The Wrong Bride (8 page)

She didn't bother to deny her uncle's relationship to her—McCallum wouldn't listen. And she found herself unable to speak, caught up in his intensity and nearness—and passion for his clan. She'd never met anyone who made her emotions waver so wildly from anger to despair to intrigue. She didn't want to feel this way, out of control, racing toward some desperate clash between them. He was right—they could be married by tonight, and really, could she deny him if he would have his way? Or would he simply take what he wanted?

She shivered, but it wasn't from the water's chill. It was from the frightening realization that there was something powerful between them, something that called to her, that made the risks he'd taken to have her for himself seem arousing, not just self-serving. There was a place inside her she'd never sensed before, surely a recklessness, a weakness.

“Ye're strangely quiet, lass,” he murmured.

His gaze lazily moved over her face, dipping to her breasts, where the upper curves were displayed above the soapy water. Her skin felt . . . prickly, sensitive, even inflamed.

“I'm not done fighting you,” she said at last, almost wincing at how breathless she sounded.

A slow grin curved his mouth, even as he reached his hand to cup her face and tilt it toward him. The shock of his warm palm settling so gently on her skin made her tense, but she didn't pull away, as if that would show that she'd given up, that she was afraid of what he could do to her . . . what he could make her feel.

He leaned over the tub and kissed her, his palm guiding her head. She wanted to show him he didn't move her, that this display meant nothing to her. But his lips were warm, and glided over hers with purpose, parted gently as if he wanted to taste her. She'd never been kissed . . . She felt her head swim at the sensation that seemed to travel down her body, to her breasts, to the pit of her stomach and between her thighs as if he'd touched her in her most secretive places.

When his tongue traced her lower lip, she jerked back in surprise. He didn't laugh, just studied her with those gray eyes that were considerably warmer. He kept his hand on her face, and his thumb caressed her cheek over and over.

“Our first kiss bodes well for the future,” he said.

He glanced down to her breasts again, and she stiffened. With a faint smile, he let her go and stood up.

“Dry off,” he said, back to ordering her around. “We have things we need to discuss.”

Not the topics
she
wanted to discuss, apparently,
but she didn't argue. He turned his back and went to the window, while she hastily dried herself and pulled on a dressing gown Mrs. Wallace had laid out for her, trying to forget the feel of his mouth on hers, and how instead of being afraid or disgusted, she'd felt . . . aroused. Cat had told her one could feel overwhelmed when in intimate situations with a man, and Riona hadn't been able to understand what she meant. She did now, and felt a new kind of fear—fear of her own reaction and response to this compelling persuasion of his.

“Come sit by the fire and dry your hair,” he said.

Gritting her teeth, she obeyed because it needed to be done. She had a comb this time, and worked slowly on the tangles, letting the heat dry and soothe.

“So ye did not name me a kidnapper of women because ye ken ye're a Duff amidst a sea of McCallums.”

She harrumphed, but said nothing.

“I would prefer that my clan not learn that the earl meant to betray us and break the contract, so I will not speak of that.”

“Am I supposed to thank you for not making my
uncle
out to be a villain?”

“If they knew your
father
had tried to renege, he would be more than a villain. There are some who would demand a justified retaliation, and I don't
want the feud to resume. I want my marriage to be the beginning of a new peace.”

Without thinking about it, she almost said “
our
marriage” just to annoy him, and then realized what it implied.

He continued, “So now that we agree that we'll keep silent about the real circumstances of our meeting—”

She laughed without mirth. “Meeting? As if we first saw each other across a ballroom?”

He ignored her outburst. “I think we should simply say we met when I came to bring ye to Scotland, exactly as I intended to do if your father hadn't—”

“I know, I know, fine, have it your way. We were introduced, and my whole family agreed to rid themselves of me by letting a veritable stranger take me away.”

She looked up at him through the strands of her hair as she combed. To her surprise, he wasn't angry. He reached into the pocket of his coat and removed something that was wrapped in a delicate piece of tartan cloth in the same colors she'd seen his clan wear.

“This is the gift I had brought for ye,” he said.

The gift he'd brought for Cat.
She let the comb slowly settle in her lap as she stared at the item.

