The Highlander's Defiant Captive

by Anna Campbell

  From where she crouched behind a fallen Scots pine, she'd watched him ride away toward the west. That was hours ago, and she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him since. Instinct told her that he'd gone to enormous trouble to get her. He wouldn't relinquish her so easily.

  Now the early summer dawn rose to the east, the direction she needed to go. That seemed a good omen. She couldn't lurk in this grove for the rest of her life. If the Mackinnon did mean to come back with a band of his despicable kinsmen, full daylight meant he’d find her hiding place within minutes.

  No, she had to take the gamble and head for Bruard. With luck, her father would realize immediately that Mackinnon machinations lay behind her disappearance and she’d meet up with a party of her kinsmen before too long.

  As Mhairi unfolded herself from her shelter, she bit back a groan. It had been an uncomfortable night. She brushed pine needles from her plaid skirts and limped toward the edge of the trees. She was desperately thirsty but couldn't risk turning back to the burn. With luck, she’d find another burn once she made it past the pass.

  The climb out of the glen was steep, and she paused, winded, at the top. Below extended another glen that looked exactly like the one she'd just left. It suddenly occurred to her how easy it would be to get lost in this maze of hills, despite her brave words to her kidnapper when he warned her of the risk.

  "Courage, Mhairi," she whispered and trudged on, past an outcrop of rock. On the next stretch of the path, a tall, dark-haired man stood squarely in front of her. He held the gray horse’s reins in a loose grip.

  Fear, anger, disappointment, and a grim sense of inevitability struck blow after blow, and she faltered to an unsteady stop. Oh, no, no, no. He'd tie her up like a beast and put her on that big horse and wrap his arms around her. And his touch would be as cool and uninvolved as if he shifted a piece of furniture.

  Hold on. Was she completely out of her head? She almost sounded like she minded his impersonal treatment of her.

  "Mackinnon…" she whispered on a breath of loathing.

  "Good morrow, Mistress Drummond. I trust ye passed a restful night."

  The devil…

  She’d hated him when he snatched her. She’d hated him when he so effortlessly kept her captive. But that smug greeting made her want to kill another person for the very first time in her life. If she still had her dagger, the Mackinnon would be lying dead on the grass. And she'd spit on his corpse as she kicked it out of her way.

  Her frantic glance flickered from side to side, and her heart lurched into a gallop. But the only escape was the way she'd just come, and she’d never outrun a man on horseback.

  She’d been clever, but not clever enough, plague take her.

  He frowned. "Are ye really going to make me chase you down, lassie?"

  By now, she should be used to him reading her mind. "Don't tie me up again," she said sullenly.

  Mhairi expected him to scoff at her request. After all, he’d just spent half the night lying in wait to recapture her. But to her surprise, serious dark eyes regarded her steadily. "Do ye give me your word you willnae try to escape?"

  "You'd take the word of a Drummond?"

  Another of those long, assessing stares. "Aye, I would. Even if that makes me a fool."

  The Mackinnon was no fool. They both knew it. She was grimly aware that she’d be much better off if he was.

  Unfortunately for her, he was also right about her personal honor. With genuine regret, she shook her head and extended her hands. "No, I cannae promise I willnae try and escape."

  He looked deep into her eyes. She still hated him, but in that moment, they shared a communication too intimate for strangers. All without the aid of words. It was as if he saw right to her soul.

  Which was surprising. None of the young men she knew—and precious few of the old ones—expressed any interest at all in her soul. Whereas her exterior charms were of permanent and predictable interest.

  When the Mackinnon had insisted she was Mhairi Drummond, he’d described her in almost poetic terms. Since then he’d touched her often, but with no hint of encroaching male desire.

  She’d feared rape when he snatched her, but to her surprise, she now believed his assurances. Was she a pudding-headed loon for thinking she was safe? He could change the rules between them any moment, especially once he had her under his roof and under his control.

  Under his control? That was a laugh. What did she think happened now?

  He wasn't even angry with her for running off. Instead he treated her attempt to flee as yet another move in the game between them.

