The Wrong Bride (3 page)

“My childhood is none of your business.” It
stung that he was right, but she would not give him the satisfaction of letting him see that.

“Everything about ye is my business. Ye're to be my wife.”

“I will not marry you and you can't force me to. Cat—the woman you say you were betrothed to—she won't marry you either.”

His narrowed, wintry eyes seemed to trap her.

“Mark my words, Lady Riona—ye
will
marry me.”

The intimate family name on his lips was chilling. He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes as if that ended the conversation. And it did—what could she do but rail against him and make him angry enough to—what? She shivered. If he thought himself her betrothed, thought that gave him the right to do whatever he wanted . . . She stared at the sword and pistol he hadn't bothered to remove.

“I can feel your trembling from over here. Fetch a blanket if ye're cold, lass, but let a man sleep.”

She wasn't cold; the coach was stifling with two bodies breathing and taking up space. But she was terrified and trying not to cry, and wondering when help would come. But she'd had a horrible thought in the night, one that hadn't borne examination then, because she couldn't imagine it. But now . . . now, by the light of day through the crack he'd given her in the window, her bad thoughts surfaced. She tried to beat them back by telling herself
that once her uncle knew she'd disappeared, he'd gather people to look for her.

But another part of her whispered doubts she hadn't wanted to face. She and her uncle had never been close. The earl was a cold man focused on his own wealth and prestige. When her parents had taken her sister to the Continent and left Riona behind, he'd only reluctantly taken her in when her cousin Cat had insisted that Riona couldn't stay alone with only the servants.

And now, if McCallum was to be believed, he'd talked with the earl yesterday—just before Cat discovered her parents were sending her to friends in the country. Cat had been surprised, but not displeased at the idea, although the speed of packing had seemed strange. She'd wanted Riona to go with her, but her parents had insisted there was no room at the house party. But . . . had all this been deliberate, sending Cat away after McCallum's appearance? Had the earl regretted the contract so much, he'd gotten his daughter out of harm's way?

And the most damning part, the part she couldn't get out of her mind, was that at dinner, her aunt had seemed pale and withdrawn, eyes downcast when the earl brusquely told Riona she should sleep in Cat's bedroom, since hers had to be cleaned and painted. It had seemed so strange—why not wait to paint until they'd departed for London?

But now, it made much more sense, and her stom
ach twisted with betrayal and grief. Had the earl put her in Cat's room because he'd anticipated the savage Scot trying to make off with Cat, and was looking for a legal reason to break off the betrothal altogether? The earl could have stationed guards there and caught McCallum in the act. It seemed unbelievable for just that reason, yet . . . She swallowed and tried not to think the worst. If she let her terror overwhelm her, she'd never find a way to escape the man who now rested with eyes closed and chin on his chest, his broad legs taking up all the room in the coach, forcing her to press deeper into the corner to avoid touching him.

He spent two hours sleeping, barely moving, as he if he was long used to sleeping quietly and expediently. She couldn't sleep at all, for fear he'd wake up and try something wicked. When he finally did awaken, he eyed her impassively, and without a word knocked on the roof of the coach. It came to a stop, he got out, and then Samuel took his place.

When the coach began to move, Samuel looked around, and then out the narrowed window, seeming to try to settle himself without meeting her gaze. Now was her chance.

“We haven't been properly introduced, sir,” Riona said.

His skin was freckled and fair beneath his bright hair, and he reddened almost to match it. “Samuel McCallum, my lady.”

“Of course you're related,” she said, feeling defeat encroaching, but not ready to let it claim victory.

“Distant cousins,” he said, a small smile of sympathy growing. “Ye'll find a lot of McCallums where we're going.”

She wasn't ready to give up. “Surely you see what he's doing is wrong.”

Samuel's expression remained pleasant and even understanding, but he shook his head. “Nay, my lady, I don't see that at all. Ye're his betrothed.”

“But I'm not!”

“Ye're Catriona Duff, are ye not?”

“I am, but so is my cousin!”

“Sorry though I be, I cannot help ye. A contract was signed between your families, and we take that seriously.”

“I know nothing about any contract,” she grumbled, folding her arms beneath her breasts and narrowing her eyes at him.

