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

Jean carried the nightdress across to the bed and laid it out. It was exquisite, fine as a cobweb, and embroidered with trailing spring flowers, bluebells, violets and buttercups. At home, Mhairi didn't own anything half so pretty.

"I cannae wear that tonight." She glowered at the garment as if it was soaked in poison. "It's for a bride."

She waited for Jean to tell her that a bride she'd be, no

matter how she strained and wriggled like a salmon caught on a line. The woman didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

"Let me help ye undress."

Mhairi turned her back. "Aye. Thank ye."

The elaborate gown fastened down the back, and she hadn't a hope of getting out of it alone, or out of the stays under it. It was a dress fit for court, or for the bride who wore that pretty nightdress.

Jean’s fingers were deft on the lacing. "It caused a braw fuss in the keep when Callum Dubh said he'd marry the Drummond lass and no one else. After he broke the news, ye could hear half the female hearts at Achnasheen crack into pieces."

Mhairi could imagine. She didn't want to marry him, but without the small matter of a kidnapping between them, she might even admit Black Callum was quite the catch. "Are ye trying to convince me of my good fortune?"

The sarcastic question made Jean laugh. "I'm just saying, my lady, there’s always more than one way of looking at a situation. Sometimes it's better to be the reed that bends with the wind and endures, instead of the oak tree that stands firm and breaks against the gale."

"I'm no’ going to wed a man who keeps me prisoner and bullies me into taking him."

Jean lifted the heavy gown over her head. "Och, you're almost as stubborn as the Mackinnon."

Mhairi hid a shiver at that "almost," partly because she suspected it was true. As if to confirm her foreboding, Jean went on as she crossed to pack the gown away in the chest. "He's always been a gentle lad, no’ one to fight when compromise can gain his ends. But I've never seen him fail to get something he really wants. He wants an end to the feud." The woman came back and began to unlace the stays. "And more than that, he wants ye."

"I'm a means to an end." She hated the hint of pique in her voice. Good heavens, what was the matter with her? She didn't want the Mackinnon setting his interest on her as a woman, not just a token in his political games.

Except she’d already attracted his interest. When he looked at her, his eyes were bright with the pride of possession, however far he remained from gaining her hand in marriage. In those brilliant dark eyes, she saw more than pride. The glitter there told her that he suffered the yen a lad felt to bed a fair maid who took his fancy.

God help her, she was doomed.

Mhairi glanced at the big bed then away. Fear stuck its talons deep into her vitals. In the pit of her stomach, the meal she'd eaten congealed into a cold, indigestible lump.

"Aye, you're that." Jean set the stays aside, leaving Mhairi wearing only her petticoats and long-sleeved white shift. "But you're also a bonny lassie with a wild spirit. That calls to the lad."

She made a despairing gesture. "I dinnae want to hear this."

Jean’s look held a hint of compassion. "Ye can fight him all you like, but he'll win. And he'll make you think you've won, too. I’ve known him all his life. His father was the same. Quiet determination and immovable will achieve his ends better than bluster and temper ever could."

"Stop it." Mhairi raised her hands to her ears to keep out the relentless truth.

Because she dreaded that it was the truth. Hadn't she sworn she'd take nothing from the Mackinnon’s hands? Yet here she was in his bedchamber, wearing fine clothes that were his gift and eating from his kitchens. Even when she escaped him, he'd just outwaited her. Hadn't she tried to break his endless good humor with her insubordination, to make him retaliate and prove himself a barbarian? And all she'd met was more of that endless tolerance.

She felt like a wave beating itself to froth against a high cliff. For the first time, she wondered if Callum Mackinnon might actually win this battle. She was strong and determined, but it was possible he was stronger still.

No, she wouldn't countenance the idea. She was a Drummond, and Drummonds weren’t cowards. She straightened and sent Jean a haughty look. "Leave me."

As she curtsied, the woman's eyes were understanding. "I'll give ye a few minutes privacy, my lady. I want to talk to the Mackinnon."

"Will ye ask him to let me go?" This woman had influence over the laird. His respect for her had been clear.

When had she started to learn to read him?

It didn't mean anything, she assured herself. It was natural for a captive creature to pay close attention to the jailer.

Jean smiled with more of that damned compassion, as though Mhairi had no chance of prevailing. "No, lassie, that I will no’. I lost a son to the Drummonds. I want nae other mother to go through what I did. Drummond or Mackinnon. If marrying ye means nae more laddies brought back to the keep to bury, I want him to marry ye. The sooner the better."

Jean’s words wrenched Mhairi out of her self-centered musings. "I'm so sorry. Ye must hate me."