Och, she was a champion herself. The wife he wanted on her own account, not just because she was the sole hope for peace between the clans.
But all that was in the future. And only if he persuaded her to accept him as her husband. He was a million miles from that, he could see. The mention of children made that delicate chin set with disgust.
Callum was already halfway in love with her. Mhairi would love to slice off his balls and feed them to the dogs. Clearly he had some way to go to achieve his ends.
"Grandchildren who are half Mackinnon," she said sourly.
"And half Drummond. What better symbol of the peace I hope to bring to these glens?"
She didn't look convinced. "Yet ye say you won't force me to any of this?"
He shook his head. "Mistress, I want a wife and an ally, not an enemy in my bed. I hope to woo ye into seeing things my way. I'm no’ a bad man. Who knows? You might come round to the idea, once ye get to know me better."
"Aye, and I might snap my fingers and conjure up the King of England," she retorted.
"I havenae hurt ye."
She clearly thought that was inadequate. He supposed if he looked at things from her point of view, he couldn't blame her. "Just seized me and held me and forced me to do your will. Now ye think to bully me into marrying you."
He hid a wince. When he’d come up with this plan, he hoped to negotiate with her father, gain consent to the marriage, court the maiden, and marry her in a grand gesture of clan reconciliation. The old man's stubbornness had put paid to that. It meant the wooing got off to a rocky start.
On the other hand, he'd always been able to talk a lassie around and a stay at Achnasheen might show this redoubtable lady that not all Mackinnons had two heads and ate babies for breakfast.
His confidence, already shaky, sank a few more notches when he studied that lovely but stubborn face. Mhairi Drummond was no round-heeled Highland hussy. She was a woman of character and determination who right now wanted to boil him in oil.
Whatever else the next few days promised, they were sure to be interesting. He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. Interesting was one word for it. "I'd like to say I’m sorry."
Her implacable expression didn't shift. "But you'd do it all again in a heartbeat."
"Aye, to bring an end to the murder, I would."
"So ye and I are mere pawns in the game of clan politics," she said with a hint of bitterness. "I cannae imagine ye want to marry me for your own sake."
"Then you're suffering a failure of the imagination, mistress," he said dryly.
While they’d spoken, she'd forgotten her fear long enough to treat him like an equal. His admission had her rising to her feet and backing away. "No."
The single syllable threatened to smash all his hopes. It held centuries of loathing, spiced with the hatred his actions of the last day and night had sparked.
A less determined man would look into those angry blue eyes and pack the wench off back to her father. But Callum Mackinnon was at least as obstinate as Mhairi Drummond, and he was decided on plowing on. The senseless killing had to stop. This was the best way to achieve that.
Even if he didn't want the girl for her own sake.
"Aye."
Her sweeping gesture indicated incomprehension. "I've been nothing but trouble for ye."
"Aye. And I suspect there’s more trouble to come."
She didn't answer. Which was answer enough, he supposed.
He stood as well. "Mistress Drummond, your fate is set in stone. If you’re a woman of sense, you’ll reconcile yourself to it."
"I'll never accept ye as my husband," she spat at him.
"Brave words, lassie, but see how ye feel after a month, six months, a year."
By God, he prayed it wouldn’t take her that long to come round to his way of thinking. Even his short experience of her told him she was no pliable reed but a woman with a backbone of steel.
He liked that. He wanted a wife who was a genuine partner, and the lady of the Mackinnons should be brave and strong. Her beauty drew him – how could it not? – but it was her tempestuous spirit that he coveted the most. He just had to convince her that she could find a home and a purpose here at Achnasheen.
"You'll tire of failing long before that," she said.
He shook his head. "No, I willnae. Now I'll leave ye. The girls will bring up a bath and some clothes befitting my betrothed."
"I'll never be your betrothed."
He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I'll join ye for supper." When fear flared in her eyes, he made a dismissive gesture. "You dinnae know me well enough yet to trust me, but ye have my word you'll come to nae harm while you're here."
