The Wrong Bride (11 page)

“Are ye cold?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. It was as if her lips remembered the feel of his upon them, and she could not forget the sight of his naked chest.

She forced herself to remember her plight. “I've thought of a way I could prove my identity to you.”

He groaned and took a deep drink.

“Send a man to my uncle's castle. Discover that Cat is in England, that she is my cousin.”

“What would that prove? I already knew ye were in England. And I won't be risking the life of my man by sniffing around Duff lands.”

“But you said this marriage was a bridge between clans. Surely he'd be safe—”

“Nay, I'll not do it, Riona. Stop trying to change what cannot be changed.”

She jumped to her feet. “I—I should like to retire,” she said furiously.

“I shall bathe while ye prepare for bed.”

He bowed and retreated to his own chamber before she could speak. She frowned at the closed door. What did he mean by
that
?

For just a moment, she contemplated surprising him at his bath, so he could see how it felt. And then she realized he would love nothing better. She would stay far away from his chambers.

Just when she was about to climb into her cozy box-bed, Mrs. Wallace knocked and entered, looking . . . uncomfortable.

Riona frowned. “Mrs. Wallace? Is something wrong?”

“Nay, my lady, at least . . . I don't think so. Himself asked me to wait here for him.”

When the housekeeper kept her eyes downcast, Riona became truly concerned. They didn't have long to wait. McCallum entered from the dressing room, wearing a shirt and breeches, and carrying a length of rope.

Riona's lips parted with distress. “What is
that
for?” she demanded.

“Since ye've heard of handfasting, I thought I'd introduce ye to another Highland tradition. Bundling.”

She blinked at him. “But—but—”

“Ye've not heard of it? 'Twas even common in parts of England. During courtship, the woman's legs are tied together, and the two lovers lie talking in bed getting to know each other.”

“I've heard of bundling!” she finally cried. “But I never thought I'd be part of it. It is such a—a country custom.”

“Ye want to know me better, and I want to know
you.
I thought ye'd be most comfortable with this.” His voice deepened as he came closer. “Climb into bed, lass, and I'll tie ye up.”

Short of running screaming into the hall, what could she do? Fuming, she sat down on the edge of the bed and watched McCallum kneel before her and remove her mules.

Mrs. Wallace took a deep breath, and as if to distract Riona, said, “Now, this is a proper courtship, my lady, the one ye couldn't have because of that silly contract. Himself has the best intentions.”

Riona clenched her jaw and said nothing, because she wasn't sure McCallum's motives were all that pure, at least not tonight. After this, Mrs. Wallace surely couldn't see him as her little lad, come home to settle down and do his duty.

Oh, she was just trying to distract herself from feeling McCallum's hands on her bare ankles. His skin was rough with calluses, something she already knew and which . . . didn't bother her. He had a man's hands—and she saw that those hands now had abrasions and cuts from the afternoon's training. And, of course, he had no problem touching her with conviction because he always believed he was right.

At last he straightened and glanced at the housekeeper. “Thank ye for being a witness, Mrs. Wallace, should there be a question about this someday.”

“O' course, Laird McCallum. A good night to ye both.”

And without meeting Riona's beseeching eyes, she left, shutting the door behind her.

McCallum went around the room and, one by one, blew out the candles until just the faint glow of the peat fire left the corners of the room in shadows. Then he approached and leaned past her to draw down the bedclothes.

They were alone for the night. She stubbornly remained seated, arms crossed over her chest, trying to give every evidence of fury.

While her insides melted. They'd been alone countless times on their journey—why did this seem so different? Why did her limbs tremble, her mouth seem dry, her heart tumble about in her chest? He loomed over her, and with a gasp she fell back onto her elbows.

He braced a hand on the bed frame and frowned. “Are ye still afraid of me, lass?”

How could she say that she was afraid of herself? Afraid that she'd reveal this unnatural desire for him, the man who'd kidnapped her? There must be something wrong with her, to have such feelings. But she couldn't say any of that.

“Yes, I'm afraid,” she whispered. “I know you've promised not to—to take me to bed before I give my consent, but I have heard whispers that a man in the throes of passion is not always . . . rational.”

“Is that what virginal lasses discuss when we're not around?”

She said nothing, then gave another gasp when he picked her up against his chest, then laid her out closest to the wall. He stretched out beside her on his side, head braced on his hand. She felt trapped between his big body and the wall, the width of his chest practically all she could see. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, dark hair scattered there, and she could smell soap from his bath.

She closed her eyes and slowed down her breathing.