“That is the fault of your father. I've been Hugh's man a long time, and he's known about the betrothal since he was a lad. Believe me, it's interfered with his life more than once.” He seemed to break off even as he looked away.

“Interfered how?” she demanded.

“That's none of your business, my lady. Now do let a man sleep.”

He closed his eyes and dropped his chin, just as his chief had done.

“But wait, would money change your mind? I don't have much, but if you help me . . .” She trailed off.

He didn't even open his eyes as he spoke. “Your coin cannot buy the loyalty earned through generations, my lady. And your coin cannot make me forget the treachery of the Duffs through that same time. Now hush.”

She blanched. Treachery by her ancestors? A marriage between their clans was supposed to make up for that? Any Duff married to a McCallum would never be at ease, it seemed, if such grievances were never forgotten. She'd heard stories of the feuding when her uncle and father were in their cups, reminiscing with anger and pride. No wonder they stayed away from Scotland, she thought, leaving their factors and tacksmen to manage their estates.

But this feud had become intensely personal, and she wasn't about to meekly accept what was happening to her. She was still in England, where people would help her against the Scots. When they stopped for the midday meal, she'd look for her first opportunity to escape. If that didn't work, she'd come up with something else.

H
ugh knew Lady Riona wasn't going to give up her attempts to escape. Her moods alternated from anger to frustration, although her fear seemed to be easing away. He wasn't certain that was a good thing.

They were taking their midday break in a woodland copse near a burn, hiding the coach away from the road itself. The hobbled horses could drink while they grazed on the grassy banks. They were surrounded by trees; a rare and more remote spot could not be imagined.

Lady Riona asked for a moment's privacy behind the coach, and he allowed it, remaining stretched out on his side near their small fire, where oatcakes cooked on a flat iron girdle.

“We'll be needing supplies soon,” Samuel said.

“The fowl I've shot not good enough for ye?” Hugh asked.

“These are almost the last of our oats. And I'm feeling the need for an egg or two.” Samuel looked to the west. “And a storm is coming, the first droplets to hit us soon. We might be needing an inn this night.”

“Nay, not this far south in Yorkshire. We'll find a protective copse like this one, and we'll all sleep inside the coach if we have to.”

“Her ladyship will find that cozy enough,” Samuel said dryly.

Hugh made a disinterested sound deep in his throat.

“She's been asking for my help, of course,” Samuel continued.

“She's got spirit, that one.” Then he lifted his head. “Shouldn't she be back by now?” He raised his voice. “Lady Riona?”

Nothing answered but the call of birds flying overhead.

“I'll be back in but a moment,” Hugh said with resignation, leaving his weapons near Samuel.

“Easy on the lass, Hugh. If it were us, we'd try to escape, as well.”

“I would not try to escape from my duty to my family.”

“Sanctimonious, aren't ye?” Samuel teased.

Ignoring him, Hugh jogged beyond the coach. It was easy enough to track Lady Riona, whose wide skirts trampled grasses and broke twigs. To
her credit, she'd circled back the way they'd come, though the nearest village was several hours' journey behind.

He heard her before he saw her, crashing through undergrowth as she tried to remain hidden by following the main road without actually being on it. He could have called to her, using simple reasoning to force her to see that it was useless to make such foolish attempts, but . . . she needed to temporarily fear him, and the lesson had to be memorable.

He approached soundlessly from the rear, which was easy, because, thinking herself safe, she'd begun to make too much noise, and even grumbled aloud a time or two, which he found amusing. She marched with determination, her strides hampered by the overgrown weeds tugging at her skirts.

In two strides, Hugh came out of hiding to grab her around the waist with one arm and lift her right off the ground.

T
HE
sudden assault was so startling that Riona screamed until his hand covered her mouth. It was like a repeat of last night all over again. She would never be free of him, and frustration and despair made her struggle though it was useless against his strength.

“I could have been a highwayman,” he said angrily, his lips against her ear. “Ye've put yourself in danger.”

