The Highlander's Defiant Captive Page 6

  "No’ for long," she said, although he could see she didn't appreciate learning that this chamber belonged to him. "I said get up, plague take ye."

  "Make me."

  He hoped to blazes he wasn't committing a terrible error. After all, she'd used a knife on him before. But that had been in the heat of the moment. It was much more difficult to summon the will to stab someone who offered no immediate threat.

  Unless she loathed him so much that she was ready to kill him at the first opportunity.

  Callum shot her an assessing look. Not even the most optimistic laddie would discern a trace of liking in that delicate, determined face. Perhaps his instincts were wrong. After all, she'd been ready enough to cosh him with the bucket.

  "I've got the knife," she said in frustration. "I'll use it if ye dinnae take me downstairs and put me on a horse."

  His head tilted back against the door. "Go ahead."

  He saw his lack of response left her flummoxed. "Do ye want me to hurt you?"

  Callum smiled again. "Och, lassie, dinnae be daft."

  The smile was a mistake. She raised the knife in a threatening gesture and stepped closer. "Dinnae mock me, Mackinnon."

  His voice firmed. "Put down the knife, Mistress Drummond. We both know you're no’ going to use it."

  "I'll kill ye." No mistaking her hatred or her frustration with him.

  He shrugged. "Ye can try."

  "A pox on you, ye arrogant bastard." She leaned down to press the blade to his neck. He kept still under the point on his skin.

  "If ye kill me, you willnae get five feet outside this room." His voice was calm. Ignoring the scrape of the blade over his skin, he turned his head to meet her blue eyes. "Is that what ye want?"

  "It might be worth it," she said grimly.

  This close, he made out the rim of navy blue around her irises and each individual dark red eyelash. She really was astonishingly beautiful. No wonder the Highlands rang with her praises. No wonder her father doted on her, the child of his old age and the only surviving bairn from three marriages. Mhairi might be the last of the Drummonds, but the final bloom on that thorny tree was a rose indeed.

  "Put the knife down, Mhairi. You’re no’ going to cut my throat."

  She didn't obey. Her courage made his heart rise.

  Her lips flattened, and the blade pricked him as she adjusted her grip. "Damn ye, Mackinnon, fight back."

  He lifted his hand to catch her wrist in a gentle hold. "Put it down, and I'll take ye down to dinner."

  "Curse ye…" she muttered again and pressed harder on the knife. He felt a sting and the hot trickle of blood. A pox on it, if she was determined to cut him, he’d have to change his shirt again.

  Callum stared into her beautiful eyes and waited for her to attack or withdraw. He was a trained fighting man. If he had to, he could disarm her in a second. But he didn't want to hurt her. He wanted to wrestle with her, but in passion not hatred. And he wanted her to acknowledge that they were made for each other.

  Studying her implacable features, he admitted that neither of those things was likely to happen anytime soon. Meanwhile, this situation had gone on long enough.

  Still moving slowly and easily, he tugged on her wrist. She offered brief resistance before all the fight drained out of her. He released her and watched as the hand holding the knife dropped to her side.

  "I hate ye," she said with a despair he loathed to hear. "How is it that I couldnae kill ye?"

  "It's difficult to kill someone in cold blood, lassie."

  "Even someone who deserves it?"

  He winced. "Aye, even someone who deserves it." He raised his fingers to the tiny cut on his neck. They came away wet. "You shouldn’t feel too defeated. Ye spilled my blood."

  "No’ enough of it," she muttered.

  "Aye, well, perhaps you'll have another chance before you're done." He held out his hand, palm open. "My knife?"

  "I'd rather keep it."

  A wry smile twisted his lips. "I'm sure. But if I let ye develop a head of steam, next time you might find the nerve to use it."

  Callum watched her eyes narrow and wondered if he teased her a step too far. He didn't want to take the chance. Swiftly he uncoiled from his seemingly casual position on the floor and reached out to seize the knife. His hand closed hard on her wrist. "Give it back to me."

  Eyes flaring with anger, Mhairi glared back at him. "Or what? You'll break my wrist?"