  Of course, recapturing her so easily must do wonders for his good humor.

  Black Callum felt like he’d won. Well, why not? He had, hadn't he? She was just as much his captive as she'd ever been. The knowledge left a rancid taste in her mouth.

  "Are ye hungry?"

  "No."

  Amusement twisted his lips. "Och, I’ll wager ye are."

  She couldn't argue. He held out the flask of ale, but she stubbornly shook her head. Rejecting the drink was hard. So hard. But she refused to come to his hand for a treat, like a tame puppy schooled in obedience.

  The Mackinnon shrugged. "Very well."

  He raised the flask to his lips before he returned it to the saddlebag. She almost wept with envy as she watched him drink.

  "You're no’ tying me up?" she asked surprised.

  "No."

  Hope surged through her. Strong hands caught her around the waist and lifted her into the saddle. In the few seconds before he mounted behind her, she leaned forward to grab the horse's mane with her unconstrained hands. She kicked hard at the mare’s sides.

  The beast didn’t shift.

  "Tcha!" she yelled, kicking again.

  The gray shifted under her urging without moving forward.

  "Come on, ye useless lump," Mhairi urged, lifting up and down to get the mare to run but already knowing she wasted her time.

  Desolation flooded her as she slumped in the saddle, hardly registering when the Mackinnon settled behind her. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't cry. Not in front of this superior bastard. But her belly cramped into a painful knot, and the tears she refused to shed jammed in a rancid mass in her throat.

  "Kelpie is trained to take my command, lassie. And my head groom's. Ye underestimate me if ye imagine I’ll give you a chance to gallop back to Bruard. I'll no’ risk losing ye again."

  Fuming, she held herself rigid as he put his arms around her and caught up the reins. The horse set off at an easy canter. No need to gallop, now they were safe on Mackinnon lands. Mhairi assumed he had people guarding his boundaries against Drummond incursions. Her father had scouts patrolling the outer reaches of his territory to keep an eye on the Mackinnons. The enmity between their clans had endured for centuries, with oceans of blood spilled on both sides.

  They rode in silence for a couple of hours, until he drew the horse up in another small glen. Riding was easier for Mhairi without her hands tied.

  "Are ye going to run?"

  Silence might be a childish defense, but it was all she had.

  With a sigh, he dismounted. "As ye wish."

  After he lifted her down, she stood impassive while he lashed her wrists together then tied her to the saddle. He crossed to the burn that sparkled in the bright morning light. It was a glorious day, Mhairi noticed, feeling like the sunshine mocked her misery. If she'd managed to get away, she'd have had good weather to travel in.

  She didn't want to watch the Mackinnon, but she couldn’t help following his every move. He kneeled on the bank and tugged his shirt over his head.

  Every drop of moisture dried from her mouth as she took in his naked torso. He was her enemy, but by God, he was a magnificent bastard for all that. Wearing only the red and black Mackinnon kilt, his superb body was on show. No wonder her pathetic attempts to escape hadn’t troubled him. He was tall and lithe and packed with muscle.

  She watched fascinated as h
e washed the blood from his arm. Even at this distance, she could tell the injury was minor. How she wished she'd struck harder and deeper. But she'd been so surprised when the Mackinnon appeared at the heart of the Drummond domain. Since this laird had taken over at Achnasheen, they’d all enjoyed a period of relative peace. Her kidnapping would change that.

  With more surprise, she realized that he was young. Younger than she’d imagined. Only in his twenties, she'd guess. A man in the prime of life.

  A man who so far had experienced no difficulty in overpowering her. Renewed fear twisted in her belly. He said she was safe, and she wanted to believe him. But if he used that effortless strength against her, she had no hope of prevailing.

  When he returned to her, his damp shirt clung to every breathtaking line of his chest and back. Nothing about his appearance was reassuring. He looked like a bandit, with his cheeks dark with his prickling beard. She settled a glare of loathing upon him.

  He tilted one eyebrow at her. "Gloating over your handiwork?"

  "I wish I’d killed ye." Her voice emerged as flat as an oatcake.

