought her heel down hard on his instep, at the same time whirling and reaching for the door handle. Her sudden action made him drop the candle, which fortunately went out as it fell to the floor.

  He swore under his breath and grabbed for Katrine, shoving a powerful shoulder against the door just as she managed to open it an inch. The door slammed shut, while the familiar hard hand covered her mouth again and a steel-muscled arm wrapped around her waist, imprisoning her. The coverlet that had slipped from her shoulders was tangled about her waist and legs, aiding in her confinement.

  Katrine was held thus, powerless and hardly able to breathe, as her captor dragged her backward across the room toward the desk. His grip loosened as he reached for the lamp, but she managed only to twist her head, not break free. She had a glimpse of a fearsome scowl before he snuffed the light.

  In the dark, he pushed her to her knees and crouched beside her, one hand still constraining her mouth while the other carried a knife blade to her throat.

  “Try that again, and you’ll become intimately acquainted with my dirk.” His whisper was soft as silk, and more deadly even than the hard edge of the cold steel.

  Not daring to move, Katrine cowered there on the hard floor in the darkness. She was indeed frightened now. She was scared out of her wits. A knife at her throat, a hard male body pressing against hers—surely enough to disturb the natural sensibilities of any gently reared young lady!

  Katrine quaked. Did he intend to murder her?

  In the silence she could hear his breath and her own thudding heartbeat, could feel the tension in his muscles. Why had no one discovered them? Her scream should have been loud enough to bring the militia running, or at least awaken her uncle’s churlish maidservant, the only one of his minions who hadn’t gone off chasing cattle thieves. Useless, Katrine thought with shaken disdain. The woman had once again proved herself totally useless. No doubt the coward was hiding under a bed with a pillow stuffed over her ears.

  Wishing she could do the same, Katrine stifled a hysterical laugh at the thought and focused instead on her cramping legs. If only he would move a bit—

  She froze as her wish was granted. Her captor shifted slightly, slowly lowering his hand from her mouth and the blade from her throat. But instead of releasing her, he merely dropped his hard-muscled forearm to rest across her chest, just beneath her collarbone.

  Her body went rigid at such brazenness. His arm was actually touching her breasts.

  The intimate weight made her aware of how differently they were made, how hard his flesh was, how soft hers. What was more, the contact was having a strange, unwanted effect on her. The nipples of her breasts were tightening, tingling.

  Shocked at her body’s involuntary response, Katrine glanced up at him. Perhaps he didn’t realize where his arm was resting.

  Then again, perhaps he did.

  He turned his head, looking down at her, his midnight blue eyes glittering. The faint moonlight spilling through the window etched the hard planes of his face and dark jaw, making him look even more dangerous than before. A different kind of danger than murder.

  Her pulse quickened, her throat went dry. Her lips parted in fear.

  His gaze fell to her mouth, but he didn’t move. For an eternity he didn’t move. She felt warm and hot by degrees, when the room was actually cool. Cold, even. The June night air was wafting through the open window to caress her exposed shoulders, though his body was warm where it pressed against hers. She could feel his heat through her nightshift, through the frock coat he wore, could feel the powerful beat of his heart.

  Or was that simply her imagination gone wild?

  Katrine tried to swallow. No gentleman of her acquaintance had ever affected her so. Nor had any gentleman ever looked at her in quite that way.... She was only passing fair, not a beauty like her younger sisters. Her face was fine-boned but with an obstinate chin, while her hair was an untamed mass of natural curls—flaming red and glossy thick, too undisciplined to do her bidding. Moreover, she was possessed of a glorious temper, as glorious as her hair. Her sharp tongue had frequently put off would-be suitors, yet it was by her own choice that at three-and-twenty she was still a spinster. She’d felt it her duty to see her younger sisters safely wed before she herself sought a husband. At the moment, however, Katrine wished she had even the slightest experience with the kind of fierce villain who was now threatening her virtue, if not her very life.

  Still staring up at him, Katrine shivered, whether from the chill or from the danger she didn’t know. Her imagination was indeed playing tricks on her, for she found his warmth almost comforting, his scent pleasant. He smelled of horses and wild heather and…man.

  Katrine caught her breath then as his glance dropped lower, to her breasts. Her nightshift was thick and concealing, but she could feel his dark gaze penetrating the white flannel, touching her intimately. Not daring to breathe, Katrine watched in rigid silence as his gaze fell even lower.

