The Wrong Bride (13 page)

“You don't have hedges or walls?”

“On our hillsides? Nay, the cattle roam free on our lands, but that only ruins crops and good land not meant for pasture. But does Dermot—or the tenants—care? Nay, they only wish to do as we've always done, as our fathers before us have done. If only they could see how much more successful farming is in England, but they don't believe in change.”

“Then as chief, I imagine you just order them to do as you want,” she said mildly.

He saw her studying the second whisky in his hand, which only made him frown harder. “And ye're proof that trying to force a person against her will is a successful strategy?”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, he thought he might see her smile, but she controlled herself.

“But the clan lands are yours to oversee,” she countered. “Do as you wish.”

He grumbled and sawed at a piece of venison with his knife.

“There could be another reason Dermot is being so obstinate,” she mused.

He eyed her.

“He's not against agricultural improvements—he's simply against
you.
”

And then he did receive her rare, satisfied smile, not quite what he'd hoped for. He rolled his eyes and went back to his food. Riona turned away and began to speak to Samuel on her other side. Hugh knew Samuel often translated for her, and he hoped that she felt like she had a friend here. If she let herself, he suspected she had the sweetness and generosity to make plenty more . . .

He considered Samuel for a moment. When Hugh had first arrived home and been greeted by him, Hugh could have sworn Samuel had meant to tell him something, hesitated, then changed his mind. Hugh shrugged. Samuel would speak when he was ready.

Alasdair took a seat in the empty chair to Hugh's left, the one that would have been Dermot's if the man hadn't stiffly excused himself.

“Alasdair,” Hugh said warily.

Alasdair nodded. “Hugh.” He looked past Hugh at Riona and Samuel talking together, then said in a low voice, “There's something ye should know.”

R
iona knew that something had happened between him and Alasdair by the thundercloud that was Hugh's lowered brows. The bard sang as if to distract him, but it didn't work. Hugh glowered at her and drank too much, and she began to feel uneasy. Tonight she could be trapped with—or tied to!—a drunken Highlander in a terrible temper. What was he capable of?

They retired to their separate rooms soon after, and she found herself pacing. She'd ordered a bath to be brought to him, and she hoped the heat was soaking away the alcohol.

She paused, straining to listen when she thought she heard something from his room. Her curiosity began to get the best of her, and she wanted to be prepared, so she gently opened the door and crept into the dressing room, lit only with a candle. They hadn't used this room much yet, for they hadn't en
tertained family or friends. She had no ladies to sew with—although Hugh's family was supposedly arriving soon, and that would change, she thought glumly. At least now, her days were her own.

At the door to Hugh's room, she leaned to put an ear next to it. Misjudging in the dark, she gently banged her head against it instead. Wincing, she began to retreat.

“Lingering at my door, Riona?” he called.

His words didn't sound slurred, and she tried to take that as a good sign. But she said nothing, hoping he'd think it only a castle cat.

“Open the blasted door and get in here!” he shouted.

She let out her breath on a shaky exhale and did as he commanded. Running away would only make him chase her, and might end up worse for her.

She froze in the doorway upon finding Hugh still in his bath before the fire. His wet shoulders gleamed above the rim, his dark hair was damp and hung in waves to those broad shoulders. There was a goblet on a stool beside him, and he reached for it and took a drink, head turned to eye her.

“Close the door; there's a draft,” he said coldly.

She did so, then leaned back against it.

“You were so curious about my bath. Come closer.”

She wanted to refuse, but found herself taking several steps. She wasn't curious—she was afraid,
she reminded herself sternly. He was like a god here, and she was his prisoner.

Luckily, the room was lit only by a few candles, and it was rather murky and soapy beneath the surface of the water. She shouldn't be looking.

She concentrated on his face and spoke matter-of-factly. “Why are you in such a foul temper? There has to be more than your problem with your tenants and Dermot. Or do you let such a little setback bother you?”

He leaned his head back and stared at her with narrowed eyes. She should focus on that, but the hair on his chest was damp, and seemed to point downward . . .

“Alasdair had news for me tonight, but ye didn't hear him tell me.”

She frowned. “No, I didn't. Was it bad?”

“Seems there was some talk about ye being alone with Samuel by the loch, as if ye were meeting in secret.”

She stiffened, opened her mouth to retort, then closed it. Wasn't this farce better than him knowing what she'd actually done? Because apparently Samuel hadn't told him she'd tested the truth of a bodyguard.

