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

Studying her implacable features, he admitted that neither of those things was likely to happen anytime soon. Meanwhile, this situation had gone on long enough.

Still moving slowly and easily, he tugged on her wrist. She offered brief resistance before all the fight drained out of her. He released her and watched as the hand holding the knife dropped to her side.

"I hate ye," she said with a despair he loathed to hear. "How is it that I couldnae kill ye?"

"It's difficult to kill someone in cold blood, lassie."

"Even someone who deserves it?"

He winced. "Aye, even someone who deserves it." He raised his fingers to the tiny cut on his neck. They came away wet. "You shouldn’t feel too defeated. Ye spilled my blood."

"No’ enough of it," she muttered.

"Aye, well, perhaps you'll have another chance before you're done." He held out his hand, palm open. "My knife?"

"I'd rather keep it."

A wry smile twisted his lips. "I'm sure. But if I let ye develop a head of steam, next time you might find the nerve to use it."

Callum watched her eyes narrow and wondered if he teased her a step too far. He didn't want to take the chance. Swiftly he uncoiled from his seemingly casual position on the floor and reached out to seize the knife. His hand closed hard on her wrist. "Give it back to me."

Eyes flaring with anger, Mhairi glared back at him. "Or what? You'll break my wrist?"

"I dinnae need to break your wrist, lassie." He caught her around the waist with his free arm and spun her around until her back pressed against his chest. He made sure he held down her arms. He was well aware that if he gave her the chance and suitable provocation, she'd turn the knife on him after all.

Through hours of riding, her evocative scent had tormented him. Now he swore he could find her in a crowd of a hundred, even if he was blindfolded. After a bath, the perfume of soap and herbs overlaid her essence, but he closed his eyes and sucked in a great breath of Mhairi Drummond.

"Let me go."

"When ye drop the knife." She was stiff and reluctant in his grasp, but her vibrating hostility didn’t stop him appreciating her graceful curves or the lush backside that curved into his thighs. With a deep sound of appreciation, he rubbed his face against hers.

"Stop it."

"Och, I’m just getting started." He tightened his grip on her waist. "I’m happy to stay here all night, mistress. What red-blooded laddie needs supper when he’s got his arms wrapped around a delicious girl?"

"Blast ye," she muttered. He felt her arm move, and she let the knife fall to the ground. As it thudded onto the carpet, she slumped against him.

To his mind, she gave in too easily. Although to her, his embrace must feel like it lasted a thousand years.

He had a long way to go to win Bonny Mhairi Drummond. She’d already scarred him. Twice. And nearly knocked him out with a bucket. The good Lord alone knew what state he'd be in by the time the battle was over.

"Ye can let me go now." Her voice was as sharp as a honed sword.

"Och, lassie," he whispered into her neck. "You're spoiling my fun."

"The sort of fun boys have pulling the wings off flies," she said flatly.

Now she was disarmed, he whirled her around to face him. She looked pale and resolute, like a martyr going to the stake for some great cause. "Mhairi…"

"Mistress Drummond."

"You’re Mhairi to me. Lovely, bonny, sweet Mhairi. The woman I mean to take to my hearth and my heart, my wife, my sweetheart, my destiny."

"You're insane." She surveyed him as if he belonged in some particularly nasty bog. "I'm none of those things."

"Aye, ye are." Callum saw her start to argue and spoke quickly to cut off the insults he knew were coming. "At least ye will be."

She shook her head. "Quite insane."