The Wrong Bride (5 page)

The innkeeper's plump wife tsked when she saw Riona. “How dare yer man lose yer trunk,” she said, shaking her head.

Riona knew not to expose the lie, or McCallum would take her back to the cold, wet coach. He eyed her with confidence, as if he knew just what she was thinking.

The woman laid out a chemise, petticoats, an open gown laced at the bodice, a nightshift, a man's breeches and shirt, and stockings for them both. “He paid me handsomely for these,” she said with satisfaction. “I'll be back to collect yer own garments,” she added, eyeing them with both distaste and sympathy. “How ever did ye fall into the Sark?”

“The bank was muddy and I slipped,” Riona said absently, eyeing the tub with longing.

“Och, listen to me blather. Shall I empty the tub later and refill for ye, Laird McCallum?” She seemed weary but resigned to the necessity.

McCallum faced the woman, looking like an im
movable mountain dwarfing the furniture—and absorbing all the heat of the fire, Riona thought crossly.

“Nay, I'll use the tub when my wife is done,” he said. “No need to make more work for ye, mistress.”

She gave him a grateful smile. “Then I'll leave and let ye use it before the heat is gone.”

The woman bustled out, and the room was suddenly as silent as a church funeral service, but for the flickering flames of the peat fire. Pungent smoke hung heavily in the air, but it wasn't unpleasant.

McCallum pointedly bolted the door.

“You need to wait in the corridor,” Riona insisted, relieved that at least her voice didn't tremble.

He only rolled his eyes then headed for the hearth, removing his coat to lay it across the back of a chair before the fire. His waistcoat came next and he pulled his shirt out of his breeches before unbuttoning those.

“What are you doing?” she demanded sharply.

“Drying my garments. The shirt is long enough for your modesty, have no fear.”

And then he pulled his stockings, breeches, and drawers off and laid them out, too. His shirt came down to his mid-thighs, and she hastily looked away even as he sat down before the fire with a deep, satisfied sigh. He was naked but for that shirt. The sight of his bare, muscular, hairy legs felt permanently imbedded in her mind.

How was she supposed to bathe like this, right beneath his knowing gaze?

As if reading her mind, he said, “I'll keep my back turned, but do be quick about it, my lady. I'd like my bath to be middling warm.”

She was too dazed for words—and then she realized she could not unlace her gown alone. “I need to call a maidservant,” she said, heading for the door.

For a big man, he moved with speed. He reached the door before she could.

“None of that,” he said.

“But—”

He turned her about like she was a child's doll and started unlacing. It seemed to take too long, and soon he began to grumble.

“Damned wet laces.”

She bit her lip, saying nothing, feeling every tug as if he stroked her skin. She'd never felt like this before, so aware of someone so close to her. No man ever had been. She knew she was not ugly, but Cat was vivacious and cast a long shadow that hid other women when she was about. And then there was Riona's constant care of Bronwyn, nights when her cousin attended a soiree alone since Riona had to attend her sister.

But now . . . this
Highlander
thought he would marry her. He thought he had the right to put his hands on her, to undress her. Everything inside her wanted to rebel, but it was useless, and tears burned
her eyes. The moment her laces loosened, she fled across the room, holding the bodice in place.

He watched her, hair loose about his shoulders, eyes as smoldering as the peat fire. Bare legs, big strong feet, and callused hands meant for war. He could do anything he wanted to do to her—would she really make things easy by disrobing in front of him?

For a long moment their gazes held, and something hot seemed to uncurl down in the pit of her belly. She couldn't breathe deeply, couldn't blink, and only when he turned away did she take a deep breath.

He went to the hearth and sank down in a chair, and without turning his head, said, “Aye, we'll have a good marriage, my lady. I can already feel what's between us.”

“Between us,” she echoed with disdain. “You are mistaken. There is hatred and anger inside me, nothing else.”

His head turned now, and she caught his profile, the heavy brows, the strong nose, the firm mouth.

“Your anger lights your eyes with a green fire that I find enthralling. I can mold that fire, my lady, see if I don't.”

And he turned away again.

She wanted to scream at him, to deny everything he said, but he
wanted
that kind of emotion from her, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Keeping her gaze on his every move, she pulled off her gown and left it in a heap, followed by her petticoats and then her chemise. By now she was trembling, although the room was warm enough. Practically tripping in her haste, she stepped over the edge and sat in the tub, cursing that the water barely covered her breasts, no matter how deeply she sank.

She was naked in the same room with a man who was nearly so, a man who intended to force her into marriage. She grabbed a facecloth, lathered a poor amount of strange-smelling soap, and began to rub her skin. The feel of being warm and clean was glorious—if only she could revel in it. But she felt like a rabbit tiptoeing past a wolf, desperate to finish before she was noticed.

Not caring that she'd already made the water foul with just her skin, she dipped her head back to wet her hair, then began to soap it as well. If given a choice, she'd wash it over and over, but she had no time. Luckily, the maidservants had left one pail of clean water, and she used that to sluice through her hair. When water splashed on the floor, McCallum turned his head, not quite looking her way.

“Waste not the water, lass,” he ordered. “I do plan to use it.”

She winced and could only be grateful he'd allowed her to go first.

At last she felt as clean as possible. At home, her
lady's maid would be standing there with warm, thick towels to wrap her in. It never occurred to her that she'd have to fetch them herself. The towels were on the table, and she'd have to cross the floor, dripping water, to reach them. She huddled in the tub, feeling like the worst kind of fool, frozen with indecision.

His head turned again when she made no more sloshing sounds, and she saw when he focused on the table—and the towels.

“Why didn't ye say ye needed help,” he grumbled, rising to his feet.

The soap left some bubbles floating on the surface, but not enough to hide her. She drew her knees to her chest, a meager protection, hoping he'd bring her the towels with his eyes averted, like a gentleman.

