Page 41 of Keeping Kate
Chapter 12
Kate leaned her cheek on her free hand, her other lashed to Fraser’s beneath the table, and watched Alec polish off the last of her stew, having finished his own. The man had not lost his appetite. Nothing seemed to disturb his cool, constant equilibrium.
She had eaten only a little, though her own appetite was normally good. Watching Alec from beneath a scowl, she shook her head when he offered her the last heel of brown, buttered bread. She sat while he polished it off and then took another long draw of ale from his pewter tankard. Apparently, he was not bothered by the fact that his left hand was roped to her right beneath the level of the table.
Kate touched her throat out of habit, missing the cool delicacy and reassurance of the little crystal. She knew her kinsmen would have advised her to charm her captor however she could and get away—but they had better faith in her abilities than she did. Without that crystal talisman, charm did not come so easily to her. That little polished bit of crystal had some power that enhanced whatever she did. She was sure of it.
And tonight she felt resentful and angry, and not inclined to try allure. Even if she tried turning up charm like a lantern wick and waving the fairy pendant under his very nose, even if she had she transformed into a fairy queen before his eyes, Captain Fraser would scarcely notice. Staid Alexander was immovable, impenetrable, infuriating.
He did not melt into obeisance when she looked at him a certain way, as other men had done. He did not sigh and gaze at her like a mooncalf or murmur poetry to her. And he definitely did not agree to do whatever she asked.
Suddenly she realized that she simply expected men to be fascinated enough by her that they would do her will. And this man simply did not. Was it the lack of the crystal? Was it something else entirely?
And to her own dismay, she was the one staring, sighing, conjuring poetic descriptions: his eyes, blue as a twilight sky; his hair the color of oak gilded with sunlight; his physique as perfect as some ancient god. She was the one melting whenever he looked at her. She was the one who would do what he willed—and that was the reason she was so angry, so resistant, so ill-behaved around him.
That night in the camp, in his tent, he had been gentle, kind, passionate. Now he seemed indifferent, impatient, at turns kind. That last was more the man, she felt, than the other, but she was not sure.
Yet it was refreshing to encounter a man she could not predict, control, or influence. His aloofness challenged her. He did not bore her—rather, she was intrigued to discover a man with whom she could not always prevail. Although he could not know it, he offered relief from the constant presence of the fairy gift. With Alec Fraser, she felt more balanced. More herself. Katie Hell, wild and alluring, was not Kate MacCarran. She had a strong spirit and temperament, but she wanted a quiet life, a peaceful life, a life with love and contentment.
Nor did she want the glamourie that seemed more a curse and inconvenience than a boon. She could not admire men who succumbed to that allure, and she had begun to fear she might never find a man to respect and truly love.
But Fraser was not like those men. He had an indefinable allure of his own in strong will and steadfast character. He did not need her—and that alone was attractive to her. Yet ironically, she had to find a way to leave and never see him again.
Seated beside him on the wooden bench, her right hand joined to his left by the rope hidden beneath their sleeves and the folds of her plaid arisaid shawl, she wished beyond reason that this could all be different, and sighed.
He glanced at her. “What is it?” he asked around a mouthful of bread.
“Are you a Whig or a Jacobite?” she asked bluntly.
Looking surprised, he swallowed. “I wisely keep my opinions to myself. I will presume, however, that you are Jacobite.”
She rolled her eyes. “That hardly requires an answer.”
“Just take care to keep it to yourself. Too many do not share your fervor for the Chevalier de St. George,” he murmured, referring to a discreet name sometimes used for James Stuart. “I thought you were hungry,” he added, looking at her nearly full trencher.
“I have lost my appetite.” She lifted her hand, and his, beneath the folds of her plaid and tugged the rope.
“It is not for much longer.”
“Chains instead?”
He only sent her a little glance and took a long drink of ale.
“What if Jack does not return? What if he is in danger?”
“That lad always comes through somehow. He can take care of himself.”
“You know him well, your cousin?”
“Aye. My parents took him in when he lost his parents. He made his way to Edinburgh, being a resourceful boy, to seek us out as kin, my mother being his aunt. My father’s carriage nearly ran him down in the street as he crossed to the house. Even if Jack had not been kin, my father felt responsible for the lad.”
She tilted her head. “You lived in Edinburgh as a boy?”
“Partly. We spent much of the year near Inverness.”
“We?”
“My parents, my brother and sisters,” he said.