He held it out, and though she hesitated, she took
it from him. The tartan easily fell away to reveal a small, decorated wooden box that looked quite old. Inside nestled a necklace that glittered in the setting sun when she lifted it out.

“It has been in my family for many generations,” he said gruffly. “'Twas made here, of pearls from Scottish rivers and amethysts dug out of Scottish hills, set in gold captured in our rivers.”

He was obviously proud of his heritage, the heritage her family had scorned and avoided. It was . . . jarring, strange. But the necklace was truly lovely, and it made her feel conflicted to be wearing something that represented his clan.

“I thought dower gifts were of cattle,” she said at last, trying to sound scornful.

He answered as if he didn't take offense. “Our fathers decided to share land instead.”

“Do not forget the money from my uncle that would have gone into this marriage.”

He rose, then while heading for the door to the dressing room, he ordered, “Wear the necklace tonight.”

He didn't look back, as if he didn't expect a refusal, then closed the door behind him.

For some time, she sat looking at the necklace, spreading it out in her lap, the pearls creamy, the amethysts pale purple crystal. It wasn't gaudy, but it definitely spoke of wealth the clan had had sometime in the past. The McCallums didn't seem
terribly poor now, but if they'd been desperate for her—Cat's—enormous dowry, there was need. But they weren't going to receive Cat's dowry, and the contract would be broken. They were going to lose their special land, too, the one that produced their whisky. McCallum didn't want to believe the truth, and he would suffer for it in the end. She wasn't going to feel sorry for him. Civilized men did not respond to problems by kidnapping women.

She leaned back in her chair and tried to imagine Cat here, kidnapped in the dead of night and dragged across the country. If Cat had known about the marriage contract, she might have accepted it, while still feeling the pain of helplessness. Cat felt more a part of Scotland than Riona did, being the daughter of a Scottish earl. Cat had visited their estate a few times with her brother, Owen, the heir, and Cat always spoke about the beauty of wild Scotland. But both women had thought they'd marry Englishmen . . .

Her depressed thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door that opened to the corridor. Pulling her dressing gown tighter, she walked to the door, then opened it to admit Mrs. Wallace, who pushed a stumbling young woman in front of her.

“Lady Catriona,” Mrs. Wallace began, “I ken that fine-born ladies have maids of their very own, so I brought me niece, Mary, who's been wantin' to work in the castle. There's mostly men here, o'
course, but I thought servin' you, she could be of help and learn a thing or two.”

Surprised, Riona said, “Thank you, Mrs. Wallace. Hello, Mary.”

The girl didn't raise her eyes, only nodded and whispered, “Good day, my lady.”

Mary was dressed in a plain gown with an apron pinned to the front, and a little mob cap perched amid brown curls tamed into submission at the base of her neck. Though she was thin, her red chapped hands bore evidence of hard work and the strength necessary for it.

Mrs. Wallace clapped her hands together, and her niece jumped. “Then 'tis settled. I'll help for a day or two, and between us, Lady Catriona, we can train our Mary in what pleases ye.” She opened the wardrobe doors and pulled out the first gown. “She's a good little seamstress, Mary is, and ye might be needin' that skill for a while.”

They spent some time choosing an outfit for Riona to wear to her first dinner with the clan. It was a deep maroon that Mrs. Wallace thought highlighted her green eyes. The stomacher revealed by the lacing was cream with lovely flowered embroidery, which was echoed in the fancy petticoat on display beneath the open skirt. After two weeks without wearing stays, it was rather jarring for her rib cage to be laced so tightly. Jarring, yet also familiar, as if she was almost back to herself, instead of a prisoner.

Making “ooh” noises of appreciation at the sight of the McCallum necklace, Mrs. Wallace proudly put it around Riona's neck, where it sat like a weight of expectations Riona would never meet.

She sat at the dressing table looking into the mirror as Mrs. Wallace worked on arranging her hair into a chignon, leaving random curls to drape against her neck. She knew her old life was gone. Whether she married or not, she could never again be considered an innocent, virginal potential bride. No man would want her now, she thought, swallowing hard.