"Just the harm of losing my freedom."
"Aye, at least until you're reconciled to wedding me."
"So forever, then."
His grunt expressed impatience. "Aye, forever, if it comes to that."
He waited for her to argue, but instead she clasped her hands in front of her. "What have ye done with Flossie?"
"Flossie?"
"My maid. Did your man…kill her?"
"No, by the devil he didnae," he snapped, although he supposed he shouldn't blame the girl for always thinking the worst of him.
"How can ye be sure?"
"Because Duff doesnae murder defenseless women." He saw her expression. "Or force them into his bed. I assume the lassie is locked up downstairs. Since we’ve been back at Achnasheen, I havenae left your side to find out."
"Can ye… Can ye find out for me?"
Callum noted that she was willing to make a request for her maid's sake but not for her own. When necessary, common sense could temper her pride. That offered a glimmer of hope that in time, she might change her mind.
"Aye, I'll find out and send ye word," he said, his tone softening. The more he saw of her, the more convinced he was that Mhairi was born to be his lady.
"Even better, can ye send her to me?"
And give his bride a co-conspirator? Not likely. "No, the lassies who serve ye will be Mackinnons. Flossie will be safe, ye have my word on it."
Her eyes hardened, and she turned away. "Leave me, Mackinnon."
He gave a brief laugh. "Already giving orders, mistress?"
"Ye say I'll be treated with respect and kindness while I’m here." Her voice was flat, and the back she presented to him was straight as a ruler. "The kindest thing ye can do right now is remove yourself from my sight."
Although she wasn't looking at him, he bowed. "As ye wish, my lady. I'll see you at supper."
She didn't respond as Callum strode out of the chamber, leaving her to brood on her fate. And to his regret, shore up her hatred.
Chapter 6
Mhairi was still reeling from the revelations of that conversation with the Mackinnon when the room filled with what felt like an army of maids setting up her bath and laying out clothes for her.
Marriage to a Mackinnon. Staying at Achnasheen. She'd never considered that was her future. She'd assumed Black Callum meant to use her as a bargaining counter in the endless squabbles between her clan and his. Then return her to her father once negotiations were over, likely not in her current virginal state, if wicked human nature proved stronger than the code of honor.
It had never occurred to her that he meant to make her his wife. It had never occurred to her that he might be looking beyond the next retaliation for a Drummond raid toward a long-term solution to the ongoing strife.
She couldn't argue with his conclusion that too many lives had been lost over the years with no real gain, and it was well past time to choose another path. But she did argue with how he went about achieving his aims. He might have a vision for a new way in this wild corner of the Highlands, but kidnapping his enemy's daughter just seemed to perpetuate the cycle of futile violence.
Nor did she relish her role in his plans.
At least he wouldn’t force himself on her. Or so he said. But she hadn't missed the glint in his e
yes when they rested on her. She'd done nothing to make him like her, but she'd learned over the years that men needed only to spy a pretty face to go stupid.
Not for the first time, she cursed the accident of beauty. When she was a wee lassie, she'd preened to hear people call her bonny and to see her father's obvious pride in her. But with growing maturity, she'd come to recognize that beauty turned her into a challenge, a prize, and a threat. It affected her dealings with the world in a way she couldn't control.
Before the Mackinnon met her, he’d been set on making her his wife. Now he'd seen her, she could tell he'd never willingly relinquish her.
"Mistress Drummond, are ye ready for your bath now?"
Mhairi emerged from brooding to discover the three maids left in the room regarding her curiously. Curiously and with visible hostility. She could hardly blame them. A Mackinnon in the Drummond household would receive no warmer welcome.
She didn't attempt to smile, but she spoke courteously as befitted a lady. However much of a tatterdemalion she must appear to these women in their neat white blouses and plaid kirtles. "I'd like some privacy, if ye please."
