The Wrong Bride (10 page)

His body gleamed with sweat, and she was able to see a scar or two slicing across firm muscle. His abdomen had actual ridges. Staring at him made her feel hot and uncomfortable, so very aware of him as a man, and not just as her captor. The memory of his kiss suddenly seared her, and she felt the heat of a blush. She didn't want to be drawn to him, had been fighting this betrayal of her body all along, but her resistance didn't seem to matter.

“Ye'll be noticin' the scars,” Mrs. Wallace said, not bothering to hide her amusement.

“Oh . . . of course. Sheriffmuir?”

“Och, and as a lad. Broke a bone at least every
other year, it seemed. I'm still amazed he turned out whole.” She sighed with contentment. “He is a fine lad, and the worryin' of some was for naught.”

“He hasn't been here these last ten years, I know. What was he doing?”

“Another thing ye can ask him when ye don't ken what to say at supper.”

How was she to discover anything if people didn't want to talk? “Who is that he's training with?”

“Ah, that's Alasdair Lennox.”

“I've heard that name,” she said, relieved to concentrate on something other than McCallum's superior physical condition. “He and the McCallum were friends as boys.”

Mrs. Wallace nodded, eyes narrowed as she studied the two who'd grown into men. “Aye, foster brothers who took turns bein' raised in each other's households. Friends sometimes, opponents others, and I can see that might not have changed.”

“It's been a long time since Alasdair took the whipping that McCallum deserved.”

The housekeeper's gaze flashed to her in surprise. “Ye be knowin' about that already?”

“Dermot and Himself told me.”

“I wouldn't have wanted to be a part of
that
conversation.”

“It was certainly uncomfortable,” Riona admitted.

Mrs. Wallace eyed her, then looked past her at
McCallum and shook her head. “I'll be leavin' ye then to learn yer way about. Dinner will be at one by the mantel clock in the great hall. Until then!”

And the cheerful woman bustled away, leaving Riona alone. Truly alone, for as she stood in the archway, more than once she saw people who hadn't been in the great hall, and didn't know who she was, give her strange looks. She received the occasional nod or curtsy, but everyone seemed too intimidated to talk to her. She was used to feeling inconspicuous, and had often wished someone, anyone would notice her as she cared for the ill Bronwyn.

Now she had all the notice—the notoriety—as the McCallum's Duff bride brought to end the feud.

She stood for a while longer, watching the training, especially watching McCallum. She'd felt his strength when he'd tossed her over his shoulder and carried her off her balcony; she'd felt the smooth, warm firmness of his muscles when she'd pressed against him in her sleep. But seeing him half naked in front of so many people—it seemed sinful.

She leaned against the ancient stone, pretending she was out of the way, and tried to understand him. He spoke to his men with conviction, as if he'd been born to rule. He was forceful and aggressive in his mannerisms, then demonstrating a technique with patience, even when one of the men was slow to learn.

What did his people see when they looked at him? Where had he been for ten years, hiding away from his father?

Then the man who'd first been his opponent clapped McCallum on the shoulder and suddenly pointed at her. She stiffened when McCallum looked up at her, and though they were separated by half a courtyard, she felt the pull of him, the awareness of what he wanted of her, of how he wanted her to submit. It was as if he kissed her even now, and everyone could see.

The men shared a laugh, and though McCallum raised a hand to her, he did not leave his training. She turned away and had to force herself not to run back to the safety of her bedroom—but really, it was his, wasn't it? Everything she had, everything she did, was only because of him. She was as under his control as she'd been under parents' control, like trading one prison for another. But then, she hadn't exactly known it was a prison—she'd simply been a daughter without the means to set up her own household unless at her father's whim.

Now? Now McCallum wanted to make her his wife, to give her her own household—her own castle! But it was all against her will, against the very contract he thought he was upholding. It was a terrible mess. When these people who now looked at her with confusion or skepticism discovered
the truth, and perhaps lost the precious land they counted on for the whisky they sold—their expression would turn to betrayal and disgust.

