The Highlander's Defiant Captive (The Lairds Most Likely 4)

"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.