The three women glanced at one another. "The Mackinnon wishes us to help ye to bathe and dress," the oldest said, a tall, spare lady with graying hair.
How Mhairi wished her captor had allowed Flossie to serve her. "Will ye wait outside, then?"
"We are to stay with ye, mistress. Those are our orders."
Mhairi’s lips tightened with impatience. Clearly not even the last trumpet would shift them when that great god, the chieftain of the clan, had spoken his will.
Meanwhile all that lovely hot water in the wooden tub went cold. The idea of soaking limbs stiff from hours on horseback was irresistible. Recognizing that she wasn't going to win, she sighed.
"What are your names?" She couldn't call them maid one, two, and three.
The older woman spoke again, indicating the other two girls. "Brigid and Sheena. And I'm Jean."
Mhairi stood impassive as the women removed her stained and torn clothing, cringing at the impression she must make. The night she’d spent hunkered down in the forest hadn't done her appearance any favors. The maids let down her thick red hair. She didn't react to the vicious pinches on her arms and legs. With all those hands upon her, she couldn't tell if it was one particular maid or all of them.
She blinked back stinging tears. No Drummond would cry in front of a Mackinnon. They could strip the flesh from her bones before she'd stoop to asking for mercy. But this treatment made her more aware than ever of how futile the Mackinnon's plan was. Centuries of hatred didn't end merely on one man’s say-so.
"Leave the shift." It was proper for a woman to bathe in her shift, so nobody would insist on her nakedness.
"Aye, my lady," Jean said.
As Mhairi sank into the tub and drew a deep breath redolent of the aromatic herbs sprinkled across the water, she closed her eyes and prayed that she did her clan proud through this ordeal. She also prayed that the Mackinnon saw sense and sent her back to her father before too long.
***
Shaved, wearing clean clothes, and with his long hair tied back in a queue, Callum paused outside the door to the tower bedroom. He’d come to fetch his unwilling captive so she could sup with his clan.
Self-doubt wasn't his usual state, but all day the memory of Mhairi’s stubborn resistance had troubled him. He'd imagined some kind treatment and a bit of charm might be enough to bring her around to the idea of marrying him. But then, he hadn't expected her to be such a formidable opponent. Her strength and resolve made him like her better, which was a good thing when marriage was inevitable. But in the shorter term, that defiance promised conflict.
He hadn't imagined that he’d start his wooing feeling the way he felt when he charged into battle. But as he knocked and pushed open the door, his shoulders were square and every sense was alert to trouble ahead.
The door opened silently, and he stepped inside. From the corner of his vision, something large and dark swung toward him. He had a second to release a grunt of shock, as he staggered under the blow to his head.
Pain shuddered through him. He'd barely registered what happened when another blow struck his temple. Seeing stars, he slumped back against the door.
"What the devil?" he grated out, instinctively reaching for his assailant.
Through reeling confusion, his hands closed on soft female flesh. Over the ringing in his ears, he heard a furious exhalation. When the girl wriggled to escape him, it was too much for his precarious balance. He tumbled to the floor, dragging his captive with him.
Something thudded to the ground near his pounding head as a slender body collapsed on top of him with another oof of furious breath.
His grip tightened as he forced his eyes open. "Lie still, plague take ye."
She wrenched far enough away for him to see brilliant blue eyes promising him injury. "Let me go."
Even in his extremity, Callum noticed how perfectly Mhairi Drummond's body fitted against his. Without thinking, he ran his hand down her back to shape the luscious curve of her arse. For one vibrant second, she remained still under his touch. Then she gave a disgusted exclamation and twisted to bring her knee up.
He gave a surprised exhalation and wrenched out from under her before she made his hopes of children an impossibility.
"God’s blood, you're a wildcat." Admiration rang in his voice.
"Ye patronizing pig," she snarled, scrambling out of his hold.
