The innkeeper’s eyes darted back to Callum. “My apologies,” he said, offering a swift, repentant smile. “I didna mean . . . I’ll have me Robena prepare a room fer ye right away.”
“That will be two rooms, innkeeper,” Kate corrected him as he turned to find his wife.
“My apologies again,” MacDonnell offered her, then glanced back at Callum. “I thought she was yers.”
“Nae,” Callum said then tugged her back to him when she tried to pull away. “But we’ll be needin’ only one room.”
“I am not staying in the . . .” Kate’s vehement refusal faded from her lips when Callum set his cool cobalt gaze on her. She felt like she’d been hit with a large stone. She cursed herself and squared her shoulders. It astounded her that she could battle a whole legion of sword-swinging McColls but one look from this man could set her heart to racing.
“Is she under yer protection, then?” MacDonnell asked, unsure of what to do.
Callum nodded. “Aye, she is.”
To be used as bait, Kate corrected him silently. His ransom until he had her uncle. She said nothing in front of the innkeeper, but she planned on setting Callum MacGregor straight the moment they were alone.
Which was about to be any moment. Kate swallowed audibly when Callum clutched her hand and pulled her toward the stairs.
“Make certain you request extra bedding from your friend the innkeeper,” she demanded on the way up. “I wish him to know that you will be sleeping on the floor and not in the same bed with me. I am not a trollop.”
Callum ignored her. When he reached the room, he flung the door open and stepped inside, leaving her to follow.
Kate glowered at his lack of chivalry and stepped past him to survey the small room. As she had suspected, there was only one bed. Callum knew his way around the inn, that much was obvious. She eyed the old fur blanket on the bed and wondered how many times he had tumbled a maid upon it. The thought of it brought heat rushing to her face and a sharp prick of anger to her heart.
“I’ll have Ferguson’s wife bring ye somethin’ to eat.”
“And where will you be?” Kate asked, turning to him.
“Below stairs, sharin’ a drink with my men.”
Her brow rose sharply. Of course, he didn’t want her around while he guzzled his brew and dragged any number of willing wenches to his lap. Well, she certainly was not about to spoil his eve. Let him bed them all, what did she care?
“I dinna want ye—”
“Och, I know perfectly well what you want,” she accused him. “Just do not bring your women back here with you. The door will be barred.”
His only answer was a slow smile that dared her to do it. “Dinna leave this room,” he warned as he left, shutting the door behind him.
Kate stared at the door, and then snapped her mouth shut. Did he truly believe he could order her about because she was his captive? He was a fool if he did. And an even bigger fool to believe she would obey him.
An hour later, seated at a long table with his men, Callum lifted a tankard of ale to his lips. Many of the inn’s patrons had retired above stairs, but the tavern was still crowded enough for Callum to almost miss Kate’s entrance. Graham sat beside him, telling him about a wench he planned on meeting later that night, but Callum did not hear a word, so arrested was he by the sight of Kate standing in the doorway. A snood of dyed ruby ribbon was fastened beneath her hair and tied in a bow on top. Long, lustrous blue-black curls fell down her back, almost to her waist. She wore a kirtle of indigo wool, given to her, no doubt, by Ferguson’s wife. A shawl of deep ruby draped her shoulders. It was not the sight of her drawing her full lower lip between her teeth when she could not find her captors, or even her wide, searching eyes, that made his heart pause, but the stubborn tilt of her chin when her gaze finally found his. She knew he would be angry that she had defied him, but she was not afraid. Damn him, but her fearlessness pleased him.
“Saints, she’s breathtaking,” Callum heard Graham say. Callum nodded as he stared at her with helpless admiration. She was the stark beauty of a winter night shrouded in the soft crimson of the setting sun.
He swallowed hard, and then his expression hardened, as well. Hell! Any one of these rogue patrons would think naught of causing her harm. Did she not understand his clan was outlawed, that the MacGregors were considered lower than slaves to many Scots? It did not matter that she looked more bonny than ever before; she was a daft fool who would get them all killed.
He almost knocked his chair over when he stood up as she made her way toward his table. She paused for a moment seeing his fierce scowl but then squared her shoulders and continued on. Jamie reached her before she reached the table and snatched her arm to escort her safely to the bench.
Kate sat directly across from the glowering laird, which earned her another deep-throated grumble. She toyed with the idea of commenting on his constant sour mood, but he looked about ready to leap over the table and throttle her, so she simply smiled at him instead, though it took enormous effort.
“Good eve, my laird.”
“Return to yer room, Kate,” he warned in a quiet, menacing tone.
“I cannot,” she replied sweetly. “I am hungry. Dear Robena went to so much bother bathing and dressing me, I felt it unkind to ask her to feed me, as well. I would much rather dine here, with you.”
Callum considered dragging her back above stairs, but doing so would most likely cause a brawl. He looked around at the patrons, his jaw tightening. Many of the men were already staring at her. They looked away when they caught his murderous gaze.
“Verra well,” he conceded, motioning to a serving wench before returning his gaze to Kate. “Eat, and be quick aboot it.”
