After a vibrant silence, Duff rose and lifted his goblet toward the high table. "Aye, ye were right, Callum. You've caught yourself a wildcat there. I wish ye joy of taming her. I drink to the new lady of Achnasheen."
Callum kept his grip on Mhairi’s hand, although she still struggled to break free. He noted that a good few of his men were slow to toast his coming nuptials. His plan to bring peace to the glens hadn't been universally welcomed in his clan. Many of his warriors enjoyed the ongoing strife, and not a few of them had profited from the cattle raids in his father's day.
But he was a patient man and a stubborn one, and he'd win out over both his people and his reluctant bride. He'd sworn to end the feud with the Drummonds, and he was above all a man of his word.
So he lifted his goblet with his free hand and swept it through the air in a silent salute to everyone present, including Mhairi who stood seething at his side. "A man likes a wild woman to warm his nights, Duff. I drink to peace and prosperity – and many exciting years to come with my bonny bride."
He took a sip, hardly tasting the wine, as he heard a grudging response from the crowd. Beside him, Mhairi had gone as still as a stone.
He wondered what she plotted in retaliation for his rash declaration. Their acquaintance might be short, but he knew her well enough to guess she had some reprisal in mind. Perhaps he should have let her enjoy her first meal at Achnasheen in privacy, instead of brandishing her before his clan like a trophy.
Except that Mhairi Drummond was a trophy. One he meant to keep, come what may. The sooner she and his kin accepted that, the easier life would be for all of them.
Callum faced her once more. To his surprise, a slow smile curled her pink lips, although the blue eyes still burned with hatred. God’s teeth, what he'd give to turn all that fire to passion.
"As it's a night for toasts, here's mine, Mackinnon." She lifted her brimming goblet in his direction. She spoke clearly so everyone in the hall could hear her. "I drink to a lingering and miserable death for the Laird of Achnasheen and Drummond warriors dancing a jig on his grave. Slàinte mhath."
There was an audible mass intake of breath. Before Callum could react, Mhairi jerked back her hand and tossed her wine into his face.
Damn her Drummond recklessness. Damn her blazing temper. Damn her courageous heart.
As Callum stood unmoving, his eyes narrowed on her. Through the claret dripping past his eyes, he watched horror at her own temerity turn her as pale as milk. But she didn't cringe away as his grip on her hand tightened.
Very slowly, he set his goblet down on the table. The room was deathly silent, and every eye focused on the laird and the woman he'd just proclaimed as his bride.
"A fine vintage, indeed," he said gently.
Without shifting his gaze from her, he reached for his snowy white linen napkin and wiped his face. The front of his shirt and coat were soaked. She was fiendishly hard on his linen, this fierce wee lassie.
"I hoped to cool ye down." The quiver in her voice told him that she knew she'd done the unforgivable and that nobody in this castle would raise a finger to defend her from the consequences of her actions. "Ye seemed a wee bit overheated."
When he released her hand, he saw her wondering if perhaps against all the odds, she might get away with such a blatant insult to his standing. Unfortunately for her—and for him, he’d had hopes of winning her over with gentleness—he couldn't allow that. Not if he wanted his clansmen to regard him with an ounce of respect.
When Callum grabbed her slender waist in both hands, she stiffened. Genuine fear sparked in her eyes. He was preternaturally aware of every subtle change in her expression. He'd never been so conscious of another person. It had been like this from the first.
"Ye ken you've gone too far." The silence in the room was a hungry, living thing as his clan waited for him to punish her for her insolence.
Mhairi glanced to either side as if seeking some escape, but she was a Drummond on Mackinnon lands. She was trapped and alone.
"I wish it had been boiling water." Again that wee shake in her voice betrayed the trepidation beneath her bold words.
"Your defiance has certainly put ye in hot water, mistress." He hauled her away from the table, ignoring how she strained against him.
The belligerent angle of her chin was familiar. "Ye may as well kill me now."
He let his smile express evil intent. She saw it and recoiled as far as she could, which wasn't far at all.