She shuddered and hurried back toward the laird's towerhouse.

H
ugh watched a moment too long after Riona ran away from the lower courtyard.

“Your bride doesn't seem in a hurry to be with ye,” Alasdair taunted lightly.

Hugh eyed his foster brother. They hadn't seen each other for years after fighting side by side at Sheriffmuir and the disastrous summer after Hugh's recovery. Several years back, Alasdair had journeyed to Edinburgh for a family matter and contacted Hugh. They'd met at a coffee house, and it had been like they were lads again, away from the Highlands and the influence of their fathers.

But now that Hugh was back at Larig Castle, and been nominated as the chief? There was a change in Alasdair, too, almost a need to prove himself Hugh's equal—when that had never been in doubt.

Hugh told himself to be patient, that it was only
his first day testing the preparedness of his gentlemen.

But the two men once closest to him, Dermot and Alasdair, had not granted him the reunion he'd hoped for. And the rest of the men?

He eyed them as they traded partners and prepared to test each other's swords. In this time of uneasy peace, they were close enough to battle-ready for him not to complain. Since his father's death, and the illness of the old man who'd been his war chief, Clan McCallum had gone without one. That was one of the first things Hugh intended to fix. Was Alasdair ready for such a position? He'd fought at Sheriffmuir with the clan, had roamed these hills outwitting Duffs and Campbells and Maclarens for more years than Hugh had. Could he do justice to the position? Hugh would have to discuss it with Dermot, he thought, grimacing at the prospect.

T
HOUGH
Riona had meant to rush right to her bedroom and hide, she ended up pausing at the woman room to watch the skill of the local women with spinning wheel and loom. Some spoke English, and they seemed awed and excited to meet a woman who'd spent her life among the Sassenach. Riona answered questions, and ended up with needlework supplies to keep herself occupied, and a promise to return again. It all felt wrong. She didn't
belong here; she wasn't the bride McCallum was supposed to have, and these women would look at her with anger when they discovered the truth.

When she left them, she kept her head down and focused on following the corridor, wanting only to return to her room, when she almost ran right into Hugh's foster brother, Alasdair. He didn't see her as he remained poised in a doorway, as if looking at someone in the room beyond. Not wanting to disturb him—perhaps unwilling to face him—she retreated to where the corridor took a turn, trying to remember a different way back to her room.

“Dermot, ye don't plan to train with Himself?” Alasdair asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Riona's head came up in surprise. Though she knew she should not eavesdrop, being kidnapped had made her willing to ignore propriety. Alasdair stepped within the room, and she was worried she'd no longer be able to hear any part of their conversation. After creeping back down the hall, she impulsively spilled the basket of skeins of thread and dropped to her knees to gather them. Alasdair chuckled, and she realized she'd missed Dermot's response.

Alasdair said, “Surely ye cannot avoid the training yard forever.”

“I do not plan to,” Dermot said, his voice heavy with exasperation. “I just did not anticipate how difficult it would be when he returned.”

Riona held her breath.

“But he's been elected by the clan,” Alasdair said, with some compassion in his voice. “Ye knew this day would come—we've known it our whole lives.”

“Aye, but I thought I'd be more certain of my place at his side, and instead, I found myself questioning all he's done leading up to this moment, especially the time he's spent away.”

“Dermot—”

“I know he represented us in Edinburgh and beyond,” Dermot said furiously. “I know what kind of man his father was—but
we
were here dealing with the old chief, and Hugh was not. Just because he's been elected our laird doesn't prove to me that he deserves such an exalted position, that he'll know what to do with it.”

“Dermot,” Alasdair began quietly, “ye cannot let people hear ye talking against him.”

“I'm not against him—I just need proof he's worthy to be our chief, that he's become a man we can trust, no longer the hotheaded lad who—” He broke off.

