Highlander Unchained by Monica McCarty

“Soon, lass. The laird is a very busy man.”
    “I’m sure he is,” she said sweetly. “Abducting any more helpless lassies this week?”
    “Helpless?” He chuckled. “Ah, lass, you have a fine sense of humor,” he chortled, closing the door behind her.
    Busy . More like he enjoyed torturing her. The Laird of Coll. She still couldn’t believe that the handsome kidnapper with enough raw masculinity to entice a nun was Lachlan Maclean. Why had she never seen him at court? She would have remembered him. He was a difficult man to forget.
    Even days later, the memory of his presence filled the room. For a moment, with his body leaning over her and a glint in his hard blue gaze that made her feel warm and syrupy, she’d thought…
    She’d thought he was going to kiss her.
    And she’d frozen like a silly fool, caught up in the powerful magnetism that seemed to surround him. Irresistibly drawn to him like Icarus to the sun. For a moment, she’d wanted him to kiss her. To feel his mouth on hers. To melt against his heat. Her cheeks burned with the knowledge of how badly her body had betrayed her.
    At least her initial fears had proved unfounded—he did not intend to force her into marriage. But discovering that he meant to use her as a bargaining chip against her brother to exchange her for his castle wasn’t much better. A man who made no bones about using her for his own ends was exactly the type of man she wished to avoid.
    Up to a point.
    For the next two days, she waited for his summons. Patiently. Or about as patiently as anyone could be expected to wait, when there was nothing to do but stare out the window for hours on end at the churning seas and the undulating dipping and soaring of the gulls.
    Her sole sources of conversation were the hourly exchanges with the guardsmen every time she tried to leave her room, the occasional appearance of a very taciturn serving woman named Morag, and the two lads who’d brought up the wooden tub for her bath.
    But on the morning of her third day in captivity, her patience was exhausted. The fir-planked walls of the room were closing in on her. She knew every inch of the small space.
    Fortunately, the chamber wasn’t as horrible as she’d initially thought. Though rustic and sparse, it was clean. Upon first seeing the threadbare linens and rushes on the wooden floors, she’d feared fleas and mice. But the bed linens—although a far cry from the rich silk taffeta hangings she was used to—smelled of lavender; and the old-fashioned rushes were still green and strewn with fresh herbs. Her pillow was stuffed not with feathers, but with surprisingly comfortable bog cotton.
    A small fireplace and wooden bench took up one wall, the bed another, and a rickety wooden table with a pitcher for washing occupied the place beneath the sole window opposite the door. Though small, the window was paned with glass and had a wooden shutter for added protection from the wind and cold. Other than the door, which was well guarded, it was her only means of escape. But even if she could manage to squeeze through the small opening, there was nowhere to go. Situated on a level summit overlooking the Sound of Mull, Drimnin keep was a simple rectangular tower house with a single external stair turret on the east side of the southern wall. The laird had placed her in the uppermost chamber of the tower in a small garret. To escape, she’d have to climb down about forty feet of sheer stone.
    Too ambitious by half, even for her. Although if she was locked in here much longer, she might be willing to take her chances.
    A trunk containing an extra plaid, a brush, and a small hand mirror had been placed at the foot of the bed. Not long after she’d arrived, a tub had been sent up along with a change of clothing to replace her mud-and blood-spattered dress. In quality, it was not much better than the gown it had replaced, but at least it was clean. She’d cleaned her satin slippers as best she could