The Wrong Bride (7 page)

Within the courtyard, dozens of people moved with purpose from the grand towerhouse rising four stories, to the other halls and barracks built into the thick castle walls. Chickens and ducks seemed to have free rein, chased by children, who barely spared a glance for travel-stained visitors. She could see an arched opening that led into another courtyard.

The guards must have passed the word to others about McCallum's identity, because they gathered together now within the courtyard, waiting. Some came running from the other courtyard, still carrying claymores and shields, as if they'd been at training.

She tried to ask Samuel what was going on, but he hushed her. Then a large wooden double door opened in the first floor of the towerhouse, and a man emerged, causing voices to drop to murmurs.

“The tanist, Dermot McCallum, Hugh's cousin,” Samuel said in a low voice. “He was nominated as the man next of blood to the chief when Hugh was
selected, the one who will succeed him if Hugh dies without heirs. He's been in charge since Hugh's father died a few months ago.”

The man came down the stairs, tall, thin, but Riona suspected his build was deceptive. Though she'd seen men wearing wigs in Scotland, his brown hair was bare and tied back. His plaid was belted meticulously about his waist and the end draped up over his shoulder, where a brooch gleamed. He approached McCallum, who still sat atop his horse, as if he ranked above all the clansmen gathered before him. And he did.

Dermot patted the horse's neck nonchalantly, eyeing McCallum, who said something else in Gaelic, then gestured toward Riona and switched into English.

“I am home with my betrothed, come to stay and take up my rightful place within the clan. Ye've done well, Dermot, and I appreciate the care ye've given my people.”

“
Our
people,” Dermot said coolly. “We are all McCallums at heart, are we not?”

Someone briefly cheered, but it died away when no one joined in. Riona's spirits rose a bit. McCallum was not the invincible chief he'd portrayed to her. Dermot obviously disapproved of a laird who'd been gone for so long. But she wouldn't make the mistake of screaming that she'd been kidnapped. There was a long history among the clans of heal
ing feuds with the help of an unwilling bride. If she tried to win the support of the McCallums, she'd be doing nothing but ensuring that the clan would rally around its chief.

With a little patience and persuasion, perhaps there was a way she could win her freedom, she thought, eyeing Dermot.

H
ugh followed Dermot up the stairs to the great hall, holding on to his patience by the narrowest rope. He'd been elected chief after his father died, even though he hadn't been at Larig Castle. He'd corresponded with Dermot, had assumed all would be well, but his uncertain reception today irritated him. Had his cousin thought he'd have free rein over the clan for months or years?

The great hall was as he remembered it, and he turned to see Riona's eyes widen as she took in the high beamed ceiling, the clan armor and weapons on the walls, and the ancient tapestries displaying the stories of the McCallums. Preparations were under way for supper, since the trestle tables were being set up by servants.

Hugh remembered how his father would enter this room like a king, taking his place at the dais and waiting for his gentlemen to beg his favor or
to give their reports. But Hugh wasn't going to be his father—he would earn his command by earning the respect of his gentlemen and household, not their fear.

The men gathered around him, and though Dermot's smile was perfunctory, many of the younger men wore grins of welcome. Upon spying Riona at his side, they asked eager questions in English of how things were in London and Edinburgh these many years. He could practically see Riona's ears perk up, and knew everything about today had increased her curiosity.

He raised his hands for quiet. “Enough, enough, we've time for this at supper. My betrothed needs to refresh herself, as do Samuel and I.”

“Your rooms have been ready for days, Laird McCallum,” said Mrs. Wallace hurrying toward him and wearing a broad grin and twinkling eyes beneath her lace cap. “'Twill be fine to have ye home for good.”

But Hugh was aware of the murmurs in the hall from the men not crowding as close. The older clansmen remembered the childish behavior of his youth, and would have reservations about his ability to lead. And as for the events that had transpired when he'd been recovering from wounds sustained at Sheriffmuir? That wouldn't have been forgotten either, though the young woman had been dead almost ten years.

Mrs. Wallace turned to Riona expectantly, and if she had any concerns about a Duff making herself at home at Larig Castle, she didn't show it.

“Mrs. Wallace,” Hugh said formally, “may I present Lady Catriona Duff, soon to be my wife.”

The housekeeper bobbed a little curtsy. Riona nodded her head hesitantly, but to Hugh's relief, she didn't make any protest. He'd wondered if Riona would bring up the kidnapping when they arrived, but so far, she'd been circumspect. He hoped that meant that at last she was accepting their inevitable marriage. Perhaps it had begun when they'd woken up together at the inn, after so naturally turning to each other in their sleep.

But by looking into Riona's lovely face, he couldn't tell one way or another what she was thinking.