“'Tis not your place to control him,” Alasdair said. “Ye couldn't then, and ye cannot try now.”

Riona thought she heard footsteps heading back toward the corridor, and she quickly picked up the last skein of thread and fled.

Only when she had her back against the closed door of her bedroom did she feel like she could
breathe again and think about what she'd overheard and what it might mean for her. She wasn't concerned with Hugh—he'd caused all his own recent problems and he would have to accept the consequences. Right now, it was all about her, and somehow finding a way to freedom. She'd never have her old life back—being kidnapped was more than enough ruination for a lady—but she didn't want that life anyway. There had to be something more for her, and she wasn't going to find it at Larig Castle in a forced marriage.

Was Dermot the key to unlocking this prison? How could she use his dissatisfaction?

A
S
the sun was setting that evening, Riona was standing in her bedroom, looking out over the courtyard, when the door opened behind her. She turned to find Mrs. Wallace and Mary carrying supper trays.

“'Tis so romantic that Himself wants to dine alone with his bride,” Mrs. Wallace was saying to Mary, who blushed upon noticing Riona.

Riona gritted her teeth and forced a smile.

McCallum entered then, his hair drawn into an untidy queue, his garments stained from a day in the training yard. “Forgive me for not bathing before joining you. I lost track of the hour. We can eat while my bath is prepared.”

She should be repulsed by his earthiness, but it
seemed manly and invigorating to be reminded of the way he'd used his body under the sun, his muscles rippling with every thrust of the sword, every jump to miss a swinging blade.

She had to stop thinking about this or she wouldn't be able to meet Mrs. Wallace's kind eyes.

When they were at last alone, he dug into his food as if he hadn't eaten at dinner, when she knew he had, along with the men he'd been training.

“What did ye think of Larig Castle?” he finally asked, as he took a drink of whisky.

She eyed the strong drink. “In England, wine would be served with dinner, and the men retire for more potent libation away from the ladies.”

“Ye might have noticed,” he answered wryly, “but we aren't in England.”

She nodded with a sigh and returned to his question. “The castle is impressive, of course, although I'm given to understand that the only books are within your private solar—locked away from the rest of the household.”

“I'll see that ye're given access, of course, although I don't know if my father had the kind of books ye'd be interested in.”

“How do you know what I'm interested in, when you know nothing about me?” she asked sweetly.

“Very true,” he said, wearing a reluctant smile. “We could change that.”

She ignored that and wondered why did he have
to catch her eye like this? He wasn't even that handsome. But she was learning that a man didn't need a classic profile to be masculine and appealing.

She hesitated, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of wifely conversation, but she needed to know everything she could. “The men you trained with today—they didn't seem to have a problem with you having been gone all this time.”

He shrugged. “If they did, 'twas no matter to me. I don't need to be liked, only respected.”

“Now that sounds like wishful thinking.”

He paused while slicing a piece of mutton. “That I be respected?”

“No, that you don't care if you're liked. You've brought a bride home—the wrong one, I'll remind you—and you're supposedly fulfilling this contract that will help your clan. You want them to like you for it.”

He sat back in his chair and wiped his lips with a napkin. “These things I do out of responsibility and duty, Riona. We all have such things in our lives. Did ye not have obligations at home?”

“Obligations you took me from?” she shot back.

“Obligations that every young woman leaves behind when she marries.”

She sighed, knowing he spoke the truth. “I nursed my sister through illness much of the last ten years.”

His dark eyebrows rose. “Ten years? You were but a child then.”

“I believe you were stealing muskets from redcoats at that same age.”

A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “True. What illness does your sister suffer?”

“Consumption.”

He frowned. “I'm sorry.”

She felt a pang of old sorrow at the thought of her sister dying someday. “Bronwyn is younger than I, and when she was a child, I was the only one who could keep her resting abed with stories.”

