She’d hated him when he snatched her. She’d hated him when he so effortlessly kept her captive. But that smug greeting made her want to kill another person for the very first time in her life. If she still had her dagger, the Mackinnon would be lying dead on the grass. And she'd spit on his corpse as she kicked it out of her way.
Her frantic glance flickered from side to side, and her heart lurched into a gallop. But the only escape was the way she'd just come, and she’d never outrun a man on horseback.
She’d been clever, but not clever enough, plague take her.
He frowned. "Are ye really going to make me chase you down, lassie?"
By now, she should be used to him reading her mind. "Don't tie me up again," she said sullenly.
Mhairi expected him to scoff at her request. After all, he’d just spent half the night lying in wait to recapture her. But to her surprise, serious dark eyes regarded her steadily. "Do ye give me your word you willnae try to escape?"
"You'd take the word of a Drummond?"
Another of those long, assessing stares. "Aye, I would. Even if that makes me a fool."
The Mackinnon was no fool. They both knew it. She was grimly aware that she’d be much better off if he was.
Unfortunately for her, he was also right about her personal honor. With genuine regret, she shook her head and extended her hands. "No, I cannae promise I willnae try and escape."
He looked deep into her eyes. She still hated him, but in that moment, they shared a communication too intimate for strangers. All without the aid of words. It was as if he saw right to her soul.
Which was surprising. None of the young men she knew—and precious few of the old ones—expressed any interest at all in her soul. Whereas her exterior charms were of permanent and predictable interest.
When the Mackinnon had insisted she was Mhairi Drummond, he’d described her in almost poetic terms. Since then he’d touched her often, but with no hint of encroaching male desire.
She’d feared rape when he snatched her, but to her surprise, she now believed his assurances. Was she a pudding-headed loon for thinking she was safe? He could change the rules between them any moment, especially once he had her under his roof and under his control.
Under his control? That was a laugh. What did she think happened now?
He wasn't even angry with her for running off. Instead he treated her attempt to flee as yet another move in the game between them.
Of course, recapturing her so easily must do wonders for his good humor.
Black Callum felt like he’d won. Well, why not? He had, hadn't he? She was just as much his captive as she'd ever been. The knowledge left a rancid taste in her mouth.
"Are ye hungry?"
"No."
Amusement twisted his lips. "Och, I’ll wager ye are."
She couldn't argue. He held out the flask of ale, but she stubbornly shook her head. Rejecting the drink was hard. So hard. But she refused to come to his hand for a treat, like a tame puppy schooled in obedience.
The Mackinnon shrugged. "Very well."
He raised the flask to his lips before he returned it to the saddlebag. She almost wept with envy as she watched him drink.
"You're no’ tying me up?" she asked surprised.
"No."
Hope surged through her. Strong hands caught her around the waist and lifted her into the saddle. In the few seconds before he mounted behind her, she leaned forward to grab the horse's mane with her unconstrained hands. She kicked hard at the mare’s sides.
The beast didn’t shift.
"Tcha!" she yelled, kicking again.
The gray shifted under her urging without moving forward.