But he was scowling at her, and she realized he thought his friend Samuel was either leading her astray or being led. She shouldn't care if there was a rift between them, but . . . Samuel had tried to
help her in his misguided way; she didn't want to see him suffer.

She crossed her arms over her chest and said heatedly, “Samuel was not trying to get me alone, and believe me, I wanted no company.”

He took another swig of whisky, and when he set it down hard, some sloshed onto the stool and dripped to the floor. “Then explain, because this doesn't make sense. Alasdair—my foster brother!—looked devilish and satisfied with himself. I couldn't decide if he thought he was helping and taunting me at the same time, or trying to hurt me.” He lowered his frowning gaze.

She couldn't believe he was speaking to her so intimately about his feelings, and not just about passion. He was obviously affected by drink. “You can't be hurt by anything
I
do,” she insisted, trying to ignore the pangs of sympathy that stirred in the corner of her soul.

“Tell me what happened, woman!”

He put both hands on the rim of the tub, as if he meant to heave himself out. That was all she'd need, a naked Hugh advancing on her. Instead of running, she might fling herself on him, and then what would he think? And what would she think of herself?

“All right, all right!” she said, holding up both hands. “The only reason we were alone was because I went for a stroll, and didn't know the grounds
around the castle are off limits to me. There are gardens there,” she added quickly, seeing him focus on her face with eyes as cold as mirrors. “Women work in gardens!”

“Ye tried to escape,” he said slowly. “Ye waited until I was gone, and ye tried to escape.”

“I'm not that stupid,” she said wearily. “I had to see if you truly have someone spying on me. And apparently you do.”

“The guards told Samuel ye'd left?”

She hesitated, then gave one quick nod.

He relaxed back in the tub and raked her with a baffled stare. “Where did ye think ye'd go, you a woman all alone?”

“I told you I didn't try to escape. But if I had, where do you
think
I'd go?” she countered with sarcasm.

“To your father's castle.”

“To my
uncle's
castle.”

“Are ye not tired of lying, lass?”

She wanted to yell to the rooftops, but kept her voice calm. “I am not lying.”

“I ken ye're afraid to be married, but—”

She advanced on him and pointed a finger at his face. “I am not afraid of you, nor would I be afraid of a husband I chose. But I did not choose you!”

“Your father did, lass, and surely ye're an
obedient
daughter.”

Was he
taunting
her now? His gaze was certainly sly enough.

With a frustrated groan, she grabbed the pot of soap off the stool and tossed it into the tub. It hit the water with a satisfying smack, splashing Hugh in the face. She turned to run toward the door, but he caught her skirts in his fist and pulled. She toppled right into the tub, landing bottom-first across his lap. Water sloshed out and splashed onto the rug all around them.

“Hugh!” she cried, flailing, trying to find a way to leverage herself out of the tub and away from his slippery, warm skin. But her lower legs dangled over the edge and water soaked her through the hips and up her torso.

With an arm across her body, he held her still. “No more squirming,” he said against her ear, his voice rumbling, “or I won't be responsible for what happens next.”

She froze as she realized that right beneath her backside, she could feel the hard length of his erection. She couldn't look at him, fully aware of a surge of pleasure and longing and an unbearable need to . . . squirm. A long, tense moment passed, with only the sound of water dripping, and both of them breathing shallow and fast.

She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. His gaze was hard, a tic jumped in his jaw, and he was looking down at her chest. Following his line of sight, she realized her dressing gown had parted when he'd yanked on her garments. The only thing
obscuring her nudity was a soaked nightshift that clung to her skin and starkly showed her nipples.

Before she could hide herself, he lifted her and covered her breast with his mouth, sucking on her right through her clothing. She cried out, but it wasn't in fear or denial. A hot wash of passion overcame her, heating her face, her body, her blood. He took turns suckling and then nibbling her, holding her tightly against him, until she was a shuddering mass of need. Somehow her arms were around his head, holding her to him, making it far too obvious what she wanted.

And then he lifted his head and she dropped hers to kiss him, boldly slanting her mouth over his, as he'd taught her. For endless minutes they practically fed from each other, exploring with eagerness. She suckled his tongue; she tasted the whisky and didn't even mind, for it was all a part of him. When she felt his hand cup her breast, she moaned into his mouth. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, plucked at it, then soothed it with a caress, leaving her trembling and gasping.

He broke away and kissed down her neck and found her breast again. She dropped her head back over the edge of the tub, which shamelessly thrust her chest higher.

He put his hand on her leg and slid it beneath her hem. “Come to bed with me, lass.”

