The Wrong Bride (12 page)

“We did, Mrs. Wallace,” Hugh said, all innocence.

The housekeeper looked at Riona, who could only nod.

Hugh rubbed his hands together. “Shall the bundling commence? Where is the rope?”

She was tempted to say she'd lost it, but knew he'd just find more. She went to the chest. “I hid it from the maid so that gossip would not result.”

“Clever.”

He waited by her box-bed as she brought him the rope, feeling like she was playing a part for Mrs. Wallace. His eyes gleamed with candlelight mirrored in their depths. He took the rope in his big hands, and to her surprise, she shivered, and not with fear. The thought of being at his mercy would once have terrified her, but now she recognized that being bound meant none of it was her fault, that she could accept what happened—accept and secretly enjoy it.

She looked away, mortified, then closed her eyes when he lightly ran the rope along her cheek.

She jerked her head back and shot a glance toward Mrs. Wallace, who pointedly fiddled with the keys hung at her waist.

“Sit down,” he said in a low voice.

Riona did so, keeping her gaze averted when he knelt at her feet. There was something far too meaningful about looking into his eyes. She saw
passion and desire, and it appealed mightily to her to be wanted by someone—by him.

“I've never tied a woman up before,” he said for her ears alone. “It seems to be rather . . . stimulating.”

She wished she could kick him, but the rope was already wound about her ankles. She settled for an aggravated sigh that made him chuckle. When he was finished, she used her hands to slide backward into bed before he could touch her.

“Good night, Laird McCallum, Lady Riona,” Mrs. Wallace called as she closed the door behind her.

Riona rolled her eyes at the warm humor lacing the woman's words. She stared at the ceiling of the box-bed while he blew out the candles and joined her. She lay there stiffly, determined not to play along with this farce, to discourage conversation. But the silence lengthened and filled with undercurrents of awareness and tension. His big body sagged the mattress, subtly encouraging her to move closer, and she had to fight to stay on her own side. He gave off heat, too, and within the cold stone walls of the castle, it was alluring. And he smelled of soap. At last, she had to distract him—or to be honest, distract herself.

“When will you officially be declared the chief?” she asked, risking a glance at him.

When he folded his arms behind his head and stared up as she had, she breathed a little sigh of relief.

“At a ceremony in a week or two. 'Tis a foregone conclusion, unless ye wonder if ye're to marry a different chief. After all, your dowry is a powerful incentive, and the clan wants it for their own.”

She grimaced, knowing the clan was not going to get Cat's dowry any time soon. “No, I wasn't thinking that. I was just thinking about the duties of a chief, and since my uncle did not live in Scotland, he did not train the Duff clansmen as you do.”

“Usually we rely on the war chief for that, but as ye probably realize, I need them all to become familiar with me again.”

“But ye have no war chief?”

“I'll name one. Probably Alasdair.”

“That man who seemed to take such delight in fighting you?”

Hugh harrumphed. “Aye, him. He's younger than a chief usually appoints, but his father was war chief many years ago, and Alasdair knows these mountains as well as anyone.”

“And warfare? Does he know that?”

“He was with Dermot and myself at Sheriffmuir. We all know the folly of bad choices. I can never forget our retreat from Perth, when some of the soldiers, under orders from the bumbling Earl of Mar, burned three of our own villages to slow the advance of the Duke of Argyll. Homes and livelihoods wasted because Mar was ineffectual and lost the initiative.”

The sadness in his voice made her look at him at last. His brows were lowered in a frown, muscles in his jaw working as if he clenched his teeth.

“Alasdair may have the background you require,” she said hesitantly, “but does he have the temperament? He seemed like he rather enjoyed taunting you in front of your own men.”

He glanced down at her, the storm clouds leaving his eyes. “Are ye upset on my behalf, like a true wife?”

“Of course not,” she said hastily. “You can certainly take care of yourself.” Changing back to a safer subject, she said, “Wasn't there another Jacobite battle after the Rising? Was he there with you as well?”

“We didn't send men because Scotland and its problems were only being used by Spain to harass the British government. Spain promised a fleet of soldiers would land in southern England, and a small fleet would meet with the Jacobites in Scotland. But just like the last Spanish armada of the sixteenth century, storms caused this fleet to founder and turn back. Only two Spanish ships came to the Outer Hebrides, and their force and the small contingent of Jacobites were no match for the redcoats and the royal ships that sailed into Loch Alsh. They fought briefly at Glen Shiel and then went into full retreat, without any Scottish deaths. A farce, the whole thing.”

She nodded, knowing this was the history of her people as well—and her mother's people on the opposite side. Who was she to be loyal to? Or could she just stay separate and hope the conflicts never touched her? That seemed cowardly, and she shied away from the thoughts.