  Black Callum shrugged. It seemed to be a characteristic response. "Aye, well, I'll make sure to keep the kitchen knives out of reach, once we get ye to Achnasheen."

  When she caught him hiding a smile, hatred surged anew. He didn't take her threat seriously.

  He’d learn.

  He untied her from the saddle but kept her wrists bound. "Come and drink. The water in the burn is God's bounty, no’ a gift from my filthy hands."

  She was surprised he understood her objections to accepting his generosity. Stumbling, she followed him and stood in seething silence as he untied her and stepped back to allow her to kneel and drink.

  Mhairi gulped sweet cold water from her cupped hands. Immediately she felt better. The water soothed her parched throat like balm.

  She splashed her face and arms under the loose sleeves of her blouse. After the rough travel and her night in the wood, she felt dirty and tired and worn.

  Goodness, she dreaded to think what she must look like. Was that just vanity? Not entirely. She cringed from appearing weak, defenseless, and defeated before her enemies. Her pride insisted that she show these vile Mackinnons that no Drummond was ever at a disadvantage.

  She bent to drink again. She was so thirsty, she could drink the burn dry.

  A large hand landed on her back. "Enough, lassie. Or you'll make yourself sick."

  The Mackinnon was right. Again, curse him. All this water on an empty stomach had made her nauseous.

  Her head was spinning so badly, she staggered to find her balance as she stood. It took far too long to realize that she only remained upright, courtesy of the Mackinnon's hand on her arm. She jerked free, her stomach revolting at the sudden movement. She’d be damned before she cast up the contents of her belly in front of her enemy. But it was an almighty effort not to retch.

  Mhairi closed her eyes and prayed for strength. Over the pounding in her head, she heard him sigh.

  Suddenly he swept her off her feet and carried her over the grass.

  "Put me down." The words emerged as a breathless whine instead of the defiant snap she intended.

  "As ye wish, Mistress Drummond."

  She didn't want to acknowledge the fact, but his hands were gentle as they lowered her. Nor did they linger, once she was securely placed on a tree stump.

  A silence fell. Eventually her heaving stomach settled, and she opened her eyes. Her captor stood a few feet away, studying her with another of those assessing stares. She shifted uncomfortably under that unwavering regard. "What?"

  "I'd like to make a bargain with ye."

  Hope, crushed since her failed attempt to steal his horse, rose. "You're going to let me go?"

  His laugh was dismissive. "Hell, no, lassie. No’ after I've gone to all this trouble to get ye."

  She shouldn’t be disappointed. It had never been terribly likely. "What then?"

  "I’ve got a comb and a looking glass in my saddlebag. Ye might like to tidy yourself up before you arrive at Achnasheen."

  She frowned. "Ye want me to primp and preen for your pleasure?"

  He shook his head. "You’re a proud wee creature. Ye might feel less…at a disadvantage in my home if you're no’ so bedraggled when you enter the castle."

  The devil of the matter was that he was right. But she knew enough to be suspicious when an enemy offered concessions. "Why should ye care?"

  "I havenae set out to humiliate ye."

  "It’s humiliation enough that ye drag me into your lair, with everyone knowing I'm to share your bed."

  She waited in an agony of suspense for him to deny her accusation. After all he'd told her she was safe. And if she was indeed a hostage, the protocols should protect her.

  When he didn't immediately fill the silence with assurances of her continuing chastity, she felt sick again.

  He shrugged and turned away. "I've made the offer."

  The bastard was halfway back to his horse before she conquered her pride enough to speak. "And the bargain?"

  "What?"

  "Ye said the comb was part of a bargain."

  He turned. "Ye eat something, you get the comb."

  "That's…"

  "I willnae have you falling at my feet the moment I get ye to Achnasheen."

  She wouldn’t like that either. But he’d stolen all her power. Refusing sustenance from his hands was the only thing she could do to flout him.

  When she didn't answer, he headed for the horse. It crossed her mind that her hands were untied right now and he wasn’t watching. Unfortunately she was too shaky to get far. Even if she managed to evade him, she had miles of hostile territory to cross before she was safely back on Drummond lands.