Those words brought home the reality of what
she was doing—what she was encouraging. She came upright so fast that more water surged onto the floor.

“No,” she said, her voice hoarse. She had to clear her throat to be louder. “No! Hugh, let me go. We aren't married and we never will be. This is wrong.”

He kept his arms around her for too long, and she almost started struggling, but at last he released her. With a hand on her backside, he heaved her out. She stood bereft and lost on the rug, water dripping down her body, her wet clothes sodden. She shivered uncontrollably, too shocked to cry.

“Go get warm,” he said between clenched teeth. “I'll not be joining ye tonight.”

She fled to the door, then paused and said over her shoulder, “I hope . . . I hope you are not jealous over Samuel. I would never use him against you.”

“Ye think I would punish an innocent man?”

“I don't know. I just want you to know the truth, that he is protecting you.”

“Ye didn't want to tell me the full truth a moment ago.”

She shivered. “I couldn't let your loyal man be harmed. I lied to protect myself,” she said without thinking.

“Ye're very good at that, are ye not?”

Why was it such a personal affront that this particular man thought her a liar? She opened the door, then slammed both it and the next door that
separated them. In her own room, she stripped off her garments and toweled herself dry. Unbidden, images of him doing the same bombarded her. It was a long time before she fell asleep, and though it was summer, she felt cold without him beside her in bed.

R
IONA
couldn't remain inside the castle, where Mrs. Wallace was beginning to seek out her opinion on the running of the household, as if breaking the new wife in slowly. She wasn't going to be in charge here and didn't want to mislead the well-meaning housekeeper. And it was far too much of a lure, that her opinion counted, that she could make decisions.

The rain had stopped, and so she wandered from shop to shop in the lower yard, watching the craftsmen work, receiving the occasional confused or apprehensive stare in return. The clan didn't know what she was doing—neither did she. Though she reminded herself she did have an idea to ask Dermot to go with her to convince Hugh, her plan seemed to be moving so slowly. She could never find time alone with him to build any sort of connection. So she floated through the day as if she were only waiting for what happened next, whether it was Hugh's family arriving, word from the earl that sealed Hugh's fate with his clan, or Hugh losing patience and taking her to wife. She
hated the waiting, without the ability to make her own choices. She'd spent too much of her life doing that.

And then she heard Hugh's voice, and it was as if she was suddenly back in his room again, in his bath, his mouth so intimately giving her pleasure. He might as well have been touching her at that moment, so overwhelming was her body's reaction.

But he wasn't touching her. In fact, his voice was raised in anger. It made her shiver, and she saw more than one man glancing over his shoulder as if he didn't want to be next in line. Her instinct was to run away, but that infuriated her, so she followed the sound of his voice to the stables and stood just outside the large double doors. She realized that Brendan was doing the same thing on the other side of the doors. She ducked back before he saw her.

“These stalls need to be raked out on a regular schedule,” Hugh ordered, “and I'll not see ye feeding oats that have spoiled. I don't know what ye thought ye could get away with under my father's rule, but I demand a higher standard to benefit the beasts that serve us.”

He went on for far too long, until Riona began to think he was being unreasonable. She heard him stomp out of the stables and decided to stay hidden.

“Good day, Laird McCallum,” Brendan said in a small, defensive voice.

Riona figured Hugh must have caught him
eavesdropping. She admired the little boy for not running away from all that dominant-male wrath.

The change in Hugh's voice was surprising. It went from fury to controlled neutrality. “A good day to ye, too, Brendan.”

She found herself peering around the corner, but all she could see was Hugh's impassive profile. Brendan was holding a rake in both hands—as if he'd been charged with mucking out stalls. She held her breath, waiting for the yelling to commence—or would he favor the boy? Which would be worse for Brendan?

Hugh glanced at the rake. “There will be new orders to follow for the care of our horses.”

Brendan nodded, his head lowered. There was a sudden high-pitched bark, and Riona saw that the little terrier had been tied up near where Brendan now stood.

Hugh looked down with a frown. “Is the animal behaving?”

“Aye, sir,” Brendan said.

“Have ye named it?”

It was almost painful yet sweet the way Hugh was trying to connect to the boy through the animal.

“Hamish, sir.”

To her surprise, she could read the amusement that Hugh held back but for the raising of one eyebrow. “'Tis a big name for a little dog.”

“He thinks he's big, sir.”

Riona realized she was not the only one watching this little scene. Next door, the carpenter had put out his head and frowned. Several of the gentlemen on the training yard were standing together whispering, watching Hugh and Brendan.