She kicked at him even as he turned to take her farther from civilization, farther from rescue. Their legs entwined, her skirt trapped his foot, and suddenly they were falling. To her surprise, he twisted and landed first, then let out an “oomph” when her elbow caught him in the gut. She didn't feel bad about that, but her gloating faded when he rolled and pinned her beneath him, rocks digging into her back. Though she squirmed to buck him off, he used the weight of his body to subdue her. When she tried to slap him, he took each wrist and held them to the ground over her head. Arched uncomfortably, she was gasping for breath, furious, still fighting, but it began to dawn on her that Samuel was not there to act as a buffer against McCallum's need to dominate her. Though fear could cripple her, she felt it surge anew.

“Stop it,” he said firmly.

Her struggles only made him sink between her legs, which, along with her skirt, finally trapped her in place. She was breathing hard, gasping, and for the first time felt a man's body against hers, and went still. Something seemed to shift between them at such intimate contact, and she remembered too late how little control she truly had in the grasp of this big Highlander. There was no one around to help her—even his coachman could not act as a buffer. She'd put herself at his mercy.

“Please . . .” she whispered, hating how weak
and trembling her voice sounded, but helpless to stop. “Let me up.”

“So ye can run again?” he demanded.

His voice was full of anger, but his gaze . . . his gaze was on her mouth, and there was a heat in their formerly winter depths that made her think of molten silver.

“Stop—stop looking at me like that,” she whispered, unable to look away, as if he'd pounce given half the chance. “I'm not some little . . . morsel for a vulture.”

When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Vulture? I don't eat innocent creatures. I'm just a man. But lying together like this makes me think of our wedding night.”

Aghast, she sputtered ill-conceived words. “Y-you mean because you'll have to hold me down?”

For just a moment, she could have sworn a corner of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile, but that wasn't possible, not for a man so bent on clan revenge and false justice that he'd steal a woman against her will. He released her hands at last, and she pushed at his massive shoulders, but he didn't get up right away. His hips were braced between hers, and she'd never felt such pressure. It was uncomfortable and awkward and . . . strange.

She shoved at him again. “I can't breathe.”

He sat up, but only leaned back on his heels,
knees still pressed to either side of her hips. He folded his arms across his chest and just looked down at her. “I can't have this again.”

“
You
can't have this?” She felt pinned to the earth by the hips. Pushing him away would mean touching his thighs. “And you would meekly go along with your captor were our situations reversed?”

He cocked his head. “They're not.”

“But if they were.”

“I would honor the commitment made between our families, regardless of whether I agreed with it or not.”

“So even though you've never met Cat, you will marry her, even if she is . . . unattractive.” She had to find a way to convince him of the truth, even if she had to bring his mistake up every moment they spoke.

He didn't flinch. “There is no mysterious ‘Cat' of which ye speak, Riona. There is only you and me. And we will be married. Running away is simply childish.”

“Childish?” she echoed, furious. He hadn't called her Lady Riona, and much as the honorific was not hers to use, it kept a sort of . . . distance between them. “I am Miss Duff to you, and it is hardly childish to run when a man accosts a woman, kidnaps her away from her family, and carries her off to be—molested!”

“I have not molested ye.”

She pointed wildly at him. “What do you call this? The gentlemanly way to treat a lady?”

And then he bent over her and braced his hands on either side of her head. “I call this showing ye who has the power here,
Riona.
”

He emphasized the intimacy of her Christian name, and she found her breathing shallow again as he loomed above her, his face too close to hers, his gaze once more smoldering as it focused on her mouth.

“If you kiss me, I will bite you!” she hissed.

He arched a brow, but didn't move.

“You are not my husband, not yet.”

He sat up slowly. “Ye have it right. And I will not force myself upon ye before marriage.” He rose to his feet, then bent to offer her a hand. “But ye'll suffer the consequences if ye try to escape again.”

“You would harm a woman you insist will be your wife?” she demanded, pulling away from his firm, warm hand as soon as she got to her feet. She knew he could crush her fingers if he held on, but he didn't.

“I will try not to. But as for those ye ask for help—I cannot guarantee what will happen to them.”

He was deadly serious, and she knew that. Her shoulders sagged, and when he took her by the arm, she didn't protest. But inside, resentment and anger still simmered along with the fear. She would find a way to escape without hurting anyone else.
But until then . . . she could make herself incredibly annoying. Maybe she'd make him change his mind about marrying her after all.