“As for Alasdair,” Hugh went on when she remained silent, “he was a friend to me when I didn't have many.”

Unable to stop herself, she said, “You were the son of the chief—how could you not have friends?”

“Remember who my father was. An unpredictable drunkard with the power of life and death over his clan. They all feared him, and feared provoking him. 'Twas easier to keep their children away from me and my sister—and Maggie didn't make it easy for anyone to approach her.”

This Maggie was more and more intriguing, but she didn't ask questions.

“But Alasdair's father asked if he could foster me, like the other boys were able to do. Even my own father was shocked at the suggestion, but he willingly got me out of the castle. It was the best year of my life. Alasdair was a true brother to me, and when I found out about the contract at thirteen and did what I could to rebel, 'twas Alasdair who tempered my wild plans. I would have done more than steal muskets from redcoats were it not for him.”

“And then he was whipped in your place,” she said sympathetically.

She glanced at his profile again, and rather than ferocious, his expression was pensive.

“We were never quite the same after that,” Hugh admitted. “And then my mother sent us away. And though she meant to protect us, it alienated us. Going to battle with my clan cemented some of the bond but then . . .”

Agnes.
She thought the word, but didn't speak it. She didn't want to know how Agnes died or if Brendan was the son she bore Hugh. But if it was true, what kind of man let his son become a stable groom to survive?

She stopped those thoughts, reminding herself that Brendan could be another cousin. There seemed to be hundreds and hundreds of them.

And then she had a terrible thought: Was Agnes the girl Hugh wanted to marry but couldn't because of the contract?

She felt a slash of guilt she had no business feeling. She wasn't the coveted bride, this wasn't her life, and she was determined to leave it. She'd warned Hugh that he was making a mistake and he'd chosen not to believe her, had forced his will upon her. The consequences would be his to accept.

And his clan's. If Hugh couldn't make it right for them . . . She thought about the hidden land in the mountains, where they seemed to believe mystical
faeries made the best water, grew the best peat and barley, as if their whisky was some kind of talisman for the clan. Hugh had already made himself untrustworthy in their eyes, with his youthful immaturity and whatever had happened to Agnes. And perhaps they all even knew the truth about the boy.

But if they lost the land, they might never forgive Hugh.

L
ying wide awake beside Riona, Hugh found his thoughts lingering on Alasdair, and how the bond they'd shared had frayed and weakened. The only way to make it better was to show his foster brother that he was there to stay, that the clan meant everything to him.

He didn't actually like talking about it, but knew women appreciated that sort of thing. If Riona was ever to accept her life, to trust him, she wanted to know about him. All he wanted to do was move forward, to prove himself.

He had to prove himself to Riona, too. She wasn't like other women, content to accept that men made the rules. He'd been exasperated by her need to fight her fate, but he was learning that such spirit made her interesting and appealing. He would find a way to make her understand that submitting could be
pleasurable, that being his wife would make her happy.

He rolled onto his side, braced his head on his hand, and looked down at her. He couldn't miss how she tensed, how beneath her nightshift and dressing gown, her legs tightened futilely against the restraints.

He put a hand on her thigh, and she startled. “Settle down, lass. Fighting the ropes will only chafe your delicate skin. And then I'll be forced to nurse ye, to rub salve into your flesh . . .”

She so completely stilled that he had to chuckle. He leaned down and spoke into her ear. “That's better.”

He waited for her to tell him to move his hand, but it didn't happen. She was trembling, her eyes downcast, but he knew this wasn't fear, not after the incredible kiss they'd shared the previous night. Or maybe it was a kind of fear, but of herself and what would happen if she gave in.

He took his hand from her thigh, then plucked the tie from her braid and used his fingers to comb out the locks. He spread her blond hair across the pillow like a halo. She wasn't an angel, but he didn't want her to be perfect or lofty or pure.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, lowering his face to inhale the floral scent of her hair.

He picked up a curl and used it like a paintbrush
across her cheek. She twitched, bit her lip, and kept her gaze firmly on the ceiling. He traced a path down the slope of her nose and over her lips, lingering to tease her chin.

“Hugh,” she began with exasperation.

“Shh.”

He used her hair for feathering touches down her neck to the edge of her dressing gown. The lock of her hair did his touching for him, traveling down between her breasts even as he imagined what it would be like if it were her bare skin.

Her breathing was swift and unsteady, and ceased altogether when he circled her breasts at a slow pace, first one and then the other. He traced the little false paintbrush very near the peaks, but always backed off. He was waiting for her groan of disappointment and need, but she withheld it with some sort of herculean effort. Her tightly closed eyes and need to moisten her dry lips was not only a balm to his pride, but made him long to show her more.

