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

Her eyes narrowed on him. "That's never going to happen. Now, get up. I've had enough of your dubious hospitality."

He didn't shift. She raised the knife until it glinted in the candlelight. "Did ye hear me?"

"Aye. The jangling in my ears has subsided enough for my wits to return to perfect working order. Before I left ye to make your mischief, I should have checked the room for possible weapons. That was remiss of me."

Disdain flattened her lush pink mouth. "Ye probably thought I was so cowed and terrified that I’d offer no resistance to your depraved plans."

"I like it better that you're no’ cowed and terrified."

She frowned. "Even though it means I'm about to escape?"

He shrugged. "Last time I looked, ye were still trapped in my bedroom."

"No’ for long," she said, although he could see she didn't appreciate learning that this chamber belonged to him. "I said get up, plague take ye."

"Make me."

He hoped to blazes he wasn't committing a terrible error. After all, she'd used a knife on him before. But that had been in the heat of the moment. It was much more difficult to summon the will to stab someone who offered no immediate threat.

Unless she loathed him so much that she was ready to kill him at the first opportunity.

Callum shot her an assessing look. Not even the most optimistic laddie would discern a trace of liking in that delicate, determined face. Perhaps his instincts were wrong. After all, she'd been ready enough to cosh him with the bucket.

"I've got the knife," she said in frustration. "I'll use it if ye dinnae take me downstairs and put me on a horse."

His head tilted back against the door. "Go ahead."

He saw his lack of response left her flummoxed. "Do ye want me to hurt you?"

Callum smiled again. "Och, lassie, dinnae be daft."

The smile was a mistake. She raised the knife in a threatening gesture and stepped closer. "Dinnae mock me, Mackinnon."

His voice firmed. "Put down the knife, Mistress Drummond. We both know you're no’ going to use it."

"I'll kill ye." No mistaking her hatred or her frustration with him.

He shrugged. "Ye can try."

"A pox on you, ye arrogant bastard." She leaned down to press the blade to his neck. He kept still under the point on his skin.

"If ye kill me, you willnae get five feet outside this room." His voice was calm. Ignoring the scrape of the blade over his skin, he turned his head to meet her blue eyes. "Is that what ye want?"

"It might be worth it," she said grimly.

This close, he made out the rim of navy blue around her irises and each individual dark red eyelash. She really was astonishingly beautiful. No wonder the Highlands rang with her praises. No wonder her father doted on her, the child of his old age and the only surviving bairn from three marriages. Mhairi might be the last of the Drummonds, but the final bloom on that thorny tree was a rose indeed.

"Put the knife down, Mhairi. You’re no’ going to cut my throat."

She didn't obey. Her courage made his heart rise.

Her lips flattened, and the blade pricked him as she adjusted her grip. "Damn ye, Mackinnon, fight back."

He lifted his hand to catch her wrist in a gentle hold. "Put it down, and I'll take ye down to dinner."

"Curse ye…" she muttered again and pressed harder on the knife. He felt a sting and the hot trickle of blood. A pox on it, if she was determined to cut him, he’d have to change his shirt again.

Callum stared into her beautiful eyes and waited for her to attack or withdraw. He was a trained fighting man. If he had to, he could disarm her in a second. But he didn't want to hurt her. He wanted to wrestle with her, but in passion not hatred. And he wanted her to acknowledge that they were made for each other.