"Nothing so easy as that, my lady." He didn't raise his voice above a murmur, but he knew she could tell how angry he was.
"No," she said on a gasp of panic. "Ye promised."
Perhaps after all, he'd been too quick to allay her fears. He'd given her a mistaken impression of just how much he'd accept from her. "Too late, lassie."
"Mackinnon…"
The word was more demand than plea, and it was too late for either. Callum bent to haul her over his shoulder, the way he'd carried her to his horse on her father's lands. She tried to fight him, but he was too strong for her. He braced for screeching and insults, but she kept silent. He felt her hands fist in the back of his coat.
His hand settled on her arse in a visibly possessive gesture as he turned to face the crowded room. "Enjoy your dinner and drink up, my friends. The wine is excellent. I can tell ye that much from experience."
There was an astonished pause, then cheering broke out.
"Aye, Mackinnon, show the Drummond bitch who's in charge," one of the most vocal opponents to ending the feud called out over the noisy approbation.
When he narrowed his eyes on Sel the Red, the man closed his mouth and subsided against his seat. The deafening crash of tankards and hands pounding on the wooden tables faded under the laird's steady gaze.
"Hold your wheesht, Sel. This lady is to be my wife."
"Good luck with that, Mackinnon," someone called out in a drunken taunt. "I'd rather snuggle up to a crocodile."
Callum ignored the comment. "I will no’ tolerate any disrespect to her."
"What about disrespect from her?" another drunken voice called out.
"Och, now, that's a different matter altogether, Liam," he said with a laugh that rang to the rafters. "And something my lady and I need to discuss in private."
"Aye, discuss away all night," one of the grooms called from the base of the table. "I wish ye braw joy of your discussions, Mackinnon."
"Aye, God willing, Brock, God willing. Dinnae look for me until the morning. Now I leave ye all to drink to my bonny bride’s health."
The room erupted into more cheers as he swaggered across the hall and began to mount the stairs. His every sense remained attuned to the woman flung across his shoulder. She shook with fear. She'd hate that she betrayed such weakness, he knew.
Once they were out of sight of the crowd, she began to squirm and hit his back, but the arm he’d lashed across her bum held her in place.
"Lie still, mistress. Do ye want me to drop you on the stairs? It's a long tumble back to the hall."
Her scent made his head spin. She was more intoxicating than the fine wine she'd wasted splashing over him. The body he carried was slim and graceful, and hid soft, delicious secrets. He realized he’d started to caress that luscious curve of rump.
"Better I break my neck now than suffer what you've got planned for me," Mhairi snapped back.
Her voice sounded choked. Perhaps her position hoisted over his shoulder restricted her breathing. Or perhaps she fought tears. She hadn't cried once so far, although she’d had plenty of cause. Her strength was something he’d learned to respect. But by God, she needed to learn to respect him in turn.
Callum didn't reply. What he meant to say was no conversation for the stairwell, where anyone could follow him and listen. He shouldered his way into the empty tower room and kicked the door shut behind him. The slam of the thick oak sounded like the crash of doom.
He set her on her feet in the center of the room and stepped back
so he blocked the entrance, although the only place the steps led was back to the hall. She must know she'd receive no aid there.
"Ye filthy, vile, lying, damned Mackinnon," she spat, backing away and putting her hands out to keep him at a distance. "A pox on ye."
"Stop it," he bit out in the voice of authority that made his will law in this glen.
"I willnae let ye rape me."
Wearily he sighed and ran his hand through hair sticky with wine. "I'm no’ going to rape ye."
She straightened, back to looking like an outraged queen. "I dinnae believe ye."
He shrugged and unknotted his sodden neck cloth. The smell of fine French wine filled his nostrils. Another shirt ruined. "Ye will."
Her eyes burned with a fury that barely masked her alarm. As he dropped the stained length of linen to the floor, her gaze clung to his every movement. "Then why the devil have ye brought me up here? Everyone downstairs is convinced you're forcing yourself on me this very second."