“Come, Laird McCallum, Lady Catriona,” Mrs. Wallace said, leading the way. “'Twill be your first time in the chief's rooms,” she added over her shoulder to Hugh.

They followed her up the curving staircase built into the square tower just outside the great hall. On the second floor, a central corridor ran along a series of bedrooms. The last one took up one end of the towerhouse, several rooms overlooking the courtyard and gardens below, and beyond, the whole Balquhidder Glen in which Loch Voil nestled. He stood at the window and remembered thinking that when the sun shone, the loch looked like a jewel.

Behind him, Mrs. Wallace gestured to the dark wood wainscoting that covered the walls, as in most of the family rooms, talking to Riona about the Scottish landscapes hung there, but Hugh only paid half a mind. The large four-poster occupied its place of prominence against one wall, its curtains woven of the McCallum tartan. A massive wardrobe for hanging garments resided next to a chest of drawers, while several chests with lids lined a wall. At a writing bureau near the window, his father had done much of his correspondence, and the old man's wig stand still rested on the dressing table. Hugh grimaced. He was not a man made for hot, uncomfortable wigs, regardless that they were the fashion.

Mrs. Wallace led Riona through the dressing room where his parents had once entertained close friends, and then into the mistress's bedroom. Hugh followed and stood leaning against the door frame, watching Riona's expressive face as she took in the lightly colored wainscoted walls, the delicate furniture in a French style. Instead of a four-poster, this room had a box-bed built into the far wall, with tartan curtains to enclose the bed in privacy. There was an elegant writing desk, and on the dressing table rested a swivel mirror. Nothing but the best for his mother, he thought, repressing the usual surge of bitterness. At least this would not be his mother's room again.

Riona put a hand on the bathing tub that already
rested before the fire. Her expression looked . . . relieved.

“I'll leave ye to your bath and Mrs. Wallace's excellent care,” Hugh said.

Riona gave him a long look, but only nodded.

“If ye need anything, ye know where to find me.”

R
IONA
watched as the door closed, saying nothing, wondering if he would really give her the privacy she hadn't known for two weeks. Mrs. Wallace eyed her curiously for a moment, then bustled to the wardrobe and opened it.

“Ye'll find plenty of things to wear in here, Lady Catriona,” Mrs. Wallace said. “Some will have to be taken in, I'm sure, but ye know the lacin' on others will do wonders to adjust to yer fine figure.”

“You've noticed I've come with no garments of my own,” Riona said with a trace of bitterness.

“I ken 'tis a long journey from England, my lady,” Mrs. Wallace said gently. “Ye did not remember how remote we are here in the Highlands?”

“I don't remember Scotland at all,” Riona confessed. “My parents took me away when I was but a child.”

“And educated in the ways of England, I can tell by yer accent.” Mrs. Wallace sniffed disapprovingly, though her smile returned. “But that isn't yer fault, my lady. Ye're back now, and ye'll come to realize ye're simply one of us.”

“I—I'm not one of you,” she whispered.

But before she could say more, someone knocked on the door and a line of servants entered with buckets of steaming water. Mrs. Wallace wanted to stay and help her bathe, but it had been so long since Riona was alone, she excused the housekeeper, who seemed to understand.

In the blessed silence, Riona heaved a sigh and went to the window. Below her, she could see the crowded courtyard, but beyond the curtain wall, Loch Voil glimmered with hushed beauty, serene, peaceful. There might have been a time that she would have enjoyed such a view, but now? She was a prisoner, and the lovely scenery might as well be a landscape painting, for all she'd be able to enjoy it. If she wasn't locked inside her bedroom, she might as well be. She could go nowhere without assistance of some kind, and she had no one to rely on. Chief McCallum was the rule of law in these hills, the sheriff, the judge. To speak against him was to risk . . . everything.

But Mrs. Wallace had been so kind that Riona had almost made the mistake of talking to her about what McCallum had done—and would that have been the wisest thing? Mrs. Wallace had obviously been here since at least McCallum's youth. She, and everyone else, would be
with
the McCallum and
against
a Duff. Goodness, the woman most
likely
was
a McCallum from somewhere in her parentage.

Riona was an outsider, practically a Sassenach, according to McCallum. She would have to be smart and bide her time. Dermot McCallum—he didn't seem all that happy to see his cousin. Perhaps
his
disapproval would help convince McCallum that he was in the wrong. She would have to find out more about Dermot, see if he was the sort of man who could objectively listen to her story and confront McCallum at her side.

Feeling more at peace with a plan, however tenuous, Riona began to unlace the bodice of her gown, pull out the stomacher that covered her chemise, and let the gown sag off her shoulders and onto the floor. It was so travel-stained that she didn't want it to contaminate the upholstered chairs or the bedding. The petticoats came next and at last the chemise. She sank into the tub with a groan of delight. No one was going to use the water after her; no one was there to hurry her along, stare at her, or make her feel all flustered and overly warm.

