To do him credit, Black Callum took a moment to consider what she'd said. But she felt no surprise when he shook his head. "It willnae work, lassie."
"What about an exchange of other hostages as confirmation of good faith?"
"That’s a tried and true way to bring a temporary end to the fighting, but in this case, it’s no’ good enough. I dinnae want a short-term solution. I intend to finish this feud forever."
His lack of faith shouldn’t sting. After all, they were sworn enemies. Weren’t they? "So ye dinnae trust me after all?"
He reached to squeeze her hand, and she found an absurd comfort in his touch, even as she knew he was about to dash her fragile hopes. "Aye, I do trust your word, my lady. It's your father I'm no’ so sure about. Once he gets his darling back behind the walls of Bruard keep, there's nae way on God's green earth he'll hand ye back to me."
She ripped her hand away from his, knowing no other answer had been likely. It seemed her only chance of freedom was escaping Achnasheen.
"Then take me back to my room and lock me in. Ye can hold me here until the Cuillins crumble into the sea but you’ll never get my consent to a wedding."
She stood, her heart weighted with misery. The prospect of leaving this lovely garden was painful. This afternoon the Mackinnon hadn’t given her freedom, but it was as close as she'd come to freedom since she'd arrived at Achnasheen.
He rose to face her. "I'm sorry to hear that, my lady."
The bitter thought surfaced that if this was a real courtship, he couldn't have chosen a more romantic setting. Climbing roses arched over the bench, and as she stepped out of the bower, she pushed a trailing branch out of the way, scattering white petals across the green grass at her feet.
When her arm lifted, the loose sleeve of her gown fell away to reveal her forearm.
"God’s wounds…"
His whispered blasphemy made her turn. "What is it?"
The Mackinnon was white, and the skin stretched tight over those striking features. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her out into the center of the garden. They stopped beside a lichen-covered sundial where the light was better.
"Mackinnon!" she protested, stumbling. "Have ye gone mad? What is this?"
A muscle jerked in his lean cheek, and those fierce brows angled down over that arrogant blade of a nose. "Show me," he bit out.
Bewildered, she stared at him. "Show you what?"
He made a furious sound in his throat and extended her arm between them. An unsteady hand shoved back the frothy lace edging her sleeve to reveal her forearm. "For pity's sake, did I do this?"
She glanced down from his stricken expression to where a pattern of bruises covered the white skin, thanks to Sheena and Brigid's attentions when Jean wasn't looking.
"I…" she began, trying to come to terms with the depth of his rage.
He stared aghast at the ugly purple marks, as she wondered if blaming him might give her some advantage. Then he shook his head. His touch on her arm gentled until he cradled her hand.
"No, it wasnae me. It must be Sheena and Brigid. A pox on them. Those little witches will pay for this."
Wide-eyed, Mhairi watched him release that arm and check her other arm, as bruised as its twin.
"Where else are ye hurt? Show me."
She snatched away. "It's nothing."
"Plague take ye, it's no’ nothing. Should I get Jean to check ye? Why did she no’ tell me about this? Why did she no’ stop it?"
"I doubt she knew," Mhairi said, before she remembered Sheena’s offer to help her escape. The last thing she wanted was the girl going into a sulk and leaving her to her fate.
Black Callum still looked upset, more than her minor injuries warranted, surely. "I swear nae more harm will come to ye, and I most humbly beg your pardon, Mistress Drummond."
"Mackinnon…"
In the face of his corrosive remorse, she felt at a loss. Then the ability to speak deserted her altogether, when he raised her arm to his lips. With a tenderness that threatened to melt her bones, he kissed the largest bruise.