She waited for him to say something superior. But he merely untied the saddlebag and brought it across to her.
"More than a mouthful or the deal is off," he said calmly, sitting beside her and passing her an oatcake. He cut a slice of rich yellow cheese from the block and gave her that as well.
Hesitantly she took a bite. Then another. Within seconds, the oatcake was gone. Again she braced for some triumphant remark, but he merely passed her more food. Four oatcakes and two apples disappeared in short order, and she even accepted the last of the ale. It washed her meal down in a most satisfactory manner.
"Better?" he asked.
She wanted to tell him no, but the awful truth was that she did feel better. Her head was clearer, and she even found the strength to tell herself that she’d get out of this. So far, her foe had been lucky. But nobody was lucky all the time. Her chance would come.
"Aye." Then grudgingly, "Thank ye."
He bent his glossy dark head in acknowledgment and rose to return to the horse. Mhairi noticed a horn comb and a small mirror placed on the tussock beside her.
"Take your time. We’re in no rush. We’re only an hour from home."
Home? That was too much to take. Her home was miles to the east, and if she wasn't strong and determined, she'd never see it again.
With shaking hands, she untied her tangled plait and combed it out. She had no idea why her captor cared what impression she made when she entered her prison. But she meant to do her best to prove that while he might have caught Mhairi Drummond, he was a long way from defeating her.
Chapter 4
It galled Mhairi's pride to accept favors from her foe, but when they rode into the courtyard at Achnasheen Castle, she was grateful she didn't look a complete ragamuffin. She held her chin up as they emerged from the shad
ow of the portcullis into the sunlight, and she sat straight and as far away from the Mackinnon as she could. To her regret, given they shared a horse, that wasn't far. But she knew he understood the message she conveyed to him and his vile clan.
That vile clan had come out in force to welcome the laird and his captive. The large enclosed space teemed with people. When the Mackinnon appeared, there was a ragged cheer and a hundred curious eyes fastened on Mhairi.
As a man in an eyepatch came forward to take the horse's rein, Mhairi looked around for Flossie. Heaven knew the tortures her maid had undergone. Flossie was her friend as well as her servant, and she felt sick to think of what she might have endured. Not quite as sick as she felt when she contemplated her own fate. She wasn't a saint, and right now her terror was mostly selfish.
So far, her captor had been concerned with evading pursuit, too busy moving on to devote his attention to tormenting her. Once he was safely behind stout castle walls, who knew what he planned for his enemy's daughter? She struggled to mask her dread as she faced down the Mackinnons, but fear tasted acrid in her mouth and her stomach went back to heaving like a rough sea.
"Mackinnon, when ye took so long, we feared you'd been caught," the one-eyed man said.
"There was nae trouble. I didnae want to push the lassie past her strength." He dismounted and reached up to lift Mhairi down. His hands were firm and commanding, not rough.
"Och, you’re bleeding!" an older woman said.
The Mackinnon cast a dismissive glance down at his stained shirt. "The wee cat stuck her claws into me, Jean. It’s naught to fash yourself about. She’ll be purring soon enough."
When his remark sparked laughter, Mhairi cringed. He treated her desperate attempt to wound him as little more than a child’s tantrum. She glanced around the crowd, seeking a sign that someone pitied her plight, might even help her to escape. But the faces were all bright with admiration and interest. Not even the women of this pestilential race spared any sympathy for the Mackinnon's prisoner.
What did she expect? She was a Drummond. On Mackinnon lands, Drummonds were universally hated.
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.