“Are you and Himself harkenin' back to the old ways for the start of yer marriage?” Mrs. Wallace asked as she worked.

Riona frowned. “Pardon me?”

“Ye're here, livin' in the chief's rooms. Will ye be handfastin' then?”

“Handfasting?” Riona echoed uncertainly.

“I ken there's a contract, o' course, but neither of ye knows the other. Perhaps ye'll handfast—live together—for a year, then make a decision. Make sure ye can have children together. All would understand.”

Riona had to work hard to keep her mouth from sagging open. She could not reveal her feelings to Mrs. Wallace, regardless of how friendly she seemed. No one at Larig Castle would ever be Riona's true friend.

McCallum had installed her in his rooms, as if she was his wife. Had he planned this handfasting all along? Did he intend to come to her rooms this night to make her his, and the kiss had been a prelude of what was to come?

A
s he bathed and dressed in his plaid, Hugh knew he was doing the right thing—Riona had to leave her childish ways behind and accept the duties of a woman. She couldn't change the agreement between their families, just as he hadn't been able to change things when he was nineteen and desperately wanted a different bride.

He would treat her well and make her see that they could have a good marriage. Love was not something to be expected in an arranged marriage, but they could find respect and understanding with each other.

He would make that happen.

Was kissing her against her will the best way to do that? He didn't know, but it had tested the limits of his control to be there when she was bathing—again. He should have realized what he'd be walking into as she prepared for the evening meal after
a long journey. But he'd been so focused on anticipating his clan's questions that he hadn't thought of anything else. He'd burst in and found her once again naked, wet, and alluring. She'd been full of fire and insult, and he'd admired every bit of it, especially since she was all alone at Larig Castle, with no one she knew to look out for her.

But that kiss . . .

She was obviously an innocent, but she'd caught on quickly. Her lips had been so soft and moist, her taste exotic to him. He'd almost shaken with restraint when he'd desperately wanted to deepen the kiss, to explore her mouth, to discover and inflame her passion.

Maybe he needed to douse himself in the tub again, now that the water had turned cold.

Instead he fastened the brooch that held his plaid over his shoulder and headed toward the dressing room, to escort Riona and face the people he'd barely seen in ten years.

R
IONA
paced her bedroom, waiting for McCallum. She wasn't about to come to him—he had to come to her, to bring her to his people. He planned to use her to strengthen his bond with the clan, but she knew that would never happen. Somehow she would make him see that—

A knock rattled the door that led to the dressing room. Part of her wanted to put a pillow over
her head and make Hugh go down alone, humiliate him as she'd felt humiliated when Mrs. Wallace had talked about handfasting. But that wouldn't incline him to eventually see her side of things, so she simply called for him to enter.

He stopped in the doorway and looked at her, as she looked at him. He wore the clan plaid pleated and belted around his waist. A long length of it crossed his chest and was pinned to his coat at the shoulder. He wore tartan stockings to his knees and leather shoes. There were some in England who thought the Highland dress ridiculous, but she was not one of them. His legs were fine and well made, and his pride in wearing his clan colors was evident. Instead of wearing a wig, he'd pulled his dark, unruly hair back in a queue, and she was no longer surprised that he forswore the custom. He was a man who did what he wanted—she of all people knew that.

He studied her, his expression full of pride, contentment—and yes, passion, passion for her. Feeling overwhelming and confused, she had to look away. He'd stolen her life—how dare he act as if it was so easily accepted, as if he felt something more for her when he was just using her.

An insidious voice whispered in her head,
But what kind of life did you have?

That wasn't the point—she wanted to make her own decisions. She'd made no decision for herself,
unless it was what book to read to Bronwyn, what song to play for her on the spinet. Her parents had always told her she could be involved in choosing her husband . . . someday. And every year, “someday” had become the next year, and then the year after that. She'd felt that the best years of her life had been spent in a sickroom, where she'd alternated between feeling loving pity for her sister, and sadness and frustration that her own life was just as confined. True, she'd been allowed to accompany Cat to the occasional dinner or musicale, but she'd never been free to enjoy the entire evening, because her parents had insisted Bronwyn needed her help to fall asleep.