His chuckle was deep and raspy. “So ye think 'twill be so easy to forget I'm here?”

“I certainly did so at the inn, until you rudely pulled me to you.” She didn't open her eyes.

His breath was soft on her face as he spoke. “I seem to remember us cuddling together quite mutually.”

“You have a habit of believing what you want to believe. I'm trying to picture your real bride tolerating these strange advances. Cat would never stand for it.” She tried to move her legs, but he'd expertly tied her without hurting her.

He put a hand on her knee. “Hush, there's no reason to struggle.”

Even through the fabric of nightshift and dressing gown, she could feel the heat of him. With a low groan, she turned her head to the wall.

“So I have a sister, and you have a sister,” he said.

For a long minute she said nothing, then spoke between gritted teeth. “Unhand me, and we can talk.”

He did so. “That's better. Don't ye want to know about my sister?”

“Fine, go ahead and speak of her.”

“Maggie is younger than me by four years. She draws attention to herself, and not just because she's pretty—her eyes are two different colors. One's blue, and the other's green.”

That made her turn her head to give him a skeptical stare.

He raised his free hand. “I swear. There are other things about her that are unusual, but since ye'll meet her eventually, I'll let her choose what to tell ye.”

“I know Scots are a superstitious people—”

“Ye make that sound like ye're not one of us,” he teased.

She ignored that. “So did the clan treat her differently?”

His amused look faded. “Some do. She's not yet married, and I worry that she's holding back out of fear a man won't understand her . . . differences.”

“So you're not forcing her to marry?” she asked dryly.

In a solemn voice, he said, “Do to her what was done to us? Ye forget, lass, that perhaps there was someone else
I
wished to marry.”

She looked up at him in surprise, then took an educated guess. “Agnes?”

He studied her too long before looking away. “It doesn't matter, does it? Did ye have someone else?”

She wanted to lie to him, hoping to hurt him as he'd hurt her. But she felt too wounded, too raw, to be convincing. “No.”

“Perhaps your family kept ye away from suitable men because of the contract?”

“And not tell me? I mean, tell Cat? That makes no sense. No, I was more important to them for Bronwyn's sake.”

He touched the braid that had tumbled over her shoulder and gave it a wiggle. “How old is she?”

“Twenty. She is a true innocent, so naïve about the pitfalls of life.”

“And ye're so very worldly?”

She sensed laughter beneath his calm surface, but he didn't release it, and she reluctantly appreciated that. “I didn't say that. But if you'd have done to her what you did to me, she'd have stayed in a perpetual swoon.”

“Instead of fighting back and trying to escape? Maybe I'd prefer that.”

But there was admiration for her in his tone, and it made Riona uncomfortable. She was always uncomfortable, forced to be on alert, to be wary. She didn't remember what it was like to feel content and happy.

Perhaps because she'd never truly known such a state.

“Ye look sad,” he whispered.

He dropped his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. And just like that, her sadness was drowned in a sea of conflicting emotions, passion and need and desperation.

His face was just above hers and he only breathed the words, “I want ye to be happy.”

He pressed another kiss, this time to her forehead, to her cheek, to her chin. Her hands might as well have been tied, for how little she could move them. And if she did move them, it would only be to put her hands in his dark hair, pull the leather tie free and let his wavy hair fall about his face.

He stopped when his lips were just over hers, their panting breaths mingled. The moment extended on and on, exquisite torture that she made worse by lifting her head and kissing him. With a groan, he slanted his open mouth against hers, forcing her lips apart, and then his tongue began a delicious exploration she'd never imagined. She was pressed back into the pillows by his body half over hers. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, wildly, drawing a moan from her that he answered with his own. He tasted faintly of whisky, as if he'd needed something to bolster himself before confronting her. She knew that probably wasn't true, but it gave her a wild thrill regardless, as did the
hard pressure of him against her hip. Riona might be an innocent, but Cat had whispered details of lovemaking that she'd gleaned from friends.

Riona's hands crept up to his powerful shoulders and then into his hair. She arched into his chest, feeling the pressure against her aching breasts. She wanted him to touch them—

And she realized that could push him past restraint. He'd tied the ropes—he could untie them, and who would ever know?

She twisted her head to the side, her voice a rasp as she said, “We must stop.”

He didn't answer, just buried his face against her neck, kissing and licking as he made his way down to the edge of her dressing gown. When his hand slid up her rib cage, she caught it with her own.

“Please, Hugh, stop.”