  "I dinnae need to break your wrist, lassie." He caught her around the waist with his free arm and spun her around until her back pressed against his chest. He made sure he held down her arms. He was well aware that if he gave her the chance and suitable provocation, she'd turn the knife on him after all.

  Through hours of riding, her evocative scent had tormented him. Now he swore he could find her in a crowd of a hundred, even if he was blindfolded. After a bath, the perfume of soap and herbs overlaid her essence, but he closed his eyes and sucked in a great breath of Mhairi Drummond.

  "Let me go."

  "When ye drop the knife." She was stiff and reluctant in his grasp, but her vibrating hostility didn’t stop him appreciating her graceful curves or the lush backside that curved into his thighs. With a deep sound of appreciation, he rubbed his face against hers.

  "Stop it."

  "Och, I’m just getting started." He tightened his grip on her waist. "I’m happy to stay here all night, mistress. What red-blooded laddie needs supper when he’s got his arms wrapped around a delicious girl?"

  "Blast ye," she muttered. He felt her arm move, and she let the knife fall to the ground. As it thudded onto the carpet, she slumped against him.

  To his mind, she gave in too easily. Although to her, his embrace must feel like it lasted a thousand years.

  He had a long way to go to win Bonny Mhairi Drummond. She’d already scarred him. Twice. And nearly knocked him out with a bucket. The good Lord alone knew what state he'd be in by the time the battle was over.

  "Ye can let me go now." Her voice was as sharp as a honed sword.

  "Och, lassie," he whispered into her neck. "You're spoiling my fun."

  "The sort of fun boys have pulling the wings off flies," she said flatly.

  Now she was disarmed, he whirled her around to face him. She looked pale and resolute, like a martyr going to the stake for some great cause. "Mhairi…"

  "Mistress Drummond."

  "You’re Mhairi to me. Lovely, bonny, sweet Mhairi. The woman I mean to take to my hearth and my heart, my wife, my sweetheart, my destiny."

  "You're insane." She surveyed him as if he belonged in some particularly nasty bog. "I'm none of those things."

  "Aye, ye are." Callum saw her start to argue and spoke quickly to cut off the insults he knew were coming. "At least ye will be."

  She shook her head. "Quite insane."

  "Merely hopeful."

  "I'm your enemy by blood and inclination. Ye cannae imagine I'll ever accept you as a suitor after you stole me away from everyone and everything I've ever loved."

  "So if I'd courted ye in a more conventional manner, you might have accepted me?"

  He waited for more insults. Instead, a troubled frown shadowed her features. "My father would never consent to a union between his daughter and a Mackinnon."

  Callum noticed that she didn't say that in no circumstances would she look on him with favor. Interesting. But he was smart enough not to point out the betraying slip. This was the first hint that there might be a chink in the unassailable wall of her hatred. He didn't want her spying the gap and stopping it up.

  His voice lowered into seriousness. "I ken ye hate what I've done to you. I ken you feel ye owe me nae obedience or cooperation. But I hope as ye come to know me and my people, you'll change your mind. Because come hell or high water, Mhairi Drummond, I mean to make ye my wife and bring an end to the strife in the glens. So fight all ye like, hate me all ye like, in the end it makes nae difference. You're to wed Black Callum Mackinnon and
bear his bairns. That, my bonny, is your destiny."

  Chapter 7

  Why the devil did I no’ kill him when I had the chance? Why could I no’ take the knife and thrust it into that black, evil heart?

  Numb with self-disgust, Mhairi let the Mackinnon take her arm and lead her from the room. His room. That had been a disagreeable surprise.

  All of Achnasheen would think he'd already joined her in that big, luxurious bed, where she'd snatched a few hours of sleep once the maids left her alone. Word would get back to Bruard. The Drummonds and the Mackinnons might be enemies, but that didn't stop gossip flowing through the glens like a river in spate.

  She cringed at the thought of the world dismissing her as yet another loose-moraled hussy who surrendered her chastity to a lying, fair-faced man. Because however much she might burn to slit him from gullet to belly, she had to admit that Black Callum was a handsome fellow.

