The Highlander's Defiant Captive

by Anna Campbell

  Her legs were stiff after all that time on horseback, but she managed to stay upright. She refused to crumple in a craven heap before these animals. She heard murmurs around her, "bonny" and "fair" repeated over and over.

  She cursed whatever beauty she possessed. It made her a prize, worth the snatching. Right now, she wished she was a hag ugly enough to frighten off male attentions.

  "Are ye all right, lassie?" the Mackinnon asked under his breath, as though he tried to save her pride. His hand still lay heavy at her waist, a public claiming of his trophy.

  She stiffened, and her reply rang with all the hatred in her heart. "Lock me up in a dungeon and do what ye will with me, but I will have my revenge. Even if you kill me, my father will make ye pay for every inch of suffering you inflict, Mackinnon. There will be a price exacted in this world – and the next."

  "She's got a tongue on her," the one-eyed man said in awe.

  The Mackinnon looked amused, as well he might. At this moment, Mhairi was bleakly aware that her threats were empty bravado. But if there was any justice under heaven, this man would atone for his sins. She just hoped she was alive to see the day.

  "Aye, she does at that." The Mackinnon gave her an ironic bow. "Bravely spoken, Mistress Drummond."

  "Ye conceited devil, I dinnae want your admiration," she snarled, narrowing her eyes on the tall, dark-haired man. He was laughing at her. She had a sick suspicion that all of the Mackinnons were.

  Well, let them laugh. She was strong, she could bear anything.

  "Whether ye want my admiration or no’, mistress, you have it." He stepped back and bowed again, a picture of overweening self-confidence.

  "My father will roast your ballocks in his campfires before he's done." Loathing vibrated in her voice.

  "Aye, well, that might happen one day, but it willnae happen today." His voice softened. If she didn’t know better, she'd almost wonder if he understood that her insolence formed a wafer-thin shell over a chasm of sick terror. "Come, lassie."

  She knew there was no use to it and her only dignified response was silent resistance, but at the last minute, she couldn't help recoiling from his hand. Impatience tautened his lips. With a muttered imprecation, he caught her up against his chest. He strode toward the stone stairs leading up to a huge double door open wide to receive them.

  "Put me down, ye toad," she demanded, squirming in his hold as her heart raced with fear.

  He ignored her wriggling. "Your dungeon awaits, mistress."

  How she wished she had her dagger. She’d slice the self-satisfaction off that handsome face. Then let him see if he was so ready to laugh at her.

  But as he carried her through the crowd, receiving praise and congratulations on bringing the Drummond heiress back to his lair, Mhairi couldn't help recognizing how small and powerless she was. Sharp words and a recalcitrant heart weren't enough to protect her from aggressive male power.

  She kept her expression impassive as he swept through a cavernous great hall hung with banners and weapons, then up another stone staircase. That puzzled her. Most dungeons were in the cellars.

  They kept climbing. Soon she realized that they must be in one of the towers. He kicked open the door and stepped into an airy room overlooking the sea, with the Cuillins on Skye in the distance.

  He set her on her feet in the middle of a red and blue carpet and stepped back to shut the door. "Your dungeon, mistress."

  With dazed eyes, Mhairi took in the luxurious surroundings. Her father was a rich man, but nothing at Bruard could compare with this. Glass in the windows. Colorful tapestries on the walls. The subtle glint of gold and silver. Fine mahogany furniture.

  The opulence gave her no comfort. Instead she struggled to contain her burgeoning panic by drawing herself up to her full height and glaring at the Mackinnon.

  Because amongst all that fine furniture, the finest piece of all was a huge four-poster bed that dominated the room.

  She shouldn't be surprised. After all, the end was ordained since this villain had snatched her from the meadow above Bruard. But as the hours went on, she'd allowed herself to cherish a faint hope that when he told her she was safe, he meant it.

  Stupid, stupid girl. All Mackinnons were liars. Hadn't she learned that at her father's knee?

  "So ye mean to rape me?" She despised how, despite all her efforts, her voice cracked with fear.

