The Highlander's Defiant Captive

  The Highlander’s Defiant Captive: The Lairds Most Likely Book Four

  By

  Anna Campbell

  Copyright © 2019 by Anna Campbell

  annacampbell.com

  ISBN 978-1925980905

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Anna Campbell.

  Cover art by Hang Le

  E-book Formatting by Web Crafters

  www.webcraftersdesign.com

  Dedication:

  To my dear friend Vanessa Barneveld

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Highlander's Lost Lady

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The Western Highlands, June, 1699

  "Aye, she's there, all right, just as Brian said she would be." Callum Mackinnon, Laird of Achnasheen, closed the pocket spyglass with a snap that expressed his satisfaction. His man inside the Drummond household had served him well.

  "Shall we go down and snatch her?" his companion, One-Eyed Duff, whispered from where he crouched beside him.

  "Aye, ye take the maid and leave the Drummond lassie to me. Once you've got the other girl, head for home. Dinna wait for me."

  "Och, man, are ye up to the task? Ye might need some help with yon braw lassie."

  The sly joke summoned a grunt of laughter from Callum. She was a mere slip of a thing, the redheaded girl who wandered through the sunny meadow below the bracken where they skulked. By God, she looked like a stiff Highland breeze could blow her away. He wasn't expecting any trouble, apart perhaps from the odd scream. Not even that, with a bit of luck. At the first sight of the big, bad Mackinnon laird bearing down on her, she’d likely swoon away. All he’d need to do was toss her over his saddle and carry her away.

  "Och, she’s a terrifying sight, laddie, but I reckon I can handle her."

  "Keep your wits about ye, Mackinnon." This time, Duff’s voice held no amusement. "The lass might be wee, but she’s a Drummond for a’ that. They’re a gey sneaky breed. Even when they're small and bonny."

  Below them, his quarry crossed to kneel beside the burn running through the meadow. The maid had settled under a tree to watch her charge. The girls’ ponies were tethered under a tree at the far end of the field. He and Duff wouldn't have a better opportunity.

  "Let's go," Callum said.

  ***

  The drumming of horses barreling down the steep hillside made Mhairi raise her head. Two riders crashed through the bracken covering the brae. Even at this distance, she made out the red and black Mackinnon plaid.

  Dear Lord above, what mischief was this? She scrambled to her feet, crying out to Flossie, her maid, and broke into a stumbling dash toward her horse.

  "Flossie, run!" she shouted breathlessly, picking up her skirts as she flew across the green summer grass.

  But a broken scream from under the trees behind her told her she wasted her warning to Flossie. Mhairi couldn’t help turning her head. What she saw made her stomach clench into a fist of terror.

  The riders had split up. One already wrestled with Flossie, pulling the shrieking girl across the front of his saddle. Too late for Flossie, but not for her. Mhairi faced forward and ran on. Her speed increased until her breath sawed out in painful gasps. If she reached her mount, she might still get away.

  A few yards short, a huge gray horse skidded in front of her to block her way. Even as she knew she'd never outrun a mounted man, she veered to the left. While she ran, she fumbled in her pocket.

  She sobbed for breath, and there was a painful stitch in her side, but she kept running. The rider carrying Flossie had galloped away. Her maid’s screams faded over the distance. The beat of hooves pursuing her set up a horrid counterpoint to her frantic heartbeat.

  When a strong hand slammed down to grab her shoulder, she responded as she'd been taught.

  "A pox on ye!"

  The man’s furious curse echoed in her ears. She kept running, slipping and stumbling on the thick grass as her strength failed. The gray horse passed her and drew to another juddering stop. She flung herself to the side as the man leaped to the ground and advanced.

  Only then did she realize her mistake. He’d chased her the way a cowherd chased a runaway heifer, into a corner she couldn't get out of. She been too frightened to see his strategy. Fool, fool, fool.

  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 immediate 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.

  The devil always comes with a pretty face, she reminded herself. He was no angel, this bastard.

  "Nothing to say?"

  "I'm no’ Mhairi Drummond," she insisted.

  His expression turned cynical. "I hear ye, lassie. It matters naught. Whoever the hell ye are, you're coming back to Achnasheen."

  She wished her knife was a claymore big enough to strike that spectacular head from those broad shoulders. "I'll kill ye first."

  Another arch of those marked black brows conveyed contempt for her bravado. "That knitting needle you're waving about wouldnae frighten a duckling, lassie. Be sensible. You're trapped. There's nowhere to go. If ye come quietly, I willnae tie you up."

  "I'd like to see ye try," she snapped.

  He sighed. "You're no’ going to be sensible, are ye? I should expect nothing else from a Drummond."

  "Better a Drummond than a vile, robbing, lying Mackinnon," she retorted, even as she wondered whether rudeness was the best strategy. So far, he hadn’t tried to hurt her, although she’d hurt him. Blood from the cut on his arm turned the side of his white shirt scarlet.

  "Nae need to get personal," he said mildly.

  Since he’d arrived, she’d suffered a mixture of fear and fury. Right now, fury rose paramount. He had the unmitigated gall to laugh at her, the arrogant swine.

  Her temper spiked. She launched herself at him, in a frenzy to wipe the knowing smile off his face. She harbored no hope of winning against him, but the prospect of doing him harm was all she cared about. Consequences could wait.

  She brought the knife up hard and fast. A wound to the belly killed a man with more certainty than if she tried to find his heart.

  "Oho!" His laugh made her teeth clench. "None of that now."

