"Grandchildren who are half Mackinnon," she said sourly.
"And half Drummond. What better symbol of the peace I hope to bring to these glens?"
She didn't look convinced. "Yet ye say you won't force me to any of this?"
He shook his head. "Mistress, I want a wife and an ally, not an enemy in my bed. I hope to woo ye into seeing things my way. I'm no’ a bad man. Who knows? You might come round to the idea, once ye get to know me better."
"Aye, and I might snap my fingers and conjure up the King of England," she retorted.
"I havenae hurt ye."
She clearly thought that was inadequate. He supposed if he looked at things from her point of view, he couldn't blame her. "Just seized me and held me and forced me to do your will. Now ye think to bully me into marrying you."
He hid a wince. When he’d come up with this plan, he hoped to negotiate with her father, gain consent to the marriage, court the maiden, and marry her in a grand gesture of clan reconciliation. The old man's stubbornness had put paid to that. It meant the wooing got off to a rocky start.
On the other hand, he'd always been able to talk a lassie around and a stay at Achnasheen might show this redoubtable lady that not all Mackinnons had two heads and ate babies for breakfast.
His confidence, already shaky, sank a few more notches when he studied that lovely but stubborn face. Mhairi Drummond was no round-heeled Highland hussy. She was a woman of character and determination who right now wanted to boil him in oil.
Whatever else the next few days promised, they were sure to be interesting. He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. Interesting was one word for it. "I'd like to say I’m sorry."
Her implacable expression didn't shift. "But you'd do it all again in a heartbeat."
"Aye, to bring an end to the murder, I would."
"So ye and I are mere pawns in the game of clan politics," she said with a hint of bitterness. "I cannae imagine ye want to marry me for your own sake."
"Then you're suffering a failure of the imagination, mistress," he said dryly.
While they’d spoken, she'd forgotten her fear long enough to treat him like an equal. His admission had her rising to her feet and backing away. "No."
The single syllable threatened to smash all his hopes. It held centuries of loathing, spiced with the hatred his actions of the last day and night had sparked.
A less determined man would look into those angry blue eyes and pack the wench off back to her father. But Callum Mackinnon was at least as obstinate as Mhairi Drummond, and he was decided on plowing on. The senseless killing had to stop. This was the best way to achieve that.
Even if he didn't want the girl for her own sake.
"Aye."
Her sweeping gesture indicated incomprehension. "I've been nothing but trouble for ye."
"Aye. And I suspect there’s more trouble to come."
She didn't answer. Which was answer enough, he supposed.
He stood as well. "Mistress Drummond, your fate is set in stone. If you’re a woman of sense, you’ll reconcile yourself to it."
"I'll never accept ye as my husband," she spat at him.
"Brave words, lassie, but see how ye feel after a month, six months, a year."
By God, he prayed it wouldn’t take her that long to come round to his way of thinking. Even his short experience of her told him she was no pliable reed but a woman with a backbone of steel.
He liked that. He wanted a wife who was a genuine partner, and the lady of the Mackinnons should be brave and strong. Her beauty drew him – how could it not? – but it was her tempestuous spirit that he coveted the most. He just had to convince her that she could find a home and a purpose here at Achnasheen.
"You'll tire of failing long before that," she said.
He shook his head. "No, I willnae. Now I'll leave ye. The girls will bring up a bath and some clothes befitting my betrothed."