His mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. The man’s effortless self-assurance made her want to jab her knife into one of those brilliant eyes. "In that case, a Drummond heiress is a prize indeed."
She kept the small knife raised. "I'm nae heiress, Mackinnon. You're mistaken."
"No, I dinnae think I am." He withdrew his hand and folded his arms over the fine white shirt that covered his brawny chest. "You're Bonny Mhairi Drummond, all right."
"I'm Polly, I tell ye."
He shook his head. "It’s nae use lying. Only one lassie fits the description. Hair red as a rowanberry, a face like a flower, eyes as blue as a periwinkle in spring. Aye, you're the Drummond's precious wee bairn. Nae doubt about it."
She’d been afraid since she first caught sight of the riders hurtling across the meadow. The fear that jolted her now reached beyond her dread of violation, powerful as that was. He spoke as if he’d come with a plan, and that plan was focused on her. If that was the case, there would be no talking her way out of this.
Mhairi sucked in a jagged breath and made herself look at him properly. So far, she’d mostly been aware of his height and muscled power, because they represented the immediate threat.
Now, her eyes took in every detail of this man who had come to steal her. She bit back a gasp of dismay. If there was any justice, the Mackinnon laird should look filthy and hulking and contemptible. But he was a handsome man with glittering dark eyes and features as finely sculpted as the stone angels in the chapel at Bruard Castle. Even the long black hair he’d tied away from his face was clean.
The devil always comes with a pretty face, she reminded herself. He was no angel, this bastard.
"Nothing to say?"
"I'm no’ Mhairi Drummond," she insisted.
His expression turned cynical. "I hear ye, lassie. It matters naught. Whoever the hell ye are, you're coming back to Achnasheen."
She wished her knife was a claymore big enough to strike that spectacular head from those broad shoulders. "I'll kill ye first."
Another arch of those marked black brows conveyed contempt for her bravado. "That knitting needle you're waving about wouldnae frighten a duckling, lassie. Be sensible. You're trapped. There's nowhere to go. If ye come quietly, I willnae tie you up."
"I'd like to see ye try," she snapped.
He sighed. "You're no’ going to be sensible, are ye? I should expect nothing else from a Drummond."
"Better a Drummond than a vile, robbing, lying Mackinnon," she retorted, even as she wondered whether rudeness was the best strategy. So far, he hadn’t tried to hurt her, although she’d hurt him. Blood from the cut on his arm turned the side of his white shirt scarlet.
"Nae need to get personal," he said mildly.
Since he’d arrived, she’d suffered a mixture of fear and fury. Right now, fury rose paramount. He had the unmitigated gall to laugh at her, the arrogant swine.
Her temper spiked. She launched herself at him, in a frenzy to wipe the knowing smile off his face. She harbored no hope of winning against him, but the prospect of doing him harm was all she cared about. Consequences could wait.
She brought the knife up hard and fast. A wound to the belly killed a man with more certainty than if she tried to find his heart.
"Oho!" His laugh made her teeth clench. "None of that now."
Mhairi waited to feel her blade slice into flesh, but he caught her wrist and twisted it until the knife dropped to the ground. She gasped with pain, although he stopped the minute she released her weapon. With the same humiliating ease, he turned her so she had her back to him. He curled his arms around her and pressed her hard into his body.
"Let me go," she demanded, tears of frustration pricking her eyes.
She’d learned how to attack a man, she’d practiced with her father's best warriors. This Mackinnon lout shouldn’t find it so easy to disarm her.
He tightened his hold on her writhing body. "No’ on my life."
She tried to kick him, but trapped in this position, her efforts were wasted. She struggled until she sagged in his hold, loathing that she was a weak, vulnerable woman and not the man who could teach this cur the lesson he deserved.
"Had enough?" He still sounded revoltingly composed.
"Just kill me now," she said in a dull voice.
His soft laugh made his chest shift behind her back. She wanted him to stink of evil and stale sweat. When she gulped in enough air to fill her empty lungs, all she smelled was clean, healthy male and the fragrant herbs used for washing his shirt.