But Bronwyn had been well enough to travel to the Continent, and that had given Riona hope that when they returned it would be Riona's turn for an elaborate Season in London. Her mother had promised it, confiding before she left that it was time for Riona to relax after all her years nursing Bronwyn. Riona had cynically suspected that her mother was growing jealous of the closeness between the sisters, and had deliberately denied Riona the chance to see Europe.

The kind of life her future self would have didn't matter right now. At some point, McCallum would finally realize and accept that he truly had the wrong bride, and everything he'd planned would be ruined.

“So you wear the plaid,” she said.

He smirked. “Highland women don't like being denied the sight of their men's naked legs.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Ye're a bonny lass, Riona.”

He'd taken to leaving off the honorific of “lady” when they were alone, and the intimacy unnerved her. He would not be “Hugh” to her. That would be playing into his hands.

She didn't say anything as she set her hand on his forearm and allowed him to lead her into the corridor. He went first down the spiral stairs as if to catch her if she stumbled. He fancied himself a gentleman, did he?

As they descended, the noise from the great hall increased. Friendly discussion and laughter, the sound of pipes warming up, all of which made a cacophony of sound.

“Ye're trembling,” he said as they reached the arched stone entrance on the first floor.

He covered her hand with his, and instead of soothing her, it made her feel powerless against his strength. She wanted to shake it off, but didn't. “I'm fine.”

He eyed her narrowly, but nodded. When they stepped into the entrance, in full view of the people, Riona inhaled sharply. There had to be over one hundred people packed into the hall, which was lit by torches along the walls, their light reflecting off
the silver platters displayed on several cupboards. A hush seemed to spread outward from them, and even the piper hit a sour note of surprise.

Every pair of eyes was focused on them, and the expressions ranged from curious to worried to skeptical to hopeful. A clan chief was the focus, and from him radiated prospects for the future. These people didn't know if they could trust McCallum, absent so long from their lives, beginning when his mother hadn't trusted his father. Did the clan worry he would be just another drunkard? Or would he be weak because he'd been raised by one for the formative years of his life?

And then Dermot rose to his feet on the dais, and lifted a goblet of wine toward his cousin. “The McCallum!”

A sudden roar of welcome made her start. Only when she felt the release of tension in McCallum's arm did she realize how tense he'd truly been. He did not grin, for he wasn't a man given to easy amusement, as she already knew. But his expression was proud and gratified, even as he led her to the dais and up the short staircase. She stood to his right and stared out at the curious crowd.

McCallum raised both hands and began to speak, and she realized she could understand none of it. Whatever he said to his people, they nodded or smiled or looked solemn. Many snuck glances at her, and she knew it must be easy to tell that she
didn't understand a word. Some would look down on her now as a Duff who wanted so little to do with their homeland that she hadn't learned the language. Her father and uncle never spoke it in front of her, and her mother was English. It had never even been a consideration as she learned French and Latin. Now she felt guilty, as if she should have known, at eight years of age, to find a Scottish tutor.

And then she heard her name in the midst of the Gaelic words, and Hugh lifted her hand up as if presenting her. No one booed her as a Duff, but the applause was only scattered and dutiful. She looked speculatively at Dermot, but when her gaze met his, he glanced pointedly away. Hugh released her hand and went on speaking.

“Good evening, my lady,” whispered a man to her right.

She turned quickly, only to find herself relaxing with relief. “Oh, Samuel, you startled me.”

He bowed his head, even as she considered her reaction. He'd been complicit with his chief in capturing her, yet she almost felt him some kind of ally, which was ridiculous. He would never be the man she might beg to help her. She'd already tried that. He'd seen her terrified and afraid, and he'd done nothing to help her escape, simply hid her rebellion from McCallum after the highwaymen attacked. But at the moment, he was a sympathetic face, the only man who spoke to her in English.

Samuel held up a hand, as if he understood her confusion, and they both waited while McCallum finished speaking. When at last he sat down, voices rose again, the musicians started playing, and serving men and women appeared from a far corridor carrying wooden platters above their heads. A burly man came to stand behind Hugh, bristling with weapons, and giving everyone a menacing stare of warning that their chief would be well protected.

