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

Heaven help her, did that mean she was considering accepting him?

There was the matter of a kidnapping between them, not to mention her father’s undying loathing for anyone called Mackinnon. But did she still loathe her captor?

No, she didn’t.

Mhairi wasn't yet ready to concede defeat, but dear Lord, staring at him like this, she couldn't help wondering how it would feel if he kissed her.

When they'd talked on the landing on the way down to dinner, she'd wondered if he'd try to kiss her. The idea hadn’t aroused any distaste. Instead anticipation had made her pulse race and her skin flush.

This feeling betrayed everything she'd been brought up to believe, betrayed all the dead Drummonds over the centuries. But she was alive and here and burning up with curiosity to know how it would feel if Callum took her into his arms.

"Are ye plotting mayhem, my lady?" He turned in her direction.

She realized he'd always been aware of her scrutiny. Of course he was. From the first, a bristling physical awareness had linked them. She'd attributed it to the strength of her hatred. Now she wasn't so sure.

At this precise moment, she wasn't sure of anything.

When heat flooded her cheeks, she knew he wouldn't miss the blush. "Of course," she said, curling her hand around the goblet of wine to hide its shaking.

The maids were clearing away the meal. She hadn't seen Sheena all night. Most likely the girl was immersed to her elbows in a tub of soapy water in the kitchens. She'd be cursing Mhairi's name. After this feast, there would be a lot of washing up.

As his attention dropped to her goblet, Callum tilted an eyebrow. "Och, if you’re planning on giving me another dousing, dinnae waste the good claret. Let me get ye a cheaper vintage."

To her surprise, her lips twitched and she nearly laughed. Only last night, upending her wine over him had felt like a matter of life and death. "Mackinnon, you're worth fine French wine. Throwing anything less at ye would be an insult."

He regarded her with astonishment and broke into a laugh that was warm with appreciation.

Mhairi looked past him to find her cousin regarding her in horror, his own wine poised halfway to his lips. Her blush turned into a painful flush of shame. What on earth was she doing, flirting with her clan's enemy? The man who had stolen her and humiliated her?

She cringed as John's lips tightened with disapproval. He replaced his goblet on the table without drinking. It was as if he suddenly found the wine sour.

Mhairi’s troubled thoughts occupied her to the exclusion of what went on around her. A burst of discordant music startled her out of bitter self-recrimination. A band of musicians tuned up at the far end of the room. She was surprised to notice that the trestles had been cleared away from the center of the room while she’d been stewing on her disturbing and unwelcome penchant for a kidnapping rogue.

The rogue rose, looking spectacularly handsome in his formal clothing, and extended his hand. "My lady, shall we lead the dancing?"

She tore her gaze away from John and focused on her host. "Aye, sir."

With difficulty, she ignored her cousin’s outraged glare and placed her hand in the Mackinnon's. Once the warmth in his touch had been an unspoken threat of what he meant to do to her under cover of darkness. Now his touch promised pleasure, if she could summon the courage to reach out and claim it.

Mhairi expected the musicians to break into some wild reel, but they played the introduction to a stately gavotte. Black Callum saw her surprise and smiled. He'd smiled at her a lot today. Plague take him, she wished he wouldn't. She had enough trouble resisting him as it was, and these smiles were charming. They felt like an invitation to join him in a conspiracy against the rest of the world.

It was a devilish appealing thought. And not one that helped her to make sensible decisions about what she did next.

Except what she did next, at least this evening, was clear. She was about to dance with every appearance of pleasure with the man she’d wanted to kill only yesterday.

Mhairi dipped into a curtsy as he bowed, then fell into the steps. She waited for other couples to join the line, but she and Callum remained alone as they dipped and parted and met in the graceful pattern of movement.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her cousin frowning down at her, before she became enmeshed in the Mackinnon’s unwavering gaze. His eyes seemed to make the same pledge of eternal allegiance he'd given her this afternoon. Her traitorous heart forgot it pumped Drummond blood and began to swoop and dive with a giddy excitement at odds with the music’s sweet formality.

"You're making an exhibition of me," she murmured, as they turned together, their hands still linked.

The Mackinnon’s grip conveyed strength and possession. She wondered why that didn't make her angry. It would have yesterday.

"Aye, lassie, you're well worth looking at."

"You're making a point to my cousin."

Each time the graceful steps brought their hands together, her heart performed another skip and heat rippled up her arm. It was annoying but uncontrollable. This truce with her captor created pitfalls she’d never expected.