  More self-disgust. What a big talker she was. She'd had the opportunity to slice the arrogance out of him, and she'd failed miserably. It wasn’t fear that stopped her. She recognized that the likely outcome of murdering the Laird of Achnasheen would be her own death. No, not fear, but a disastrous failure of will.

  If he'd offered her one hint of aggression, tried to seize the knife off her, she’d have stabbed him with glee. But when he smiled at her as if she showed him a pretty toy instead of the sharp end of a dirk, she found it impossible to proceed.

  Now she was as much his prisoner as ever.

  She’d had her chance to get away. She didn't imagine she'd get another. More, she’d have no chance of defending herself against him. Any potential weapons would now disappear from her room.

  "Stop torturing yourself, lassie," the Mackinnon said as they descended into the great hall where it seemed like hundreds of people crowded around long trestle tables groaning with food. The air was smoky with candles, and bright Mackinnon banners draped from the shadowy ceiling as if to mark a great victory.

  "No, that's your job, is it no’?" she sniped.

  "I've tried to treat ye with respect, as befits the woman I intend to make my bride. You're in the best bedroom in the castle, ye have servants, you're wearing silks. No’ many prisoners receive such care."

  "But nevertheless I'm a prisoner. We both know it."

  "I hope you'll soon view your visit in a different light, Mistress Drummond."

  "Visit implies I can leave at will."

  "Once I’m sure you won’t stray, I'll allow ye more freedom."

  She bit back a contemptuous snort. As if that would ever happen. "That's nae freedom at all. Ye do a gey lot of hoping, Mackinnon."

  "Aye, I suppose I do."

  He stopped on a lower step and turned to face her. For once, their eyes were on a level. She read regret and compassion in those dark depths. But that offered no reassurance. Because while he might be a reluctant jailer, he had no intention of letting her go. Those eyes also expressed intelligence and determination and always, always a barely masked masculine interest.

  Mhairi fought the urge to shrink from him. She refused to cower, although right now a crippling premonition of ultimate failure made her want to howl and rage like a madwoman.

  "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Mhairi."

  "It only has to be this way because you've decreed it so."

  "Perhaps." He studied her as if she offered him the key to hidden treasure. "Do ye truly find me so unpalatable as a husband?"

  This time she didn't bother containing her disdainful amusement. "What do ye think, Mackinnon?"

  His determined jaw set. He was stubborn. Well, so was she. "If I'd courted ye in the conventional manner…"

  "If, if, if. If the moon was made of cake and the loch was full of claret. Ye didnae court me like a gentleman. You snatched me up like a thief, and now ye keep me at your will like a chained dog. Despite the fine clothes." Contempt dripped from her voice. "I'm no’ likely to think kindly of ye, am I?"

  He shook his head. "It would be too much to ask. At least at first."

  By God, he was obstinate. "Forever."

  "I'd hate to think that's true, lassie."

  She straightened and pulled away. From below, heads turned in their direction. His hand on her arm would only confirm that he'd bedded her.

  "Let me go back to Bruard, Mackinnon. You're no’ a stupid man, even if you've done a stupid thing by kidnapping me. Ye cannae want to wed a woman who hates you. What happiness can we find together if we start out in such discord?"

  As those eyes sharpened on her, a muscle flickered in his lean cheek. "I owe my clan peace. My personal happiness doesnae matter."

  "Even if ye spend the rest of your life worried that your wife has put poison into your soup?"

  One expressive brow rose. "Ye had the perfect chance to murder me tonight, lassie. Yet I'm still breathing."

  "My mistake," she said grimly, although even now she shrank from the idea of killing him. Which was lunacy, given he was her enemy and her jailer. She should be slavering at the idea of spilling his blood.

  "I ken the idea of ending all this bloodshed appeals to ye."

  "No’ when I'm the sacrificial lamb."

  "We’re born to lead our clans. That means offering ourselves up to unpalatable duty."

  "I'm no’ offering myself up. You're dragging me there willy-nilly." Her voice was as remorseless as his. "Ye must ken that what you've done only makes more bloodshed inevitable. My father will arrive at your gates with an army. More good men will die on both sides."

  "Ye can save them. Marry me now and write to your father to say ye want amity between the Mackinnons and the Drummonds."