It was strange to feel wanted, she mused, having rarely felt so in her life, except by her cousin Cat. Her parents had needed her, used her, as both a nurse and companion to her sister, Bronwyn. And though she'd known her sister needed her, Riona had resented the constant dependence, and how her family had never given her respite. She'd only been called to give of herself, over and over, but seldom had anyone cared enough to return the favor.

But “wanted”? She knew even McCallum didn't truly want
her
, but a wife who would fulfill this marriage contract that was so important to his clan. She was just . . . a substitute, and at some point he would be faced with the truth of his misdeeds. And then what would happen to her?

She felt a chill go through her, and barely noticed McCallum guiding her through the brush that tugged at her dress. Her reputation would be ruined, she realized. It was one thing to go for walks in public with a man, but travel with him? Even though it was against her will, it wouldn't matter. She might never find a husband, and then she'd be forced to continue as nursemaid to Bronwyn, then nursemaid to her parents.

All because this—this
man
snatched the wrong woman, she thought angrily, then bleakness set in
as she remembered the chance that her uncle had put her in harm's way.

“Picking up your feet would help,” McCallum said, maneuvering her past another overgrown bush.

Silently, she did as he asked.

H
UGH
simply wanted to sleep late in the afternoon. The storm was moving closer, and who knew what the night would bring. But he entered the coach warily, not sure about Riona's mood. After he'd recaptured her, she'd been strangely quiet, and he hoped that meant she'd surrendered to her destiny, and would make the journey easier on all of them. As he opened the door, he bitterly wondered why she would make it easier.

As he sank onto the uncomfortable bench, and the coach began to rumble forward, he eyed her. She was staring out the small crack in the window, which only showed endless farm fields and sheep pastures, the occasional thatched-roof cottage far in the distance. But they'd be going through a village soon, and he wondered if she'd try another escape. He suspected she was not yet thoroughly cowed. She probably planned to annoy him, but he'd slept on mountainsides and through storms. He closed his eyes, content.

“McCallum, I cannot continue to wear this same dirty gown every single day.”

He didn't open his eyes. “If ye hadn't tried to run, it wouldn't be dirty.”

“But it is. And I need to wash . . . items.”

Opening one eye to look at her, he remembered the sight of her in her thin nightshift, the silkiness of the garment rubbing along her arms when he'd held her still. The candle had made her skin glow, and he'd felt momentarily relieved at his good fortune and intrigued to see more. Though he had her clothe herself in plain garments, thinking to hide her beauty, nothing could hide her regal bearing and the golden fall of her hair. She would make a fine wife to a clan chief.

She was still wearing that nightshift, he mused.

“McCallum?”

She said his name again as if he were daft.

With obvious exasperation, she said, “You could answer me instead of just staring like I'm speaking gibberish.”

“The English tongue is rather harsh compared to the Gaelic, but gibberish? Nay.” He closed his eye again, knowing it was best not to think of her nightshift.

“I need clothing,” she insisted. “And hot water for washing. I feel unclean.”

“When it's safe, I'll consider it.”

“Safe? You can't mean to make me wait until we're in Scotland! Didn't you say that was
days
away?”

“Your behavior could influence my decision, of course.”

“You mean if I remain meek and cowed and subservient.”

“Your words, not mine. I'd take respectful.”

She gasped, and he withheld a smile.

“Why you—you—savage!”

Though he knew she was just repeating words others had used, her slur stung. In London, he'd been looked down upon for the land of his birth, his words often discounted. Everywhere people assumed he was an uneducated crofter. The months each year he'd had to reside there were full of frustration and regret for the outrageous money he'd had to spend to support himself, all for so little benefit.

“If I am a savage, my lady, then so are you, as we're both Highlanders.” He folded his arms and kept his eyes closed, although his jaw was clenched.

“You're even more a savage if you keep a lady imprisoned with nothing to distract her. I need a book or needlework—something. Surely there's a grocer or bookshop in the next village—”

“I can think of ways to distract ye,” he said in a low voice, then opened his eyes and stared hard at her.

She swallowed and thrust out her chin in a defiant gesture, although he saw the way she clasped her hands to hide their trembling.

“You said you would not force yourself on me.”

She sounded so prim he wished he could laugh. “I won't need force. One touch, one kiss, and ye'll fall under my spell.”

To his surprise, she didn't look away.