He dragged his coat off and dropped it next to the neck cloth. "Aye, I ken."
"And why are ye undressing?" She retreated closer to the big bed where he hoped to join her before too long. But not like this. And not tonight.
An unamused smile lengthened his lips. "Because some headstrong lassie took her life in her hands and upended a gallon of wine all over me."
"It was only a cup."
"It was more than enough."
She eyed him uncertainly. "So kill me."
He wrenched his ruined shirt over his head and dropped it on top of his other clothes. "Ye offered me that option downstairs."
"It would be better than…the other."
Callum arched an eyebrow and crossed to the washstand. "Is that right?"
She didn't answer his question. "Do ye really mean to kill me?"
The girl didn't sound nearly so brash. Instead she sounded young and lost. He was so used to her indomitable spirit that this hint of vulnerability made his heart turn over like a pancake on a hot griddle.
He kept his voice stern. What she'd done tonight was dangerous for him—and for her. She hadn’t worked it out yet, but in Achnasheen, he was her protection as well as her persecutor. His kinsmen had no reason to treat her kindly. "Perhaps no’ immediately."
Something in his voice must have conveyed that she was safe for the moment, and she slumped with relief. "If ye aren’t going to do…that, do ye mean to beat me?"
"After what ye did, I should." He poured water from the ewer into the bowl and tested the temperature. Only lukewarm, but it was a summer night. He'd survive a cold wash.
"But ye willnae."
He cast her a hard-eyed look. "Dinnae get too cocky, mistress."
Mhairi made a helpless gesture. "Then why have ye brought me up here?"
He wet the flannel and washed his face, rinsing off the sticky remnants of wine. Then he took his time wiping his neck and arms and chest. He noticed the cut on his arm was healing well, and his head no longer pounded from its encounter with the peat bucket. At least her assault with the claret had injured nothing but his pride.
Callum dropped the flannel back in the bowl and released the black velvet ribbon tying back his hair. He picked up the jug and leaned forward. He poured the rest of the water over his hair, rubbing with his other hand to rinse away the last of the wine.
"Mackinnon?" she asked as the silence extended.
With unhurried movements, he picked up a linen towel from the pile on the washstand and dried his skin and hair. When he turned at last to the girl, she watched him with a strange, intent expression. She looked wary but curious. Her immediate fear had receded, he saw.
He ran his hands through his hair to push it back from his face and gestured to her. "Sit down, mistress."
She glanced around the room. He saw her consider sitting on the bed then dismiss the idea. Instead, she retreated to a high-backed tapestry chair near the unlit fire. Only as she lowered herself into it did he realize that she’d accepted a request without argument.
A first time for everything, he thought with a shock.
He left the crumpled linen towel hanging from the stand and crossed to a mahogany press. He opened a drawer to retrieve a clean shirt that he slipped over his head. He didn't bother with a coat or neck cloth.
Callum turned to face his prisoner. She needed to recognize the risks she ran if she continued on this mutinous path. "I brought ye up here like that so my people think I'm teaching you a lesson on how to behave."
Her features tightened. "A lesson in that bed?"
"Aye."
“My reputation will be in shreds."
He shrugged again and crossed to sink into the matching chair on the other side of a carved oak table. "We willnae be the only couple in the glen to anticipate their wedding vows."
She made a sound of disgust, and her expression indicated her disdain for that statement. "I'm no’ some ambitious crofter’s daughter who fancies ye as a husband, Mackinnon. Ye speak lightly of something dark and cruel. I'd rather ye chained me in your dungeons than hold me here in your chamber with all the world convinced that we’re lovers."
A pang of compassion banished the last of his anger. "It's too late, lassie. As far as my people believe, your virginity is gone."
She paled and scowled at him. "My father will hear of this."
"Aye, most likely." Perhaps his strutting downstairs would have some benefit. To restore his daughter’s honor, the old man might agree to the marriage.
"I'd still rather ye locked me in a cell. You keep pretending this is some civilized wooing, yet in reality ye may as well beat and starve me. Everything ye do is to achieve your will."