  "I’m never going to marry ye. Ye’ll never vanquish me, Mackinnon."

  He gave a grunt of amusement. "I dinnae want to vanquish you, ye daft lassie. I admire your courage and spirit."

  That astonished her, not least because that courage and spirit meant she resisted his plans for her. The men who had sought her out before this had all coveted her beauty. They hadn’t been interested in what she was like beyond a bonny face.

  "Even when those qualities mean ye willnae win?"

  "The game has just started, mistress. Too early to decide winners and losers."

  Except she saw he was confident that the winner wouldn't be Mhairi Drummond. Male arrogance was very familiar.

  When she didn’t reply, he went on. "I dinnae want a spineless weakling for a wife. I want a lady who can take her place at the head of both clans."

  "My cousin John becomes chieftain after my father's death." It was a cause of bitter regret that, as a woman, she couldn't lead the Drummonds, but her clan needed a fighting man at the helm.

  "You'll still be the Drummond's daughter. You’ll be a power in the glens until the day ye die."

  For a moment, she had a vision of what it would be like to live in peace with the neighbors. All that wild Celtic energy focused on building prosperity instead of revenge. The idea was powerful. "How can ye expect me to forgive you for what you've done?" she asked with a touch of desperation.

  "As ye said, lassie, I'm a hopeful man."

  "Ye can hold me until I’m eighty, and I willnae willingly become your bride. Ye swore you wouldnae hurt me or force your way into my bed."

  "I meant it."

  "Which means you're waiting on my consent to a wedding, when ye must ken you'll never have it."

  "Never is a gey powerful word, lass. We met a little over a day ago. Give yourself time to get to know me. You might discover that I can charm ye into marrying me."

  Her lips lengthened in disapproval. "Nobody is that charming."

  The hubbub down in the great hall had faded to an expectant hush, and Mhairi was uncomfortably aware that most of that audience hated her. The two maids had sneaked in a few more pinches when they'd helped her into this elaborate gown that in other circumstances she might have liked. But the fact that it came as a gift from the Mackinnon turned it into an expensive rag.

  "
Give me time," he said with a smile. "In the meantime, allow me to introduce ye to my people."

  What could she do? If she insisted on retreating to her room – his room – he'd think she was frightened. She was, but she wasn't admitting that to anyone.

  So she leveled her shoulders and allowed him to take her arm and escort her into the midst of her enemies. When she stood beside the Mackinnon at the head table, every stare felt like a dagger.

  Not every eye. Shocked, she looked down the board to where Flossie sat beside the one-eyed man she’d noticed in the courtyard. Was that the same brute who had stolen her away?

  Her maid’s faint smile of encouragement did nothing to reassure Mhairi. Since they’d been taken, fear for the girl's fate had been a constant. And guilt.

  If Flossie hadn't been with her yesterday, she'd be safely tucked up in her bed at Bruard. The Mackinnon had sent a message up to the tower room to say that the maid was safe. Mhairi knew better than to trust him.

  "Are ye all right?" she mouthed over the distance.

  The girl cast a quick look at the man next to her, but his attention was on the Mackinnon. She nodded, before she lowered her eyes and stood at the laird’s command.

  Mhairi noticed that Flossie was moving naturally and appeared to have no visible injuries. Further enquiries would have to wait.

  "Men and women of Achnasheen, my kin, my clan, my people," the Mackinnon said in a ringing voice. "I bring to ye the lady who will be my wife. Mhairi Drummond of Bruard!"

  Chapter 8

  Callum didn't look at Mhairi as he took her hand and held it high in front of all his clan. He was ruefully aware that the triumphant gesture was at best premature. The girl tried to wrench away, but he kept hold of her.

  "Ye swine, Mackinnon," she hissed. "That's no’ true."

  He turned to meet her blazing eyes. To his regret he read only more of that endless resistance. "Aye, it is."

  "I'd rather die than wed a Mackinnon dog," she announced loudly enough for her insult to echo around the hall.

  His lips tightened, as he watched Mhairi's brave but misguided outburst spark general anger among his people. He’d sworn to treat her with care, but she backed him into a corner, couldn't she see?