  Mhairi waited to feel her blade slice into flesh, but he caught her wrist and twisted it until the knife dropped to the ground. She gasped with pain, although he stopped the minute she released her weapon. With the same humiliating ease, he turned her so she had her back to him. He curled his arms around her and pressed her hard into his body.

  "Let me go," she demanded, tears of frustration pricking her eyes.

  She’d learned how to attack a man, she’d practiced with her father's best warriors. This Mackinnon lout shouldn’t find it so easy to disarm her.

  He tightened his hold on her writhing body. "No’ on my life."

  She tried to kick him, but trapped in this position, her efforts were wasted. She struggled until she sagged in his hold, loathing that she was a weak, vulnerable woman and not the man who could teach this cur the lesson he deserved.

  "Had enough?" He still sounded revoltingly composed.

  "Just kill me now," she said in a dull voice.

  His soft laugh made his chest shift behind her back. She wanted him to stink of evil and stale sweat. When she gulped in enough air to fill her empty lungs, all she smelled was clean, healthy male and the fragrant herbs used for washing his shirt.

  "Kill ye? No, my lady, you’re mistaken. I'm no’ going to kill ye."

  "Better than…the other." Although she wasn't sure she wanted to die.

  The Mackinnon clicked his tongue in disdain. "Och, you’re letting your imagination run away with ye. I promise that you’re safe."

  Mhairi didn't bother accusing him of lying. What was the point? She spared a thought for Flossie. This barbarian’s hairy companion was probably already ravaging her.

  "Do I really have to tie your hands?" he asked, his tone incongruously gentle. "The ride will be easier for ye if I dinnae."

  "I'm no’ going with ye."

  "Aye, my Lady Mhairi, ye are."

  "I'm no’ Mhairi, I tell ye."

  "Of course ye are. Ye might be dressed fit to scrub the scullery, but that skean dubh is a noblewoman’s weapon."

  Plague take him. He’d noticed. Of course he had. There was no lack of intelligence in those dark eyes. She had a horrible feeling that he was a man who didn’t miss much. "It was a gift."

  "Aye, from your father."

  He slid his arms from her and without thinking, she wrenched away in a blind attempt to escape.

  "No, ye dinnae, lassie." He fastened one sinewy hand around her wrist and pulled her up so abruptly that she staggered. "You're no’ going anywhere except Achnasheen."

  Fear and disappointment and, aye, anger throbbed inside her hard enough to make her shake. She whipped around to confront him, only to watch him tie a rope to her wrist.

  "I will no’ be tethered like a hound," she snarled.

  His mouth firm, he reached forward and caught her free hand. Despite her best attempts at resistance, he needed mere seconds to secure that wrist as well. "I offered ye the chance to come quietly."

  "And why on God’s green earth should I do that?"

  He glanced up from testing the knots. She expected to meet cold, hard killer's eyes, but the deep brown gaze seemed kind and almost regretful.

  Aye, of course he’s kind, she berated herself sarcastically. He’s kidnapping you and binding you up like an animal before he carts you off to do his will. What else would he be, but kind?

  "Ye have a point, lassie."

  "The ropes are too tight. They're hurting," she said, although they weren't, and when she paid attention, she realized that he hadn't used rough twine to bind her, but silk.

  Silk or twine. It hardly mattered. She was still caught like a bird in a net.

  "No, they're no’. But nice try."

  He caught her by the waist and flung her across his shoulder. For a moment, she lay winded staring at the ground, as his hand settled on her bottom. Even through layers of petticoats, that touch branded her.

  She kicked him and pounded on his back. His commanding height put the ground an awfully long way away. "Put me down, ye vile dog."

  He shifted his grip from her bottom to her knees. "If I do, will ye walk to my horse?"

  "Of course."
/>
  "Wee liar," he said without malice. "Stop wriggling, or I'll drop ye."

  "And risk damaging the merchandise?" she asked nastily.

  Held so close, it was impossible to ignore the reserves of strength in his big, powerful body. He walked with an easy stride that gave no hint that he carried a grown woman. Mhairi was unwillingly aware that in a contest of physical strength between them, she had no hope of winning.

  Then be smarter than he is, lass.

  She could only agree. Right now, Black Callum had all the advantages. But that mightn’t always be the case. She was clever. She was cunning. And she had one thing on her side. It was clear that he’d already judged her to be an inconsequential snippet of a female who offered no challenge to his male superiority.

  So far, she was ashamed to admit she’d done nothing to prove him wrong. But somewhere soon, that overweening confidence would bring him down.

  "Stop scheming, lassie," he said softly, patting her rump with infuriating casualness. "It willnae do ye a morsel of good."

  Gritting her teeth, she closed her eyes against the daunting drop to the ground. That only made things worse. This close to him, that pleasant smell was overwhelming. She was absurdly conscious of his warmth.

  What else did she expect? He was a denizen of hell. Of course he was hot to the touch.

  "Put me down," she muttered into his back. The smooth stride upset her stomach and made her giddy.

  "I cannae trust ye to walk, my lady."

  "I feel sick." The admission made her pride sting.

  They approached the gray horse. "You'll feel better once you're in the saddle."

  "I’ll feel better once ye leave me alone. Oof!"

  Strong hands caught her by the waist and plopped her onto the horse. "Hold on."

  The relief of being upright and able to take a full breath cleared her fuzzy vision and restored her defiance. She swung aside to slither off the horse, but her captor was too fast. With an effortless physical mastery that in other circumstances might have impressed her, he leaped into the saddle.