“Ah, the Scottish blood is yet strong in ye,” he pointed out. “Ye ken how important our stories are. The bard sings of them enough to remind us all—especially me, who's supposed to live up to the bravery of McCallum ancestors.”

“So the performance last night wasn't just for entertainment?” she asked, surprised.

“Aye, there was that. But also specifically for me to hear and remember.”

“They expect a lot of you.”

“Just as your parents expected much of ye, when ye should have been allowed to be a child. At least I was allowed that.”

“What about after you'd recovered from your wounds at Sheriffmuir? Didn't they all expect much of you then? How were you permitted to leave?”

His face, once open and pleasant, seemed to shutter with impassivity. “I played my part in the welfare of our clan, and served them well from Edinburgh.”

She remembered Dermot saying that as well. “And London? I heard that mentioned. How was that a part of serving your clan?”

“I was elected a Member of Parliament for our county.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You sat in the Commons?”

“Where else could I sit, since the Crown went back on its promise to allow Scottish nobility an immediate seat in the Lords? Not that I'm a nobleman like your father.”

She blinked at him. “It takes me a minute to remember you don't mean my true father when you say such things.” He just looked at her, and she waved a hand, dismissing that topic. “I am still trying to picture you as an MP.”

“'Tis not an easy thing for a Scotsman to be. Ye saw what the journey is like, and most MPs do not have coaches. We come down by horse the whole length of Great Britain, a journey of weeks, only to be treated as if we're country simpletons with no understanding of our land. Contempt is too mild a word for how we are viewed.”

“And you've done this for ten years, from January to August,” she said slowly, seeing him in a new light, rather than simply an uneducated villain.

“Seven years.”

So that left three more unaccounted years, but
she'd think about that later. “How could I never have met you?”

“And did ye meet many untitled Scots at your fine London dinner parties and musicales?” he asked sarcastically.

“Oh. No, I did not. Unless you count men like my father, the sons of noblemen.”

“Not often invited, were we, the sons of chiefs? Some of us could not have afforded the necessary garments, of course. Living in London was an expense many had not anticipated, and few could tolerate for long.”

“You did.”

He nodded slowly, taking another bite of goose and chewing before continuing. “Aye, I wasn't going to turn tail and head for the Highlands at the first sign of trouble. I even served on a parliamentary committee long enough to be named the chairman.”

“What committee?” she asked curiously.

“Gaols. Few wanted to discuss or implement prison reform. Perhaps my early lawbreaking against redcoats, that could have landed me in gaol, subconsciously guided me.”

She still couldn't believe he'd been in London all those years and their paths had never crossed. “Did you wear your plaid?”

“Nay, that would have kept Scottish MPs per
manently on the outside. Londoners could almost pretend we were English northerners when listening to us speak. But to wear colorful tartan? Nay, I chose to blend in with my breeches and coat.”

Just as she'd first seen him. “Ye did not try to meet Cat?”

His face hardened. “I met your father once and he gave me strict orders to stay away from ye, said ye were having a difficult time accepting your duty to your family. And I believed him. When all the while, ye were simply kept ignorant of the whole situation.”

She froze when he reached across the table and touched her hand.

“If I'd have seen ye on the street,” he said huskily, “I would have followed ye anywhere.”

His gray eyes were not so wintry when he looked upon her, and they strangely drew her in with a feeling of intimacy and focus she wasn't used to experiencing with men. She pulled away, uncomfortable.

He didn't protest, just went back to eating, and she did the same. For several long minutes, the silence seemed to stretch into a tension she'd only ever felt with him. He was watching her too closely, seeing things about her, intimate things, she hadn't known she could feel. She didn't want to feel anything but loathing for him after how he'd forced her from her family against her will.

But . . . none of that seemed to matter where her body was concerned. She could hear him breathing, knew that it quickened, which somehow made her own lungs labor. The weight of his stare was like a caress, and gooseflesh spread across her skin. She shivered.