The Wrong Bride (2 page)

Riona took a step back, though it brought her up
against the coach, the better to keep both men in sight. The second man, the coachman, regarded her with interested brown eyes in a plain face. The hair beneath his cap made him unique, bright red curls that looked barely tamed by his queue.

Her captor eyed the coachman. “If she doesn't promise, I'll be forced to tie her up.”

“I won't stand for such treatment,” she said, though her voice sounded hollow. “I demand to know why you have abducted me, and what nefarious deeds you have planned!”

His dark brow arched, but otherwise his expression remained impassive. “Lady Catriona, I am chief of the Clan McCallum. Our fathers betrothed us in marriage many years ago. I've come to take ye to wife.”

H
ugh McCallum stared at his betrothed in the early morning light, and her beauty . . . glowed. Her hair had come out of the simple braid she'd worn, and now the many-hued golden strands looked as unkempt as if she'd just gotten out of his bed. Her green eyes were full of sparks, as if she wanted to set him afire. Her face betrayed her every emotion, from full lips that trembled, to the spots of color high on her creamy cheekbones, to her wide eyes that betrayed stunned shock. The gown, chosen to give her the appearance of a plain farmwife, only served to emphasize how elegant she truly was, with a woman's slim yet alluring curves. By candlelight just a few hours before, he'd glimpsed those curves poorly hidden within her fine linen nightshirt, and he'd been stunned.

She was a bonny lass—and she would be his.

He was surprised that his father's cold bargain
with their enemy, the chief of the Duffs and also styled the Earl of Aberfoyle, made long ago when Catriona was a baby, had granted Hugh such a beautiful bride.

Her mouth formed breathless words. “Wh-what d-did you say?”

“We are betrothed. Ye did not know?”

Samuel made an abortive cough, but Hugh only eyed his bodyguard with unspoken warning. Samuel raised both hands, then left to tend the horses.

“You are lying,” she finally said, in a voice that was regaining its strength.

At least she wasn't about to swoon at his feet. He liked to see the strength in her, even when she was fighting against him. He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke patiently. “I do not lie.”

“My father would have told me,” she insisted, small fists on her hips.

The gesture only made his gaze focus there for a brief moment. He stirred himself to resume their discussion. “You are Catriona Duff. I visited your home this afternoon to speak with your father and he behaved dishonorably.”

Her complexion suddenly flushed. “I'm not the only one who is confused. You have got the wrong bride!”

He hadn't expected anything else from her. She was desperate to escape the truth, and it was obvi
ous that her parents had hid that from her. Hugh couldn't be surprised that they would have tried to break the contract and refuse to pay the tocher after they'd won twenty-two years of shared rights to the finest McCallum land just by signing.

“Ye may deny it all ye'd like, but 'twill not work with me.”

She flung her arms wide. “I am telling the truth.”

“Ye're Catriona Duff.”

“Yes, but there are
two
of us. My cousin and I share the same family name because neither of our fathers would give in to the other. We call her Cat and myself Riona.”

He ignored her ridiculous attempts to dissuade him. He knew the duplicity her family was capable of—there were centuries of evidence, including cattle raids during a time of peace. “Riona fits ye well. Womanly.”

He took a step toward his betrothed, feeling the need to touch her. When she darted to the side, he told himself he could be patient. Too much was at stake within his own clan. The money from her tocher would increase their prosperity. And he needed a peaceable, willing bride on his return home after so long away, to cement the clan's respect and dull their memories of his foolish youth.

Knowing he could outrun Riona, he waited to see what she would do. She hesitated, and her tense shoulders gradually slumped as she gazed sol
emnly at the vast expanse of the valley, the dales rising in the northwest, the moors to the northeast. Their long journey would take them up the center between them. She was as cautious as a butterfly, waiting to see which way the wind would blow her. At last she faced him again.

“Laird McCallum,” she said.

She was now trying to sound reasonable, although the trembling gave her away. One eyebrow raised, he simply waited to see what she'd do next.