  She nearly flinched when he spoke.

  “What is this, a blanket?”

  In the darkness, he lifted a corner of the coverlet with the hand that still held the wicked dirk. His voice had sounded slightly husky, but Katrine couldn’t find her own at all. She knew she ought to reply, though, so she nodded hesitantly.

  He waited a moment more, then eased himself away from her. When she saw the flash of steel in the moonlight, Katrine whimpered; she couldn’t help it.

  “I’ll not harm you,” he said softly. “Not unless you give me reason.” He tugged on the blanket, pulling it from beneath her hips. While she watched with wide eyes, he cut a long strip from it. When he reached for her, Katrine cowered.

  He hesitated. “I’ll have to gag you, lass. I can’t afford to have you scream again.”

  Katrine couldn’t answer him; for once in her life, her tongue failed her. She returned his gaze helplessly, still trembling. But he must have sensed how frightened she was, for he was gentle as he wound the strip of wool around her mouth and tied the ends behind her lace-edged nightcap. And he spoke to her pleasantly as he proceeded to cut more strips from the coverlet with which to bind her.

  “Campbell’s soldiers aren’t coming, it seems. No doubt they thought your scream was that of a mountain cat.”

  His voice was soothing, calm, but the effect was destroyed by his mention of the wildcats that roamed the Highland hills.

  “Do you work here?” he asked, taking her hands and crossing them at the wrists to tie them.

  Katrine stared at him as he bent to his task. A waving lock of ebony hair fell rebelliously over a high distinguished forehead. Who was he? she wondered. Not that she wanted to know. If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.

  She dragged her gaze away, reflecting on his question. He mistook her for a servant, she realized. No doubt ladies and serving wenches all looked alike in their nightclothes.

  “I’d have thought you could have found better employment than service to Argyll’s lackey.”

  Argyll’s lackey? He was speaking of her uncle, obviously. At the slur, Katrine felt a trace of her former spirit returning. She might have retorted, too, if not for the wool in her mouth.

  But the urge fled as he pushed her back into a sitting position and raised the hem of her nightshift to attend her feet. Katrine froze. His warm fingers were on her bare flesh, sliding across the back of her calves as he drew the woolen strip around her ankles.

  She sucked in her breath, or tried to, and he apparently caught the
sound. He paused for the space of a heartbeat, his long fingers stilling, his dangerous gaze returning to lock with hers. Shaken, apprehensive, she wondered at the pulse of excitement that his touch, his gaze, engendered in her, at the sparks that seemed to flare from the calloused pads of his fingertips up the backs of her legs, to settle in places whose existence no young lady ever acknowledged.

  Fortuitously, though, his gaze dropped and his hands began to move again. Katrine was filled with relief…and something more. Anger that this black-haired ruffian could have such a disturbing effect on her.

  She welcomed the anger, though. It was a more satisfying emotion than fear, and made her feel far less helpless, less impotent. She tried to fan her outrage as his hands returned to tying her ankles, considering precisely the words she would have said to him if she hadn’t had a gag stuffed in her mouth.

  He finished his task quickly, then reached for the coverlet and arranged it around her shoulders. “There, that should be more comfortable.”

  His mock gallantry sparked her newfound ire. Indeed, how could she be comfortable when he had trussed her up like a Christmas goose? Katrine stared at him wrathfully as he rose to his feet, though no doubt he couldn’t see her expression in the dark.

  She heard him strike a flint before he relit the lamp and the study flared to life in a golden glow. His gaze slid back to her and found her watching him with ill-concealed dislike. In his gleaming dark eyes, she detected a brief flash of amusement that she found highly irritating and insulting.

  “I’m gratified that you chose not to scream again,” he observed. “It would reflect ill on the honor of a Highland gentleman to have to harm a lass.”

  Her own eyes flashed as she glared at him over her wool muzzle. Gentleman? She would have told him precisely what she thought of his pretensions to gentility had she been able to speak—and had he not turned away just then.

  Resentfully Katrine watched as he resumed his seat at the desk and continued whatever he had been doing with her uncle’s ledgers when she interrupted him. From her position, she couldn’t tell what it was, though she could see that he frequently dipped a pen in the inkwell.