  Those enigmatic dark eyes settled on her. Images of hard hands seizing her and tossing her on the bed behind them flooded her mind. Then he'd come down over her and…

  He shook his head with what looked like amusement and crossed to a sideboard where an embossed gilt jug waited with two Venetian glasses. These trappings of civilization did nothing to hide the ugliness to come.

  "Och, lassie, ye misunderstand me. I told ye you’re safe." He poured two glasses of wine and held one out in her direction. "I'm not planning to force you."

  What he said left her bewildered. There was every reason not to believe him, but strangely she did.

  "So just what do ye want of me, Mackinnon?"

  A faint smile curved his lips. "Why, I want to marry ye, Mistress Drummond."

  Chapter 5

  Callum watched shock flood her delicate features. Shock and immediate repudiation.

  "Marry me?" Bonny Mhairi Drummond made his proposal sound like it was worse than getting the plague. "What the devil lunacy is this?"

  He kept his voice even. "Have some wine."

  She turned away without accepting. "You’ll need my consent to any marriage."

  "Aye." He lowered his hand.

  She whirled to face him and settled an uncompromising glare on him. "In that case, ye may as well send me straight back to my father. I'll never marry you."

  He shouldn't be disappointed. The ride to Achnasheen had demonstrated that the Drummond heiress wasn’t about to accept him just for the asking. This was never going to be easy. But the fierce hatred he read in her eyes made him wonder if he could ever succeed.

  With a sigh, he returned the untouched glasses of wine to the sideboard. "I hope you'll change your mind about that."

  That statement summoned a huff of utter contempt. "A man can plant a feather and hope to grow a rooster, Mackinnon. It doesn't make it likely to happen. Why on earth have ye done this mad thing?"

  He shook his head and gestured her toward the window seat. "Please sit down, mistress. Unless you’d rather wait. I’d planned on having this discussion once you'd had a chance to bathe and eat and rest."

  Another of those disdainful looks. "I'm no’ your blasted guest, Mackinnon. I'm your prisoner."

  "I hope ye willnae always feel like that."

  "You’re planting those feathers again."

  If he didn’t have so much at stake, he might almost laugh. He admired her invincible spirit. He had from the first. Although her strength of character promised to play merry hell with his plans. He’d never frighten this doughty lass into cooperation. The Mhairi Drummond he’d imagined had been someone altogether sweeter and more docile.

  A lass you could cow into obedience, a disparaging voice said in his head.

  He hid a wince. He wasn't entirely pure in all this, although his overall intentions were good. His conscience had always prickled at the prospect of harrying someone who hadn't harmed him into doing his bidding.

  He surveyed the slender girl who stood a few feet away, glowering at him. He knew she was afraid. Although she’d done her best to hide her fear, he'd caught the signs since he'd snatched her. His assurances that she was safe had landed on stony ground.

  "Please sit down."

  "No. Tell me. Then send me back home."

  Her effrontery made him laugh. "Och, no, my lady. You're here now, and here ye stay."

  She folded her arms across her alluring bosom. He’d held her in his arms for hours. He’d become familiar with her delectable shape. Mhairi Drummond was a luscious armful for any man to cuddle.

  "I'll never marry ye, Mack
innon, so why burden your clan with an extra mouth to feed?"

  His lips twitched. "So far ye havenae eaten enough to keep a mouse going. I think the castle stores will cope with any extra demands ye make on them."

  Not a hint of amusement. "Stop mocking me."

  "I asked your father for your hand, ye ken."

  Surprise wiped away her hostility. But only for a mere second. "Why on earth would ye do that? The Mackinnons and the Drummonds have hated one another for centuries. My father would rather drown me in Loch Ersk then give me to a Mackinnon. And my father is awfu’ fond of me."

  That was much the same answer the Drummond had given, although the old man had expressed himself more forcefully in response to Callum's letter. "Aye, so I hear."

  She looked puzzled. "Ye dinnae appear unhinged."

  He stifled another grunt of amusement. He didn't want her thinking he was laughing at her again. "I'm no’."

  He saw she still stewed over the reasons behind his actions. "I dinnae remember meeting ye, and I'm sure I would have. Had ye seen me somewhere?"