Hearing his Christian name seemed to bring him back to awareness. He lifted his head slowly and looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth was still moist with their kiss, and she had an irrational desire to lick him there. She was trembling at the restraint, yet she continued to hold his hand tightly until he pulled away.

He lifted his body off hers, rolled onto his back at her side, then flung his forearm over his eyes, his chest rising and falling like the bellows in a smithy. They said nothing for long minutes in the shadowy darkness. The bed wasn't big enough to keep them
apart, and his arm still touched the length of hers. To escape, she'd have to crowd into the wall. With a sigh, she knew she wasn't going to do that.

She debated what to say, how to tell him that this should never happen again, how to make him believe that he wasn't always right.

And then he snored.

It was her turn to throw an arm over her eyes and groan. But she couldn't sleep, not with thoughts dancing in her head. She had to get away from here before things went any farther. She wondered if her uncle had even bothered to inform her parents that she was gone. What had he told
Cat
about Riona's absence? Besides her sister, her cousin was the only one who truly loved her, who didn't want anything from her. She must be frantic and terrified. Perhaps the earl had created an elaborate lie about how Riona had left of her own free will . . .

Oh, she had to stop this wild imagining. She had a plan in place, and now she knew that Dermot was the one to approach with her secrets. But how? He might not trust Hugh, but he certainly wouldn't trust a Duff. If she went to him now, he'd feel no compulsion to help her. She would try to become friendly with him, so that he'd relax around her and believe her when she finally spoke of her need for his help. If they approached Hugh together, perhaps Hugh would at last be convinced that she was telling him the truth.

Hugh rolled over and slung an arm around her waist, his face pressed into her hair. She couldn't escape, not with her legs tied, and she wasn't about to wake him up and risk another seduction . . .

A seduction to which she was growing more and more susceptible.

H
ugh could have lain within Riona's arms forever. One of her soft, warm arms was beneath his neck as she curled against him. It wasn't dawn yet, but his body was awakening—in more ways than one.

He was filled with satisfaction and confidence in the future. Riona wasn't immune to him; it would just take a little time to make her see that their marriage could be happy. They might not trust each other, but that didn't really matter. Trust was something that could get a person killed. Attraction was more important to him than some mystical feeling like love that could hurt her in the end.

She gave a little sigh, and he could feel the exhalation through her chest, which was pressed along his arm. This was a good way to wake up.

Until she went all stiff and affronted; she opened her green eyes wide and gazed into his.

“I can't get up,” he said with amused apology in his voice. “Someone is holding on tight.”

With a sigh, she rolled onto her back. “I cannot control what I do in my sleep. Please sit up and free my arm now.”

“Ye mean ye can't hold back your desires when ye're asleep.”

“Just untie me, please.”

He chuckled and stood up, then squatted as she put her legs over the edge within his reach. He untied her a little slower than necessary, making sure his fingers had to repeatedly touch her soft skin.

When she gave several exaggerated sighs, he glanced up at her. “Ye just like having me at your feet.”

“Only if I can kick you,” she grumbled.

He slid the rope free. “See, not a permanent mark on ye.”

She bent her knee and put her heel on the bed, the better to look at her shin. There were faint impression marks there.

“Shall I kiss them better?” he asked softly, leaning forward.

She swung her legs away with the speed of a swordsman and tucked them beneath her. “No, thank you. You can leave now, go about your day, whatever you'd like to do.”

He stood up. “I hope the day passes swiftly, so that we're soon together again.”

She looked aghast at the notion, and with a shaky finger pointed at the door. “Please leave! If you thought tying me up would help your cause, you've miscalculated. I'm more offended than ever by your uncivilized behavior.”

Leaning against the bed frame, he eyed her rumpled garments with interest. “I think ye're lying to yourself. You enjoy kissing as much as I do. Ye'll enjoy what follows even more.”

She came up on her knees and screeched, “Out!”

He laughed, and wearing a victorious smirk, he left.

R
IONA
ate breakfast in the great hall without Hugh, and at first she thought that was better than staring at him across an intimate table in his suite. But she was eating in the company of a household of mostly men, and though they obviously tried not to stare at her, they all took turns sending her surreptitious glances. She'd never felt so on display before, regarded with such curiosity and speculation. She was their enemy—many must think it. Some might also consider her their clan's very salvation. It was an awkward, scary place to be. She'd spent much of her childhood and young womanhood praying someone would notice her; she'd gotten her wish and the irony was keen.