She washed slowly and leisurely, eyes half closed, letting the steam as much as the soap cleanse her skin.

“I had no idea I'd be a lucky man again.”

She let out a gasp and dropped the cloth; the
splash caught her in the face and she sputtered. McCallum stood leaning in the doorway, his narrowed eyes full of satisfaction.

“You—you—this is my bedroom! If Mrs. Wallace finds you here—”

“And what will my housekeeper do if she finds me in my own suite of rooms?”

And what could Riona do about that except feel furious, exasperated, and helpless.

He strolled forward and she sank lower, knowing that there was little to hide her from him. Once again, she pulled her knees to her chest. He stood for a long moment and looked down at her. She knew he could do whatever he wanted to her, and no one would stop him. But he turned away and went to sit in a chair near the fire, where he could no longer see her body.

To her horror, she felt a tiny stirring of disappointment, and couldn't understand herself. To cover her confusion, she insisted, “I should have my own room, separate from you.”

“And why is that? We've been bound together since your birth. We'll be married soon. In Scotland, all we need to do is profess it before witnesses and the deed is done.”

“I am not professing anything, and it is not a marriage if not done by my own free will.”

But he only continued to look at her with easy satisfaction. “Ye'll get cold if ye don't finish your
bath,” he said in a low voice. “These old walls hide the fact that 'tis summer.”

“Then I suggest you leave.” She sounded like a prim maidenly aunt.

He crossed one ankle over the other knee, obviously prepared to wait her out. But . . . he'd never tried to force her into anything intimate, had let her flee when he had her alone in bed. And though his word was law here, he seemed to be a man who believed in honor, in his own code, if not one she'd agree with. She was to be his wife, and he expected her to freely say her vows, and seemed patient enough to make it happen.

So . . . if he wanted to play these games with her, to tease and make her uncomfortable, she could do the same. He deserved to feel frustrated, because she certainly did. Knowing he was far enough away not to see beneath the water, she dipped her head back to soak her hair, then reached for the soap and began to lather it in.

And he watched her, his eyes going impassive rather than satisfied. She was glad to be able to affect him, even if only to make him shield his thoughts. She felt another surge of satisfaction when he glanced away.

“I'm here,” he said, “because I want to know why ye didn't tell the entire clan that I forced ye to come here.”

She worked her hands through her soapy hair
slowly, as if giving his question great thought. She surreptitiously watched him from beneath her eyelashes, not knowing what she was looking for, but he didn't seem to be having trouble with her brazen display of . . . cleanliness.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” she finally said. “I know no one here—who would want to believe me or help me? And yet . . . I feel that you aren't all that comfortable here either, though it's your home. So if you want me not to name you a kidnapper, I'd like to know more about your youthful indiscretions before your mother took you away. I'd like to know how things got so bad with your father that you left, and how you ended up in London—I heard your men mention it.”

“Ye're very curious for a woman alone in a precarious situation.”

“Believe me, I know precarious—I felt it for nearly a fortnight, have I not? You frightened me and overwhelmed me and dragged me across the country and into the middle of a feud that has nothing to do with me. But I also have some power here now, and I want answers.”

“A woman who professes herself willing to be my wife deserves those answers.”

“Why would a woman
ever
agree to be your wife without those answers in the first place?”

“We seem to be at a stalemate.”

He stood up again and advanced, this time com
ing right to the edge of the tub. Soap bubbles hid the sight of her from him, but they were no true protection. But she was sick of constantly showing her fear, so she stiffened her shoulders and tried to meet his cool glance with one of her own.

He lifted the bucket of clean water left to rinse her hair and raised it above her head.

“McCallum—”

“Tilt your head back—ye wouldn't want me to get soap in your eyes.”

“McCallum—!”

But he wasn't stopping, so with a gasp, she put her head back and met his amused gaze with her furious one, even as the water began to run through her hair and down into the tub. Seeing that his gaze lowered, she had a terrible feeling that the water was not only removing soap from her hair, but driving it away from her body.

She covered her breasts with her hands. “Just finish!”

He did at last, and she bowed her head, knowing he'd gotten the best of her once again. Still feeling watched, she at last opened her eyes to see him crouched at her level. Water dripped down her face and she blinked rapidly.

“Ye may feel ye have power here,” he said in a hoarse voice, “but 'tis only at my whim. Ye could make things as unpleasant as ye'd like, and I would survive it, for I am laird here, and all ken the terms
of the betrothal and how important our marriage is. There's many a man who would cheer me on for taking matters into my own hands when your father tried to betray me.”