  Curse the Mackinnon, he knew that. It was why he allowed her this illusion of freedom.

  He was clever, and she needed to keep her wits about her. Perhaps eating something wasn't a bad idea. She wasn’t anywhere near famished yet, but who knew how long it would be before she had another opportunity to escape? When it did, she wanted to be strong enough to take advantage of it.

  "I accept." Her voice was a squeak.

  She waited for him to say something superior. But he merely untied the saddlebag and brought it across to her.

  "More than a mouthful or the deal is off," he said calmly, sitting beside her and passing her an oatcake. He cut a slice of rich yellow cheese from the block and gave her that as well.

  Hesitantly she took a bite. Then another. Within seconds, the oatcake was gone. Again she braced for some triumphant remark, but he merely passed her more food. Four oatcakes and two apples disappeared in short order, and she even accepted the last of the ale. It washed her meal down in a most satisfactory manner.

  "Better?" he asked.

  She wanted to tell him no, but the awful truth was that she did feel better. Her head was clearer, and she even found the strength to tell herself that she’d get out of this. So far, her foe had been lucky. But nobody was lucky all the time. Her chance would come.

  "Aye." Then grudgingly, "Thank ye."

  He bent his glossy dark head in acknowledgment and rose to return to the horse. Mhairi noticed a horn comb and a small mirror placed on the tussock beside her.

  "Take your time. We’re in no rush. We’re only an hour from home."

  Home? That was too much to take. Her home was miles to the east, and if she wasn't strong and determined, she'd never see it again.

  With shaking hands, she untied her tangled plait and combed it out. She had no idea why her captor cared what impression she made when she entered her prison. But she meant to do her best to prove that while he might have caught Mhairi Drummond, he was a long way from defeating her.

  Chapter 4

  It galled Mhairi's pride to accept favors from her foe, but when they rode into the courtyard at Achnasheen Castle, she was grateful she didn't look a complete ragamuffin. She held her chin up as they emerged from the shad
ow of the portcullis into the sunlight, and she sat straight and as far away from the Mackinnon as she could. To her regret, given they shared a horse, that wasn't far. But she knew he understood the message she conveyed to him and his vile clan.

  That vile clan had come out in force to welcome the laird and his captive. The large enclosed space teemed with people. When the Mackinnon appeared, there was a ragged cheer and a hundred curious eyes fastened on Mhairi.

  As a man in an eyepatch came forward to take the horse's rein, Mhairi looked around for Flossie. Heaven knew the tortures her maid had undergone. Flossie was her friend as well as her servant, and she felt sick to think of what she might have endured. Not quite as sick as she felt when she contemplated her own fate. She wasn't a saint, and right now her terror was mostly selfish.

  So far, her captor had been concerned with evading pursuit, too busy moving on to devote his attention to tormenting her. Once he was safely behind stout castle walls, who knew what he planned for his enemy's daughter? She struggled to mask her dread as she faced down the Mackinnons, but fear tasted acrid in her mouth and her stomach went back to heaving like a rough sea.

  "Mackinnon, when ye took so long, we feared you'd been caught," the one-eyed man said.

  "There was nae trouble. I didnae want to push the lassie past her strength." He dismounted and reached up to lift Mhairi down. His hands were firm and commanding, not rough.

  "Och, you’re bleeding!" an older woman said.

  The Mackinnon cast a dismissive glance down at his stained shirt. "The wee cat stuck her claws into me, Jean. It’s naught to fash yourself about. She’ll be purring soon enough."

  When his remark sparked laughter, Mhairi cringed. He treated her desperate attempt to wound him as little more than a child’s tantrum. She glanced around the crowd, seeking a sign that someone pitied her plight, might even help her to escape. But the faces were all bright with admiration and interest. Not even the women of this pestilential race spared any sympathy for the Mackinnon's prisoner.

  What did she expect? She was a Drummond. On Mackinnon lands, Drummonds were universally hated.