She was grateful Samuel made time to see how she was doing, but other than that, conversations
continued in Gaelic all around her, and she felt very alone, an outsider in every sense. But to bolster her spirits, she reminded herself that she would leave someday—she
had
to leave, she thought firmly, considering all that had happened between her and Hugh last night.

She explored the castle for much of the morning, opening random doors, speaking to servants, reluctantly introducing herself to Hugh's young gentlemen who helped him run the business of the clan estates. She didn't see Dermot. Everyone was polite but distant, sometimes even wary, and she felt very much like the enemy, a Duff in the midst of McCallums. But she'd be a Duff who knew Larig Castle if an opportunity to escape presented itself—not that she was counting on that.

As the day went on, memories of her night tied in bed with Hugh began to overtake her, and anticipation built stronger and stronger. Though she told herself she'd use the opportunity to learn more about him, learn his weaknesses, deep inside she imagined how he might touch her, and how it would feel, and what would come next.

Why was she having these kinds of thoughts about her cousin's betrothed? Much as Cat didn't even know about him, their families had this marriage long planned. Riona should respect it, even as she tried to escape it for herself. Instead she was discovering a wicked part of her she'd never imagined.

To distract herself, she went to the kitchens and watched the cook and servants prepare tarts they'd be serving with the main course for dinner. Mrs. Wallace was there as well, chatting cheerfully as if she hadn't seen Riona tied up by the McCallum. Riona couldn't stop blushing, but perhaps they'd think the cause was merely the heat in the kitchen. Then a ragged man entered, and Mrs. Wallace called him a gaberlunzie, a beggar granted a license to beg. Apparently he was a regular gossip with the servants, and brought news in exchange for a meal. Mrs. Wallace asked hesitantly if Riona wished to have a say in whether he was still welcome, but she demurred. She wasn't going to be the mistress of the castle and didn't want to give that impression.

But . . . it had been rare to be asked her opinion, and she'd been grateful that Mrs. Wallace had given her the chance. To turn down having her own say had been bittersweet.

After the midday meal, she wore a hooded cloak and boots outside into the cloudy, misty—muddy—day. She was used to occasionally walking alone in London's public parks or shopping on Regent Street, so it was strange that someone would be assigned to watch over her. She didn't know who it was, and there were so many people in the courtyard that his identity was well hidden. But she couldn't let that stop her from exploring, because she'd go crazy with nothing to do. She briefly considered just
walking through the gatehouse and into the forbidden world, but what was the point? She could get nowhere on her own, didn't even know where the nearest village was. And it wasn't like there was a road with a sign pointing the way. The trails that crisscrossed the mountains as they'd approached could have been from cattle roaming and might lead nowhere. She wasn't about to risk death in so foolish a manner. But she did spend a while studying the guards' focus on people entering the castle, and realized they were far more indifferent when people left.

She wandered through the castle buildings, probably making the servants nervous as she watched them brew beer or soak the castle laundry. In the lower courtyard, she stared fascinated as the smithy worked glowing metal into a horseshoe.

But it was all an excuse to watch Hugh with his men. Sometimes he seemed like different people to her—the merciless kidnapper, the clan chief wanting respect and authority, the potential bridegroom who kissed her with barely restrained passion. But he wasn't her betrothed, and he was never going to be her husband.

But one thing she'd never expected was how taken he was by a shaggy little terrier hanging around the yard, mud caked on the lower half of his tan body as if he'd been running through a bog. On top of his head was a burst of fur like a hat. His
tongue hung out with doggy happiness as if he'd found his perfect master, his gaze never leaving Hugh. Riona leaned against the wall and watched the entertainment until the training session broke up. The terrier followed Hugh as he headed toward the upper courtyard. Hugh stopped to talk to the smithy, gesturing back toward the dog, but only got a shrug out of the man.

Then Hugh headed back across the yard and the dog followed obediently, little legs trotting to keep up. Riona stepped into the shadow of the wall near the smithy, glad for the cloak that hid her. She wasn't ready for Hugh's gray eyes to focus on her, to roam her body, to make her feel . . . wicked.

A young groom, who couldn't be more than ten years old, was leading a horse from the smithy to the stables, but came to a stop when he saw Hugh, as if the McCallum awed him.

Hugh pointed to the dog and spoke in Gaelic. The boy led the horse into the stables and came back with a length of rope, which he slipped around the dog's neck. Dog and boy watched Hugh walk away, the dog full of yearning, the boy much more wary.

And then she really looked at the boy, and something strange moved through her. He had dark shaggy hair and a prominent forehead. His body looked healthy, even big next to some of the boys she'd seen, as if he'd be a tall man someday. She shivered. What color were his eyes?

