She’d been brought up to hate him, and his antics today hardened that hatred into immovable loathing. How could he expect anything else? But even as her fire and defiance made his heart stir, the sensible part of him couldn't help recognizing that the frightened, insipid creature of his imagination would be easier to handle. This cat had claws, and she intended to use them to draw his blood.
Hell, she'd already drawn blood. First honors in their battle definitely belonged to the Drummond lass.
Too late to alter his course. But he could see that troubled waters lay ahead.
He caught her arm and brought her over to where Kelpie nosed at the lush grass. After a stumble, the girl came with him. He could tie her to a tree, but something in him flinched from playing the bully. Although if he said that to her, she’d tell him it was too late for him to worry about that.
"Threats are easy to make," he said, as if he dismissed her words. "Are ye hungry?"
"No," she said in a sullen tone.
"Well, I am." Keeping hold of her arm with one hand, he unlaced his saddlebag.
"Kidnapping defenseless women must build a grand appetite," she said snidely.
He gave her credit for keeping up the fight. Carrying the saddlebag, he pulled her back toward the hummock again. "If you're no’ careful, I'll gag ye."
"Go ahead. I dinnae care."
He sat down and tugged her down beside him. "If I did, it would deprive me of your sweet conversation."
She came down with a bump that made her breath escape in a puff. "If ye want sweet conversation, kidnap a Mackinnon lassie."
"Och, they're no challenge."
Callum waited a moment to see whether she meant to defy him and stand up again, but she remained put. She stared into the distance, the pure, delicate features set with disdain.
The lassie should look tired and powerless. She looked like a chained goddess. The shadows under her eyes only set off their rich sapphire color. The pointed chin stuck up at a determined angle, and those sweet lips were set in an unyielding line. Before he took her from the meadow, he’d seen her smiling. He wished she’d smile again.
Not likely.
He on the other hand must look a complete villain, unshaven and covered in blood. Before they ate, he needed to wash. He rose and crossed to the burn, keeping an eye on his captive. After her last futile attempt, she must know that with tied hands, any escape was doomed. But she was a frisky wee thing, and he didn't discount how furious she was. She was likely to try to run, if only to inconvenience him.
He kneeled beside the stream and rinsed his hands. The cut on his arm needed attention, but it could wait. It still stung like the devil, but at least it hadn’t started bleeding again.
The Drummond girl refused to look at him when he returned and rummaged in the saddlebag for the simple fare he’d brought. He produced oatcakes, some cheese, and a flask of ale, and put together a rough meal.
He held out an oatcake and cheese. "Here."
"Ye can take that and stick it…"
"Mistress Drummond, ye shock me," he said before she could finish. Then in a coaxing tone, "Come. Eat. Drink. It's still a way before we reach Achnasheen."
"I will accept nothing from your hand," she said coldly.
His lips tightened, although he had enough pride himself to recognize that he’d be no more tractable as a prisoner. "In that case, you'll end up damned peckish before you’re done."
She didn't reply. For a moment longer, he kept the food extended toward her. When she didn't take it, he shrugged and ate it himself.
Mistress Drummond was similarly dismissive of the offer of ale. But when he rose after his makeshift meal, she cast him an embarrassed look. "I want…"
He could make her say it, but he felt a hint of sympathy for her plight. He jerked his head toward some bushes. "Go."
She held out her bound hands. "I cannae…"
He regarded her suspiciously. After her last escape attempt, he was loath to free her hands. "You’ll manage."
"Not with these skirts." Her tone was impatient. "What do ye think I’m going to do? Fly back to Bruard?"