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."