With a glance to check that Hugh had reached the upper courtyard, she strode toward the stables, where the boy was talking to the dog in Gaelic. The terrier just continued to look at him with expectation.

“Hello,” Riona said.

The boy glanced at her, and his gray eyes shocked her. He resembled Hugh.

She was speechless for a moment at the implication, and then told herself that the McCallums were mostly related, where similarity in looks would be common. Hugh wasn't going to be her husband, so this wasn't her problem.

The boy bowed his head. “Mistress.”

To her relief, he spoke English. “What is your name, young man?” she asked.

“Brendan. What's yours?” he asked boldly.

She briefly pressed her lips together to hide a smile at her own assumption that
everyone
would know who she was. “My name is Catriona.”

Those gray eyes went wide. “
Lady
Catriona? The McCallum's wife?”

“I'm not his wife yet,” she said with a smile. “That's a nice dog.”

“Himself asked me to take care of it.” There was both pride and wariness in his tone.

The wariness could have been about her, of course. She couldn't help wondering about him or his family. Did he notice the resemblance to his chief?

She looked around. “I see other dogs roaming the courtyard. Is this one special?”

He shrugged thin shoulders beneath his shirt. For a boy who worked in the stables, he seemed remarkably clean.

“The McCallum said this one was young and wouldn't leave him alone. Might make a good stable dog. Terriers hunt badgers, Himself said. Maybe I can train it to hunt rats.”

“Do you live here in the castle?”

He gave her a look like she was crazy. “Nay, I live in the village with my granny. My mum's passed on.”

He didn't mention his father, and she decided not to ask. Instead, she bent and rubbed the furry head of the dog.

“Do you have a name for him yet?”

“I'll be thinking about it. Unless ye'd like to do it,” he said hastily.

“No, of course not. You're in charge of him.”

He relaxed, then looked over his shoulder. “Got work to do. Begging yer pardon, my lady.” And he led the dog into the stables.

Riona watched him go, trying to tamp down her curiosity.

A
T
dinner that afternoon, Hugh strolled between the tables, talking to his gentlemen and meeting the occasional wife. Training that morning had been a little more difficult than yesterday, as the awe of
his arrival was wearing off, and the distance of ten years' absence was settling in. They'd all been afraid of his father and his drink-filled rages, but they didn't know what to expect of him.

It wasn't as if a chief normally trained the men, but he'd yet to name a war chief and wasn't sure if he should until after the ceremony. He was frankly surprised the clan had elected him their chief at all, considering his childhood rebellion and the scandal of Agnes. But his work on behalf of Scotland in Parliament seemed to weigh in his favor, as well as being the direct descendant over many generations. And then there was Riona's dowry . . .

He spotted Brendan McCallum eating at the rear of the hall with several other boys. Hugh had questioned his factor about the boy after seeing him at the stables and wondering why he wasn't at home helping his grandmother. The factor was as clueless as Hugh was. They had a good house in the village, which Hugh had seen to, and money enough for a comfortable life.

Yet Brendan was at Larig Castle, working in the stables, and it didn't make sense. Hugh would have to talk to the boy's grandmother.

The terrier had been the perfect excuse to talk to Brendan, and it had been as easy a conversation as possible between a chief and a nervous groom. If Brendan had thought it strange that Hugh gave him charge of the dog, he didn't show it. All it had taken
was Hugh expressing concern that such a little dog would be dominated by the rest of the pack, and Brendan had responded.

And it had given him a chance to look the boy over, and be glad of what he'd seen. But sad memories were hard to escape . . .

L
OOKING
out her casement windows, Riona could just see Loch Voil glimmering in the setting sun. It was a beautiful sight after a day of rainy mist, but she still felt melancholy. She'd just come up from supper in the great hall, determined to be alone as little as possible with Hugh, but of course she'd felt him watching her all during the meal. As if he'd understood why she was seeking out the company of his gentlemen, he'd merely given a small smile and waved for the harpist to play for her.

But as one by one everyone had retired for the night, she'd had no choice but to do the same. Hugh had followed close behind her, but it had been almost an hour, and he hadn't emerged from his room for a second night of bundling.

Then without knocking, he strode into her chamber, his hair wet from a bath, wearing just a shirt and breeches again.

As if she'd been given a signal, Mrs. Wallace knocked and entered from the corridor. She smiled at Riona. “Well, I hope ye two had a good long conversation last night.”