  "No. Until yesterday, I'd never laid eyes on ye."

  "Then why in heaven's name did ye do this?"

  "You're counted a prize."

  "Aye, perhaps." Her expression indicated her contempt for that answer. "But a sensible laddie would rather sleep easy in his bed than worry about a wife more likely to stick a dirk between his ribs than whisper sweet words in his ear. Is there nae comely, empty-headed lassie in Achnasheen ye could marry and make miserable?"

  Again the urge to laugh. Although it wasn't exactly funny. Some members of his clan opposed his plan, and quite enough Mackinnon lassies were sulking because he chose to wed a Drummond.

  "Aye, one or two. But you're the one for me."

  "But ye dinnae know me."

  "I do now."

  Another glance dripping with abhorrence. "Stop speaking in riddles."

  With a sigh, he walked across to drop into a high leather chair against the wall. He wondered if he should have had that wine after all. Mistress Drummond wasn't the only one who had had a rough night. At this precise moment, he wasn't sure he was up to presenting his scheme in the best light. But he'd started this so he had to finish it.

  "I didnae steal ye away from your home for personal reasons."

  Although the stark truth was that right now, he couldn't imagine wanting to marry anyone else. He'd set out yesterday in the grim knowledge that he walked a path unlikely to bring him the close, loving relationship his parents had enjoyed. If he married the Drummond girl, he put forever out of reach any boyhood dreams of finding a lassie he liked and setting her up as his lady.

  Except they weren’t out of reach after all. He liked this gorgeous firebrand. He liked her fight and her defiance and her quick mouth. He'd love to teach that mouth to please him instead of snipe at him.

  The idea of seizing all that beauty and passion in his arms and taking her to the stars and back filled him with blazing anticipation. By God, she'd give him bonny children, all as troublesome and stubborn as she was.

  He couldn't wait.

  Although it became clear that he must. That threat of slipping a dirk between his ribs hadn’t been an idle remark. By heaven, she’d already drawn blood. This was no mere domestic cat he'd captured for himself. Mhairi Drummond was as fierce and unpredictable as a lioness.

  She was still thinking about his answer. "Are ye seeking revenge against my father?"

  "No." He gestured toward the window seat again. "Please, mistress, sit down. I told ye you're safe, and I meant it. And you must be tired."

  He saw her consider arguing for pride's sake. Then with a shrug, she crossed to the window seat. "Ye have nae intentions of hauling me into that bed?"

  He wouldn't say that. But he meant to give her time to get used to the idea of wedding him.

  Who was he trying to fool? He’d take her this minute if she expressed an instant of interest. Unfortunately while he saw she was curious enough to listen to him, her hatred and suspicion hadn't shifted an inch.

  He'd won himself a bride. Physically at least. Winning her heart and mind was still a thousand miles away.

  He avoided the question. "Ye accused me of being mad. What is mad is two fine families…" Well, one fine family and the Drummonds, but under the circumstances, flattery was called for. "…spilling enough blood to turn these glens red. And all for what?"

  "The feud."

  "Do ye ken what started it?"

  "A Mackinnon murdered a Drummond who came in peace to talk about a marriage."

  Callum shot her a faint smile. She didn't smile back. "I was told at my mother's knee that it started when a Drummond put aside his Mackinnon wife so that he could wed another and had the lady locked in a cell until she starved to death."

  "Your version is more colorful," she admitted.

  "The truth is nobody kens how the discord began. I suspect the facts are more prosaic. Some stolen cattle or a brawl, but nobody kens for sure."

  "There's been enough blood spilled since to keep the fight alive, nae matter how it started."

  "Aye, too much. I'm sure we could both list kinsmen and women lost to this folly. However it started, both families place a marriage at the heart of the strife. I'm hoping a marriage will end it. I dinnae want more deaths. I want to live in peace. Your father is old. Surely he wants the same thing."

  Callum wasn't so convinced about the younger Drummond clansmen. He'd had trouble persuading his own more hot-headed retainers that at the dawn of the new century, it was time to choose a new way. For wild young men, the feud provided a reliable source of excitement. But excitement didn't trump a grieving mother weeping over a dead son. And for what? None of the skirmishes resulted in lasting victory for either side. Instead, the years just rolled out, marred with more futile bloodshed.