"I dinnae want to give ye cause to hate me."
She gave a dismissive snort. "Too late for that, my fine laddie."
He ignored that. "Anyway there are nae dungeons at Achnasheen. When I became laird, I turned them into wine cellars."
"What a shame. Dungeons come in so handy when you've got kidnapped maidens to terrify."
"Ye dinnae seem too terrified to me, lassie. It might be better for ye if you were."
"I'm no’ a fool. Of course I'm terrified."
"Ye must ken by now I'm no’ going to harm you." He sent her a sharp look. "Despite provocation."
"No’ physically anyway."
Another shock. Had she just expressed a shred of trust in him? Grudging. Partial. But the first sign that she viewed him as more than a ravening monster intent on her destruction.
"It's the provocation I want to talk about."
"You've manhandled me since ye took me from Bruard," she retorted. "You've tied me up and coerced me and removed me from everything familiar. A glass of wine in the face is the least ye deserve from me."
Not to mention a knife cut and a blow to the head. She seemed to have forgotten her previous attacks. "Perhaps."
"Especially when ye made those unfounded claims about our wedding."
That wasn't the argument he wanted to have now. "You're a laird's daughter and a canny lassie besides that. Ye know what you did was a direct challenge to my authority. If my people dinnae believe I can control one wee lassie, they willnae believe I can lead and nurture and protect them. A laird rules through respect alone. Or at least I do."
"So it's my fault ye hauled me out of that crowd like a sack of potatoes so everyone thinks you're giving me a good dose of discipline in your private chambers?"
Her sarcasm made him wince. "Aye."
"I suppose it's my fault ye kidnapped me at all." The sweetness in her tone dripped poison.
"If ye challenge me directly, you willnae win. You didnae win tonight. You'll pay the price if ye do anything like that again."
"The world will call me your doxy. I'd say I've already paid for my temerity in facing down a great bully of a Mackinnon."
"Open defiance has consequences."
She stood up and wrapped her arms around herself as though she was cold. "You've made your point. Leave me."
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Despite the serious issues they still needed to resolve, he hid a smile. That was a pestilential lordly dismissal from a woman who claimed powerlessness.
"Och, no, lassie. That’s no’ how we’ll play this. I willnae bed ye until we’re wed, but as reward for your recklessness, you've got my company all night."
Chapter 9
"But ye cannae…" Mhairi staggered back on legs that felt like they were made of string. "Ye said…"
A whole night trapped in the same room as the Mackinnon? The idea was unthinkable. How long would his chivalry hold out against the desire she smelled on his skin every time he came near her?
She gulped for air as the room receded around her. A strong arm curled around her waist to save her from crumpling to the floor.
"I swore I willnae hurt ye, and I mean it," he said urgently. "But my people have to believe I spent the night at your side."
She looked up into deep brown eyes that on occasion she’d been fool enough to think of as kind. They didn’t look kind now. "No."
"Aye."
A knock cut through the rising tension. Frowning, the Mackinnon released Mhairi and crossed to open the door. Jean stood outside carrying a tray laden with food.
"Mackinnon, you’re both missing dinner. I thought you'd be hungry."
"Jean, I didnae expect to be interrupted." Irritation gave his voice a gravelly quality that had a strange effect on Mhairi’s pulse. "I have business with the lassie."
The woman cast him an unimpressed glance. She ignored the lack of welcome and moved past to place the tray on the table. "Och, Mackinnon, I've known ye since you were a wean. Those thickheaded loons downstairs might imagine you're up here swiving the Drummond lass into next year. But you're a man of principle. Ye wouldnae do that to an unwilling woman. Especially when ye intend to marry her with every honor."
Mhairi swallowed her astonishment. The fact that the woman was right made her remarks even more surprising. She hadn't been at Achnasheen long enough to pay much attention to anyone other than the Mackinnon. Now she recalled that Jean was kinder than the two younger girls who served her. At least, the older woman hadn't pinched her.
The Highlander's Defiant Captive Page 7