She was panting for breath. His clearing vision settled on that heaving bosom. By heaven, Mhairi Drummond was a lot of woman, and his stirring interest firmed into a determination to win her and keep her and turn all that passion and spirit to his causes.
Callum lay where he was on the priceless carpet as he took stock of what had just happened. A careful turn of his aching head revealed the assault weapon. The metal bucket that had held peat to feed the fire blazing behind her.
Another careful turn of his head, and he encountered Mhairi’s glower. She'd staggered to her feet and stood glaring at him with an expression that told him his admiration wasn’t reciprocated. In fact, she looked like she wanted to carve out his gizzards and feed them to the crows.
The last thing he noticed – sign enough of how this extraordinary lassie turned his brain to porridge – was the small dirk clutched in her hand. It was familiar. He didn't need to check that his knife was missing from his belt.
"The devil, that was quick." She had clever hands. He hadn't even felt her steal it. He forced his imagination away from just what such clever hands could do to his body. "Give me back my dirk before ye do someone a mischief."
"I ken how to use this."
Watching her confidence burgeon, he sat up slowly. "I’m sure ye do."
As he worked out how best to deal with her insurrection, he studied her. He should have expected something like this. He'd allowed his optimism to lull him into a false sense of security when she responded so calmly, if negatively, to his plans for her. And Jean had told him she'd accepted the servants' help with cold politeness, but without causing trouble.
When he knew trouble was the very blood that flowed through her veins.
"Get up."
Callum didn't obey, but continued to regard her steadily from where he sat with his back against the door. When he'd brought her to Achnasheen, she'd looked tired and worn, despite her best efforts with his comb. Tired and worn, but unbowed.
A bath, a few hours of rest, and some hot food had restored her fire. She was dressed as befitted the lady of his lands, too, in a blue silk gown that belonged to his sister who was around her size. The vivid color made her skin look like rich cream.
His gaze dwelled on the voluptuous swell of her breasts above the low square-cut bodice. One hand made a nervous movement, and he knew she wanted to cover herself. Until pride came to her aid and she lifted her chin to shoot him a disdainful look.
He took in that imperious
pointed chin. Great Jehovah, she was indomitable. The rich red hair was arranged away from her face and neck, revealing the pure line of her jaw. A jaw set with stalwart determination.
"I said get up." Her voice was hard and steady.
He arched his eyebrows. "Or what?"
"I am armed."
"Och, Blind Freddy can see that."
"You're going to come downstairs with me and escort me to the stables. You'll give me the swiftest horse ye have, and you'll tell your foul minions to open the gates to let me out."
"Will I indeed?"
When he didn’t immediately leap to obey her, uncertainty flashed in her eyes. "Aye."
"That's a gey powerful influence ye lend to yon wee bodkin, mistress."
"It might be wee, but it’s sharp enough to do ye damage, Black Callum."
"Nae doubt."
She took a step closer. "Move."
Callum raised one knee and rested his good arm on it. All the bumping and battling made the arm she’d already cut ache like hell. If this wooing went on too long, he’d be a physical wreck by the time he got this lass into bed.
He let himself smile, although his head still rang like a peal of bells. "Och, Mhairi, you're going to make a braw lady for Achnasheen."
Her eyes narrowed on him. "That's never going to happen. Now, get up. I've had enough of your dubious hospitality."
He didn't shift. She raised the knife until it glinted in the candlelight. "Did ye hear me?"
"Aye. The jangling in my ears has subsided enough for my wits to return to perfect working order. Before I left ye to make your mischief, I should have checked the room for possible weapons. That was remiss of me."
Disdain flattened her lush pink mouth. "Ye probably thought I was so cowed and terrified that I’d offer no resistance to your depraved plans."
"I like it better that you're no’ cowed and terrified."
She frowned. "Even though it means I'm about to escape?"
He shrugged. "Last time I looked, ye were still trapped in my bedroom."
The Highlander's Defiant Captive Page 5