High stone walls rose on three sides of her. Mhairi retreated a step, then halted to face her pursuer. She squared her shoulders and planted her feet firm on the ground.
Daring him to approach her, she brought her dagger up. Even with nowhere else to run, she refused to cower before a filthy Mackinnon.
"Ye willnae touch me, Black Callum," she spat.
She was delighted to see that a bright red stain spread down his slashed white sleeve. If only she’d managed to cut his throat and not his arm.
"Aye, that I will." He paused and spoke in an assessing tone. "Ye ken who I am."
"Aye." Her chest heaved as she battled to steady her breath. When those clever dark eyes dropped to her gaping white blouse under its loose drawstring, the blood in her veins turned to ice.
They called him Black Callum or Callum Dubh for that thick mane of long hair, black as a crow’s wing. But looking at him, she couldn’t help thinking that perhaps he was called Black Callum because of the sins staining his soul.
"That’s braw. Because I ken who ye are, too, Bonny Mhairi Drummond."
She straightened her spine, so angry with herself for letting him trap her that she almost forgot this encounter’s likely outcome. All was not lost yet. In her humble linen blouse and faded plaid skirt, she wasn’t dressed like the chieftain’s daughter.
"Och, you’re mad," she said with a fair attempt at careless scorn. "Mhairi Drummond wouldnae be seen dead in these rags. I’m a serving girl at the castle."
One black eye brow tilted in enquiry. Skeptical enquiry, God rot his black Mackinnon soul. "Is that so?"
"Aye. My name is Polly."
"Polly…"
"Aye. So there’s nae point expecting a ransom."
"I’m no’ after a ransom," he said with a hint of grimness.
Nausea rose to block Mhairi’s throat, and she barely stopped herself from faltering back. Mhairi or Polly, what did it matter if he wanted to vent his lust on her? If he took her as a hostage, at least he had an interest in returning her unharmed to her father.
The intent gaze narrowed in on her face as he loomed closer. "Ye won’t prick me again, by heaven."
"Prick ye?" Cursing her sweaty palms, she tightened her grip on the small dagger. "I’ll carve out your liver before I let ye touch me."
The glint in his eyes did nothing to reassure her. He held out a hand marked red with his blood. She’d struck hard, if wildly, when he reached down from his horse. "That’s rare insolence from a serving wench."
Mhairi struggled to steady her voice. She wouldn’t cringe and beg. And he’d have to fight to take her.
"A Drummond serving wench trumps a Mackinnon any day, even one who likes to think he’s the cock of the walk."
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 im
mediate 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.