At last he could resist no longer, and he twirled the end of her hair across her nipple. She gasped and shuddered, pulling her hair free of his hand.

“Stop! Hugh—you shouldn't—I mustn't—”

“Mustn't feel pleasure? Our bodies were designed for it, lass. Every part of your skin will crave my touch before long. And I not only want to touch”—he let his lips brush her ear as he spoke—“I want to taste.”

She made a strangled sound and turned her flushed face away from him. His blood was afire with need, his mind trying to stop him, knowing he would not have release this night, or perhaps not any night soon.

This was a seduction that would last a lifetime. He'd spent his adulthood learning patience, and now he could put it to the test. She was worth it.

“Sleep, lass. But I'm not leaving your bed.”

He rolled onto his back because he didn't trust himself not to touch her again. He listened to the gradual quieting of her breathing, felt the trembling slowly fade away. Turning his head, he saw her eyes closed, her expression relaxed as she slipped into sleep.

How long would she fight him? And would her resistance outlast his ability to control his passion for her?

R
IONA
awoke when Hugh left the bed at dawn, though she kept her eyes closed as he tucked the counterpane around her. Through the faint gray out the windows, she watched him put another brick of peat on the coals of the fire, as if he cared about her comfort.

He cared about making her want him, wanting her to stay, she thought with resignation.

She might be an innocent, but she knew enough about the world to know he could simply force
her to accept him in front of his people, force her to accept the marriage because of the contract, but he wasn't doing that. And she had to reluctantly admire him for that—even if she thought he was a stubborn fool for not believing that she told him the truth.

But if he believed her, then their wedding would be a lie, and he wasn't ready to accept defeat.

But she wasn't ready to hang around just waiting and hoping for it, she thought, watching his body as he walked toward the doorway to the dressing room. His shoulders were so incredibly broad and masculine, full of muscle from wielding a sword, and she couldn't help her fascination. His hips were narrow, as if built to lie between her thighs. That forbidden thought brought on a physical ache of need that scared her. Last night, when he'd teased her with her own hair, she'd been shocked how desperate she'd been for him to caress her breasts, how disappointed when he'd only teased the peaks for endless minutes. And then when he'd actually touched them, the shock had gone through her body and to that most secret place between her thighs. She was aware that touching herself felt good, but when
he'd
touched her . . . She'd had no idea a man could do that to her, even though she was so unwilling to be seduced—even though he was her cousin's betrothed.

She covered her faced with a pillow and groaned
into it. She had to bring about an end to this farce before it was too late.

At breakfast in the great hall, she discovered he'd already left for the day, off to see nearby rigs of land. Samuel had told her Hugh had been studying new agricultural methods and wanted to try them. Dermot had gone with him, and she was relieved Hugh hadn't insisted she attend.

She returned to her room for her cloak. It was another gray, rainy day, which fit in perfectly with an idea she'd just had. She was testing the castle's defenses—and Hugh's promise of a secret bodyguard watching her every move.

She left the castle as she did each day, and began a slow walk around the courtyards. People were used to seeing her now, and some even nodded, but no one gave her more attention than that. Maybe there was no bodyguard at all, and Hugh had lied to keep her in line.

She decided to leave through the main gatehouse, where far more people came and went, hoping she'd remain inconspicuous. Packhorses with supplies and travelers on foot entered each day. Guards stopped everyone arriving, but those leaving seemed free to do so. Just in case the guards had been told to watch for her, she timed her departure for when several packhorses were leaving together, and walked on the far side of them. She kept her hood up, her head down, while her heart pounded. Guards spoke
to new arrivals in Gaelic, horses neighed, chickens squawked, but she just kept moving.

The packhorses distanced themselves from her as she followed the winding trail down the hillside toward Loch Voil. Her hopes began to rise with every footfall—there was no bodyguard! How could she use this new knowledge?

“Lady Riona, allow me to accompany ye on your walk today.”

She winced and stumbled to a halt, recognizing the voice. Turning, she found Samuel ambling toward her, wearing a pleased smile as if he was glad for her company.

“So ye'd like to stroll by our loch,” he said as he came abreast of her. “'Tis a rainy day, but the beauty of our mountains framing the water cannot be denied. Shall we go?”

Silent in defeat, she trudged at his side, going ever downward toward the water. She looked wistfully to the east, wondering if she would ever leave this place again.

“Samuel, are you the mysterious bodyguard Hugh told me about?” she asked, when they reached level ground near the water's edge.

There was a log on its side, perfectly placed as if for sitting and admiring the view. Samuel gestured, and she sat down, grabbed a stone, and heaved it into the calm water. The splash and the widening circles didn't make her feel better.