“Take me back,” she insisted. “Surely we cannot be that far from York. My uncle will explain everything. Cat was in the country yesterday, but she was to return today.” She briefly closed her eyes. “Goodness, Cat doesn't know about this betrothal. When she finds out . . .”

Hugh appreciated her determination, if nothing else. He was not offended that she tried so hard to deny their upcoming marriage. It had obviously taken her by surprise. Though his own father had been a poor specimen of a man, drunk more than sober, at least he'd informed Hugh of the commitment when he'd been old enough to understand. Not that Hugh had accepted his fate with good grace . . .

And then his father had taken to the whisky even more, until Hugh's mother had taken him and his sister to live with her family.

“I can't marry you!” she cried. “I'm—I'm already betrothed.”

He shrugged. “Whatever actions ye committed because your father did not have the honor to tell ye the truth have no bearing on the agreement between our families. Your family agreed to this contract at your birth, and from that time on, they have shared the wealth of our best land. Now 'tis time for my own family to benefit—with the tocher.”

She blinked at him. “Tocher?”

“The bride price. The dowry.”

“So it's money you want,” she said disdainfully.

He eyed her. “Is not money involved in every marriage among the privileged? But 'tis not only the money. My clan has dealt honorably with your father, giving up full control of the purest springs, the finest peat, the best barley, all that we use for our whisky. This product supports my people. The contract was a great sacrifice my father made to ensure peace between our clans with only the promise of future honor on your side. We mean to see the bargain met.”

She stared at him for a moment, then gave an abortive laugh that held no amusement. “Cat's life and freedom were a tradable commodity to promote
whisky
?”

He frowned. “Do not ever let my people hear such disdain in your voice for that which promotes our clan and provides coin, something there is little of in the Highlands, thanks to the Sassenachs.” He practically spat the last word.

Her forehead knit with confusion. “Sass . . . what?”

“Englishmen, outlander. Did your family have so little pride as to neglect your Gaelic?”

She drew herself up. “My mother is English.”

He turned away, saying over his shoulder. “'Tis not true. Your falsehoods will not change your circumstances, Lady Catriona. Like every woman, ye knew ye had to marry and that the choosing of your husband would not be in your own hands.”

“Well I wouldn't have chosen you! And neither would my cousin Cat. If you don't take me back, you'll have no hope to win her. Our family will consider this act of treachery an insult and—and a reason to break the contract.”

And then he found himself looming over her, watching her shrink back against the coach. “Do not speak to me of treachery after the way your father coldly tried to negate the contract yesterday, claiming he could not in good conscience allow his daughter to be ‘hauled off to the McCallums'—his words. I saw a man—if he can be called one—looking for a way to break the contract. My father is now dead, and the responsibility of Clan McCallum is mine. The earl will live up to his bargain when he sees he has no choice.
He
is the reason you were stolen from your rooms instead of presented to me with honor. I came with gifts suitable for the joining of our clans. Our meeting should have been celebrated as the promise of the future.”

“I—I—”

To his surprise, she pushed at his chest. He didn't move, although this display of spirit improved his mood. It wasn't her fault she'd been brought up poorly. He grasped her soft, delicate hands and kept them on his chest. “Examining the goods, my lady?”

She gasped and pulled away, and he let her. He almost smiled, but he would not let her think him her friend, or a man who could be convinced to change his mind. He was none of those things. He was her future husband, her laird. She had to understand that she would now be ruled by his word alone, not by her treacherous father.

“Now fetch the food I left inside the coach,” he said. “Unless ye mean to starve.”

Her green eyes narrowed mutinously, and he almost hoped she'd defy him, so their sparring could continue. Then she lifted her chin and turned to climb inside the coach.

Hugh met Samuel's gaze and found himself nodding with satisfaction. Samuel's smile was tinged with worry, and he shook his head. Hugh thought his bodyguard's concerns unfounded. They'd come to York and done what they'd had to. But he could admit to himself that he, too, had been worried about the kind of wife he'd be saddled with. True, she might still be a shrew, but he hoped he could settle her eventually.

She appeared in the doorway of the coach, the cloth sack in one hand. He reached to assist her down, but she thrust the sack into his hands and descended on her own.