But he wasn't a gentleman. He stood above her, towels in hand, and stared down at her. His gray eyes, normally so cold and impassive, seemed to glitter by candlelight.

“I've known about ye for a long time, lass,” he said, his voice low and husky. “I did some foolish things in rebellion against our shared fate. There were times I railed against my father for fixing my future without my consent. I was never free to give more of myself to a woman. But now that I've met ye . . . I am satisfied with the bargain between our families. More than satisfied. Ye have
spirit and intelligence, Lady Riona, things I value highly in a bride. I look forward to our wedding and our future, but right now”—his voice became even deeper, rough—“I most look forward to our wedding night.”

Riona hugged her knees even tighter, feeling a strange mixture of emotion churning inside her, frustration, worry, and a new one, flattery. That last one—how could she feel flattered by the praise and attentions of the man who'd kidnapped her and dragged her north against her will?

But he thought she was his bride, and he was pleased by that. She felt foolish, knowing her confusion was because she'd been allowed so little experience with men. A little flattery, and her insides softened.

“I will not marry you, McCallum,” she insisted, trying to forget she was naked. “I keep telling you, you've got the wrong bride, and at some point, you'll accept the truth.”

For a long moment, he continued staring at her, his expression unreadable, until at last one side of his mouth tilted up. “I should have said ye're stubborn, too.”

He put the towels on a stool beside her and turned away. Shivering, she wrapped one around her hair, then stood up. She dried her upper body in haste, hopped out, and finished, sliding on the nightshift so quickly it clung to the damp spots she'd missed.
But at least she had something to cover her nakedness. If only she had a dressing gown, too.

“I'm finished,” she said, approaching the fire.

He rose up, and she was reminded once again how small and defenseless she was next to him. She wanted to scurry away like a frightened mouse, but didn't. He'd promised not to force himself upon her until marriage—and she was going to try her best to make sure that never happened. He brushed past her, and she took his place at the fire, taking down her wet hair and beginning to comb it out with her fingers. She didn't look behind her as she heard the splash of water, and then his groan of satisfaction. That sound made her shiver, but it wasn't from fear. It was as if her body reacted to him in ways she had no control over, and no understanding either.

He said nothing for a long time, and she found herself almost dozing as the warmth and fresh clothing worked their magic. And then her stomach growled loudly, making her wince.

“Supper will be sent up,” McCallum said.

She nodded.

“Looks like 'tis my turn to forget a towel,” he added.

She could have sworn she heard a smirk of laughter in his voice, but when she turned around, his expression was as impassive as always. She was tempted to throw the towel at him, but he'd done her too many favors this night for her to risk rous
ing his wrath. She took the last towel off the table and brought it to him, keeping her eyes averted as much as possible. But unless she was going to trip over the tub and land on him, she was forced to see something of his big body crowded into the little tub. His chest and arms boasted the muscles of an active man, and more than one scar to match the one on his chin. He didn't keep his knees to his chest as she had, but thank goodness soap bubbles obscured what was beneath the surface. She might be ignorant, but something inside her seemed to respond pleasurably to his form—and she didn't like feeling that she had no control over parts of herself that should be private.

He took the towel. “My thanks, lass. I might need ye to dry my back.”

She didn't dignify that with a response, only went back to the fire to continue drying her hair amid his damp clothing. When there was a knock at the door, she cringed when he answered it wearing only the long, clean shirt. Dismissing the servant, he brought a tray of food to the table, and she watched the steaming mutton chops with appreciation.

Spinning her chair around, she found herself across a table from McCallum, as if they were two normal people. Was she supposed to serve him, as so many men of her acquaintance would expect from their women? But he gave them each a plateful of turnips and carrots with the mutton chop,
and to her surprise, waited politely until she'd had her first taste.

When he continued watching her closely, she frowned and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“'Tis fine mutton. Do ye like it?”

“It's tolerable.” Although to be honest, it tasted heavenly after five days eating cold food or something scorched over a fire.

“Ye'll see the difference when you have what Mrs. Wallace prepares. She was the cook at Larig, but now I believe she might be the housekeeper.”

Riona said nothing—she didn't plan to be at Larig for long. McCallum
had
to believe the truth eventually. For several minutes, they ate in silence, and she simply absorbed the heat of the fire and of feeling clean. And then she thought of having him alone, where she could learn something that might help her sway him. But it was difficult to be civil, to be accommodating, after everything he'd done to her.

“You said,” she began slowly, “that you've known about the marriage contract for much of your life. You didn't fight it?”

He swallowed another bite of his food and regarded her. “I had only reached the age of thirteen when Father told me what my future would be. I did not take it gracefully.”

“What did you do?”

“Everything I could to make my family miser
able.” He turned and stared into the fire, where shadows made his eyes hooded beneath his brows. “I acted out, I was defiant, I did the opposite of what my father wanted me to do. And since half the time he was drunk as a tosspot, it didn't affect him as much as it did the reputation of my mother and sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Maggie.” Though he didn't smile, his tone softened. “She's suffered more than I ever did, but that is her story to tell.”

“Your mother didn't suffer, being married to a drunkard?”

His cold gaze returned to her. “I didn't say that. What happened behind closed doors she never said. But she was a coward where my father was concerned, and her children suffered for it.”

Riona stiffened. “I do not know your family, but from what you've said about your father, a powerful chief who could make life or death decisions for his clan, what was your mother supposed to do against him?”

“Do not mistake me. She finally did do one thing, and that was to take Maggie and me away from Larig when I had fifteen years, to live with her family in Edinburgh. Saved me from making a bigger fool of myself than I already had.”

“Sounds to me like she saved you from a drunken father.”

“She could have saved much more than my youth—but it no longer matters.”