“The guards knew to contact me if ye left,” he said, not exactly answering her question. “Hugh made sure they believed he was only worried for your safety in our wild, dangerous land, that ye needed an escort into the village. But ye weren't going to the village.”

“Of course I was.”

With a faint smile, he shook his head. “Nay, Lady Riona, that will not work with me. What did ye think ye'd accomplish like this?”

“I knew I would not have freedom,” she whispered, lowering her head to her folded arms and trying desperately not to cry.

Samuel said nothing for several long minutes as she got herself under control. She heard birds, and the faint plop of something landing in the water, but whether it was a fish jumping or not, she didn't care.

“Will it be so bad to be the McCallum's wife?”

“I'm not his wife,” she said fiercely, raising her head to glare at him. “I'm his prisoner. And I wasn't foolish enough to risk being alone in this savage country, but I had to know if I was constantly under watch.”

Samuel's expression remained mild. “I understand that among the nobility, arranged marriages are common.”

“I'm not the child of a nobleman,” she insisted. “My father was the child of an earl, but I am not. This
isn't a fairy tale I've invented, but the truth. Why do you not send word to the earl's castle and confirm that there are two cousins named Catriona?”

“As if we speak often to each other, ye mean?” he teased.

“Well, shouldn't you all be civil, with a marriage erasing a feud?”

“'Tis not that simple, my lady,” Samuel said, his smile fading. “There are hundreds of years of warfare, with cattle reiving by Duffs that risked our very survival through terrible winters.”

“And McCallums sat innocent on their lands and didn't respond or initiate any of these raids? Surely there are two sides to this feud.”

“My clansmen haven't forgotten that one hundred and thirty-two years ago, a McCallum chief was a guest of a Duff, and he and his wife were found murdered in the bed provided by their host.”

Riona sighed. “That is a terrible story, and I'm sorry for it. But that was one hundred and thirty-two years ago, Samuel. Shouldn't it be left in the past?”

“And hence, to make that happen, a marriage between a McCallum and a Duff, and the sharing of ancient land.”

“And the obtaining of Duff money,” she said skeptically.

Samuel shrugged. “A dowry is typical for weddings, Lady Riona. In the contract, ye'll be given
ample dower land and money should ye someday be widowed.”

She shrugged. “What care I? I will never marry Hugh.”

“He aims to change your mind, my lady. Is it so difficult to imagine that he can do so?”

She felt herself blush and wondered if Hugh had spoken of their private business. How many men knew that Hugh tied her up to keep her in bed? But she couldn't ask that. She stood up. “I'm ready to go back.”

Samuel rose as well and gestured for her to start up the narrow path ahead of him. “If it helps, my lady, Hugh has already sent an escort to his mother and sister in Edinburgh to tell them that ye've arrived. They'll come soon, and then ye'll not feel so lonely.”

Riona gritted her teeth and said nothing. The news didn't make her feel any better. There'd be two more women in the castle on Hugh's side, women who wouldn't understand why she didn't want to marry their precious Hugh.

H
UGH
and his small party returned to Larig Castle before dinner the next day, and he was in a foul mood. Dermot had infuriated him, the tenants had been obstinate and—he'd missed Riona, which annoyed the hell out of him.

As he'd lain wrapped in his plaid on the hill
side, the horses hobbled nearby, he'd thought of her lounging in her cozy box-bed, alone and gleeful at his absence. Every time he'd almost fallen asleep, he'd imagined that she'd shed her dressing gown, and her thin nightshift would be translucent in the firelight. While he'd shivered in the damp chill, she'd been warm beneath the bedclothes, relaxed in sleep.

And just the thought had given him a cock-stand and further ruined his night.

At the castle, Dermot took leave of him without a word of farewell or conciliation. When Hugh arrived in the great hall, Riona took one look at him and her eyes went wide. She said nothing, only gestured to the servant, who pulled out his chair. A washbasin was brought forward, and when he was clean, he dug into stewed venison with a ferocious appetite.

He wanted Riona to ask how his trip was, like a loving wife. But she didn't want to be that wife, didn't want his caresses, didn't care that he could make her feel such pleasure she'd never want to leave the bed.

In fact, she looked suspiciously nervous and chastened, and he didn't know why. He took a deep sip of whisky, felt it burn his throat and warm his gut, but that only helped a little. He poured another.

“Dermot is a fool,” he finally said in a low voice that only Riona could hear.

She eyed him as she daintily broke a piece of bread and buttered it.

She didn't ask him why, and he went on.

“I've spent years learning the newest agricultural methods that have had such success in England, field rotation, marsh drainage, cattle enclosures to keep the crops from being ruined.”