“Ye look well, Lady Catriona,” Samuel said.

“Thank you. It is good to feel clean again.”

He grinned. “Aye, I understand the feeling well.”

“What did your chief just say?”

“The right thing, I believe,” Samuel responded, looking out over the relaxed crowd. “How glad he was to have returned, and how he looked forward to proving himself as their chief.”

“Proving himself?”

“Aye, he hasn't been inaugurated yet,” Samuel said, wearing a small grin. “Not that I'm worried about such formalities.”

She glanced at McCallum with interest, but he wasn't looking at her.

The platters were brought to the dais first, and McCallum and Riona were presented with the choicest lamb, chicken, and trout. She was surprised by her wooden trencher, but it was finely crafted and rimmed with silver. Using a drinking
bowl that Samuel called a
cuach
with handles covered in silver, McCallum drank a large mouthful, gave an appreciative nod, and passed it along to Dermot.

“'Tis our famous whisky,” Samuel told her, “the makings of which your family coveted for generations.”

“Which led to the infamous betrothal,” she said, keeping her expression neutral. “Are these people angry that your precious land has been shared with the Duffs these last twenty years?”

“Impatient, perhaps, for the day their generosity would pay off with the generosity of the earl and the tocher offered on your behalf.”

There was nothing she wanted to say to that. That contract was the reason she'd been stolen away and most likely ruined in the eyes of Society. Hugh had probably ensured that his people would never have the tocher they expected.

She glowered at her food, but forced herself to eat. Someone began to speak as if to entertain, and she recognized the lilting tone of a poet or bard, which Samuel confirmed for her.

“He speaks of the ancient deeds of our people,” McCallum added from her left.

She turned to face her captor. “Perhaps much of it in battle against my people?”

His faint smile contained real amusement and his silver gray eyes glittered. “Some, yes, but there's
always a Campbell to be angry with in every generation.”

He and Samuel looked at each other with understanding, and she barely resisted rolling her eyes. Men and their feuds and their battles. If women ruled the world, things would be different. Of course, Queen Anne had ruled Great Britain until just over ten years ago, and nothing much had changed. In fact, most in Scotland would deem her rule, during which Scotland had become united with England, as a detriment to them all.

To change the subject, she asked Samuel, “Do all of these people live within the castle?”

“Some of these men are chieftains with their own lands who owe fealty to the McCallum. They traveled to Larig upon hearing that Hugh was approaching.”

She hadn't even known McCallum had sent word ahead, but of course, he'd often been apart from her in Stirling.

“Many of the young men live here,” Samuel continued. “They're the chief's gentlemen, chosen from the finest youth from our best families. They're well trained in battle, but they're also tacksmen, who act as the administrators for all the land and people.”

Riona eyed McCallum, who was listening to Samuel talk. She asked, “So Dermot chose all these men?”

“As did my father, of course,” McCallum an
swered. “I am confident they chose well. I look forward to becoming reacquainted with them all again.”

It sounded to her like divided loyalties were a problem waiting to happen, but that could only help her cause. If McCallum was distracted, he wouldn't notice her focus on Dermot. Hugh took another deep sip of the whisky being passed in the
cuach.
He'd mentioned his father's reliance on strong drink, and wondered if that made him careful about it for himself.

When the meal was over, McCallum came out from behind the dais and talked to many people. She simply watched him, glad he didn't ask her to join him since she wouldn't have a clue what they were discussing. No one came to talk to her except Samuel, and when he was drawn away, she stood alone beside her chair, feeling lost and alienated.

And then she saw Dermot momentarily alone as he turned to take another swig of the whisky being passed. Inhaling a fortifying breath, she approached him, wearing a forced smile.

If Dermot was surprised, he didn't show it.

“Lady Catriona, glad I am to finally meet ye,” he said, bowing over her hand.

“Glad or relieved, sir?” she asked.

He smiled, and it was an easier thing on him than it was upon his cousin, although there was a resemblance in the strong bones of the forehead. “A chief
is only happiest when he has a good wife at his side, my lady. With you, Hugh has found luck and favor.”