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 clo
ser. "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."