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

Well, let them laugh. She was strong, she could bear anything.

"Whether ye want my admiration or no’, mistress, you have it." He stepped back and bowed again, a picture of overweening self-confidence.

"My father will roast your ballocks in his campfires before he's done." Loathing vibrated in her voice.

"Aye, well, that might happen one day, but it willnae happen today." His voice softened. If she didn’t know better, she'd almost wonder if he understood that her insolence formed a wafer-thin shell over a chasm of sick terror. "Come, lassie."

She knew there was no use to it and her only dignified response was silent resistance, but at the last minute, she couldn't help recoiling from his hand. Impatience tautened his lips. With a muttered imprecation, he caught her up against his chest. He strode toward the stone stairs leading up to a huge double door open wide to receive them.

"Put me down, ye toad," she demanded, squirming in his hold as her heart raced with fear.

He ignored her wriggling. "Your dungeon awaits, mistress."

How she wished she had her dagger. She’d slice the self-satisfaction off that handsome face. Then let him see if he was so ready to laugh at her.

But as he carried her through the crowd, receiving praise and congratulations on bringing the Drummond heiress back to his lair, Mhairi couldn't help recognizing how small and powerless she was. Sharp words and a recalcitrant heart weren't enough to protect her from aggressive male power.

She kept her expression impassive as he swept through a cavernous great hall hung with banners and weapons, then up another stone staircase. That puzzled her. Most dungeons were in the cellars.

They kept climbing. Soon she realized that they must be in one of the towers. He kicked open the door and stepped into an airy room overlooking the sea, with the Cuillins on Skye in the distance.

He set her on her feet in the middle of a red and blue carpet and stepped back to shut the door. "Your dungeon, mistress."

With dazed eyes, Mhairi took in the luxurious surroundings. Her father was a rich man, but nothing at Bruard could compare with this. Glass in the windows. Colorful tapestries on the walls. The subtle glint of gold and silver. Fine mahogany furniture.

The opulence gave her no comfort. Instead she struggled to contain her burgeoning panic by drawing herself up to her full height and glaring at the Mackinnon.

Because amongst all that fine furniture, the finest piece of all was a huge four-poster bed that dominated the room.

She shouldn't be surprised. After all, the end was ordained since this villain had snatched her from the meadow above Bruard. But as the hours went on, she'd allowed herself to cherish a faint hope that when he told her she was safe, he meant it.

Stupid, stupid girl. All Mackinnons were liars. Hadn't she learned that at her father's knee?

"So ye mean to rape me?" She despised how, despite all her efforts, her voice cracked with fear.

Those enigmatic dark eyes settled on her. Images of hard hands seizing her and tossing her on the bed behind them flooded her mind. Then he'd come down over her and…

He shook his head with what looked like amusement and crossed to a sideboard where an embossed gilt jug waited with two Venetian glasses. These trappings of civilization did nothing to hide the ugliness to come.

"Och, lassie, ye misunderstand me. I told ye you’re safe." He poured two glasses of wine and held one out in her direction. "I'm not planning to force you."

What he said left her bewildered. There was every reason not to believe him, but strangely she did.

"So just what do ye want of me, Mackinnon?"

A faint smile curved his lips. "Why, I want to marry ye, Mistress Drummond."

Chapter 5

Callum watched shock flood her delicate features. Shock and immediate repudiation.

"Marry me?" Bonny Mhairi Drummond made his proposal sound like it was worse than getting the plague. "What the devil lunacy is this?"

He kept his voice even. "Have some wine."

She turned away without accepting. "You’ll need my consent to any marriage."

"Aye." He lowered his hand.