Not meeting his eyes, she said stiffly, “I need a moment of privacy.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke firmly. “If ye try to run, I will be forced to bring ye to ground. There's no one here who can help ye.”

“I'm not blind. But the countryside will not always be so desolate.”

“Ye've not been to the Highlands lately, have ye?”

“We're not there yet,” she returned heatedly. “I assume you're both gentlemen. Please remain here while I'm behind the coach.”

“My patience is not endless. If ye don't reappear in a suitable time—”

Exasperated, she said, “Then I will call out and tell you my plans moment by moment. Does that suit you?”

She didn't wait for an answer, just huffed, walked around the large wheels of the coach, and disappeared behind.

W
HEN
she'd finished, Riona lingered for just a moment by the half wall of rock that seemed piled almost haphazardly, yet was overgrown with moss and weeds as if it had weathered centuries. She gazed with despair across the pastoral scene and
prayed there would be a shepherd she could wave to for help.

But what would a poor shepherd do against two large Highlanders, one of whom called himself chief of the McCallums? How could she bring innocent lives into her dilemma, perhaps getting them killed? She didn't even know if he'd told her the truth. Except . . . she recognized the clan name he'd used, enemies of the Duffs, her father's clan. They shared a contentious border. But that didn't mean this man was telling the truth. He could have kidnapped her for her dowry, as if the Dark Ages were still upon them. He might be lying about everything, and she'd end up in a hovel doing his bidding.

She might end up that way even if he were the chief, she thought with a shudder. She'd heard stories of the wretched Highlands from her father, who'd fled to England in his youth. How often he'd said he was lucky to be the son of an earl, with the ability and opportunity to escape his native country. He'd never understood the clansmen who'd worshipped his father, and now his brother, as if they were gods. Highlanders were a savage lot, according to him, and he'd told her stories of senseless raids back and forth on rival clan's cattle, of feuds so bloody that entire clans were demolished.

She'd never felt so helpless. She'd thought she'd had little control in her life up until now, told to
remain closeted with her sister most of the time, left behind when the rest of her family had gone to the Continent. But now, she couldn't even have a moment of privacy without her captor's permission.

She hugged herself and rubbed her arms, though the sun was warm in the vale. It wouldn't stay warm for long. In the Highlands it was rainy and cold more often than not. Bleak and forbidding, that's what her father had called it. Full of savages who had to plow through rock to survive. She took a deep breath. She wasn't in Scotland yet, and perhaps she could find a way to change her captor's mind—or escape. They had to travel through a village
sometime.
Surely they'd need supplies.

“Lady Catriona!”

Her captor's voice was a bark that made her jump. She gave one last look at the rolling pastures and then walked slowly to the other side of the coach. The two men were speaking to each other in Gaelic, and they didn't even look at her as they chewed their oatcakes and cheese, washing it down with the dubious contents of another bottle they must have stored in the coachman's box.

Silently, Laird McCallum pointed to the coach.

She winced. “I cannot even see outside this prison.”

“When ye've proven to me ye can be trusted, I will give ye a window. Until then—”

With his strong fingers, he pulled two of the
nails free and tacked several inches of the leather curtain.

“Thank you so much,” she said with sarcasm.

She climbed up inside, but instead of folding in the stairs and shutting the door, Laird McCallum followed her and sat down on the bench at her side.

She slid into the corner, then thought better of it and fled to the opposite bench. “What are you doing?” she demanded, trying to keep the thread of fear from her voice.

“Getting some sleep.”

“But—but—”

Her mouth sagged open in dismay, even as he stretched out his legs until they could go no farther. His broad torso seemed to take up his half of the coach. She was intimately alone with this man—this kidnapper—and totally under his power. She swallowed, but the lump remained in her throat, and she braced herself into the corner as if awaiting an attack.

“Samuel and I will be taking turns riding with ye,” he said. “Surely ye cannot expect us to get no sleep on a journey of ten days or more.”

“Ten days!”

“We're from the southern Highlands. It could have been worse.” He eyed her coldly. “Have ye no memories of such a journey? Did your father think so little of his heritage that he denied ye your birthright?”