  The girl watched him with an unreadable expression. "Laudable intentions, Mackinnon."

  Her dry tone told him she wasn't convinced. "Ye dinnae agree?"

  "That too many lives have been lost? Of course I do. But women have been snatched from both clans before and forced into marriages, and worse. It's never made a blind bit of difference."

  "Aye, but those women were hostages and war booty. I’m offering ye an honorable position as my lady, wife to the laird, mother of the next generation."

  "Did ye tell my father this when you asked for my hand?"

  "Aye. But it did me nae good. His refusal made it clear that he wouldnae give ye to me under any circumstances."

  Cynicism twisted her mouth. "So ye reverted to the bad old ways and snatched me anyway? Ye talk a fine line in rhetoric, Mackinnon. But beneath all this pretense of civilization and reason, you're nae better than your murdering forebears."

  He shrugged. "Ye have a point."

  "So send me back, and I’ll present your offer to my father. Ye have my word on it."

  He studied her, hiding his surprise. "You'd tell your father you're willing to wed me?"

  The sound she made indicated scornful dismissal. "Dinnae be daft, man. Why the devil would I want to wed ye after what you've done?"

  Disappointment flooded him, although he should have known that would be her answer. He'd had time to think about the implications of his plans and now he'd met her – kidnapped her, that sneering voice pointed out – he was eager to have her in his bed. He couldn't expect her to feel the same.

  "My father isnae an unreasonable man." She paused, as if expecting Callum to break into a tirade accusing the Drummond chieftain of being an old villain.

  But despite her calling him daft, Callum kept enough grip on strategy to hold his wheesht. Her eyes narrowed on him as if, even without him saying what he thought of Willie Drummond, she guessed his opinion. He'd dearly love a different father-in-law, but this was the only one fate offered him. He wasn't going to set up an argument about the old man's character. Or at least not now, when he wanted the old man's daughter to think kindly of him.

  "I'l
l tell him you sincerely seek an end to the feud and that he should hear ye out."

  Callum shook his head even before she finished. "Only a blood bond will break this endless round of death and retribution. I have to marry ye, lass."

  She spread her hands in bewilderment. "But do ye no’ see that stealing me away only continues the madness?"

  He was interested to hear her call it madness. It seemed on one thing at least they were in agreement. "It’s my only choice."

  "And it will bring my father here with an army."

  "Aye, it will. But nae Drummond has ever taken Achnasheen. Nae Drummond ever will. He willnae seize ye back with a siege, lassie."

  "He's no’ going to forgive ye for taking me either."

  "If I have his beloved daughter in my clutches, he'll come round. You're the perfect choice for the woman to heal this centuries-long rift, Mistress Drummond. All the Highlands ken how Willie dotes on his only living child, a beautiful lass born in his old age to his third wife. Mhairi Drummond, Bonny Mhairi, the Rose of Bruard."

  She took no pleasure in his compliments. That wary expression remained, and the blue eyes that settled on him were bright and perceptive. Her reputation for beauty was well deserved. He hadn't expected the acute mind behind that flower face. But then hadn't she surprised and delighted him from the first?

  He'd come to want this marriage as the only sane choice for his clan. But that’s not how it was working out. Or not entirely. Making Mhairi Drummond his wife wouldn't be a duty, it would be a pleasure. She was brave and loyal and passionate.

  Right now, to his regret, that loyalty and passion were directed at wanting him flayed and hanging from the highest tower in Scotland. But if he could bring her around to accepting his proposal, by God, what a wife she'd make.

  "All the more reason for my father to want to kill ye slowly, Mackinnon."

  "Aye, at first. But once the bairns arrive, he'll soften. You're his only chance for grandchildren, my lady. Once you’ve given me a wean or two, he'll join me at the negotiating table."

  The prospect of making those children with her set Callum’s blood pumping hot and strong. He could already imagine a brood of their offspring: dark-haired daughters and fiery redheaded sons. She'd be the mother of champions.