The Wrong Bride

by Gayle Callen

  “Warn me so I can keep my eyes closed,” Samuel said.

  Hugh kept his expression impassive, although it was difficult. He was wet and chilly and tired. Riona had done her best to annoy him all afternoon, and she could certainly continue by forcing him to stay awake.

  “There are blankets beneath my bench,” she said stiffly. “I’m cold.”

  “Then fetch them,” he said with exasperation.

  And that was an error in judgment on both their parts. She was forced to stand, turn her back to them, and bend over. Without hoops, her skirts fell gently along the curve of her hips. Swallowing, Hugh glanced at Samuel, who pointedly turned and stared out the window as darkness descended.

  Right in front of him, Riona’s hips swayed as she rummaged in the compartment. Hugh could have put his hands on them and—

  She straightened up, dropped the bench, and sank back on it. Clutching several blankets to her, she eyed the men skeptically, as if they would take them from her.

  Hugh was too busy trying to forget that she would be his wife in but a few weeks; he was supposed to have patience. Instead he watched as she moved about and tried to get comfortable, feeling reluctantly aroused and frustrated.

  “I don’t like leaving my post,” Samuel said at last, squinting through the narrow slit of the window. “We’re unprotected like this.”

  “The spot ye’ve chosen to hide is well concealed,” Hugh answered. “We can afford to sleep a bit until the rain ebbs. No highwayman will risk getting his powder wet. Then we’ll start a fire and warm up.”

  Samuel looked unconvinced, but Hugh forced his eyes closed, determined not to think of Riona. He’d just met her, and already she exercised far too much control over his thoughts. She was spirited and defiant, exasperating and sympathetic, and she was far too alluring for his peace of mind. But it wasn’t just a surface beauty. There was something about her that made it obvious she undervalued herself. It was rare that a beautiful woman did not know and use her powers over men, but he suspected Riona incapable of that.

  He was not a man given to rushing to judgment, so he silently warned himself to take a step away and remain objective.

  From beneath his lashes, he studied her hungrily again. He wanted her for his own—he wanted her to want him in return, but didn’t know how to make it happen. He suspected being forced to kidnap her might be hard to overcome . . .

  CHAPTER 4

  Riona awoke and for a moment, didn’t know where she was. She was lying cramped across something hard, where she couldn’t stretch her legs. She wasn’t cold, for a rough wool blanket covered her, and another was pillowed beneath her head.

  With a gasp, she sat up, remembering everything. Her kidnapping, her aborted escape, having to try to sleep with two large Highlanders snoring mere feet away from her.

  But she was alone now, although the coach wasn’t moving. Light filtered in the slit of a window, and she tried the door handle with little hope. To her surprise it opened easily, and she distinguished muted voices outside. She ducked her head out, and they saw her at once. Both men were sitting on logs before the fire, dressed in only their shirtsleeves and breeches. Their stockings and coats were spread across other logs, steaming damply in the heat.

  “Lady Riona,” McCallum said, coming to his feet. “Samuel has made porridge for breakfast.”

  “I smell . . . ham,” she said with hesitation.

  “I rode to a nearby farmer and bought more provisions. We have eggs, too.”

  “Eggs,” Samuel repeated with satisfaction, looking at the griddle where several fried.

  “Come out, Lady Riona,” McCallum said, “as long as ye promise not to run.”

  “I promise not to run during breakfast,” she amended, stepping down from the coach.

  He eyed her, and again, she thought his mouth quirked in a smile—or she could be imagining it. Hugh McCallum didn’t smile. He believed the weight of the world, or at least his clan, was upon his shoulders, and he would do anything he wanted in the name of that clan. If any of this entire story were even true. Maybe it was an elaborate scheme to get her dowry. She was too hungry to debate the notion for long.

  Soon, they were on their way north again, and this time McCallum drove first, and Samuel sat across from her in the coach. Though the sun occasionally peeked out from behind clouds, the road was far worse after the rain, and occasionally the wheels caught in the mud, or McCallum was forced to drive along the rough edge of the road to avoid the holes. Riona often found herself holding on to the bench with whitened fingers to keep from being flung to the ground. Good thing she had a strong stomach, or she’d have lost her breakfast. But always, they continued the slow, steady progression, the coach climbing higher by slight degrees.

  By late morning, she thought she’d go out of her mind with boredom, and was trying to think of irritating ways to annoy McCallum with requests, when the coach slowed down.

  Samuel stiffened. “He said he’d drive until midday.”

  “Stand and deliver!” cried a man’s unfamiliar voice.

  Riona gasped. “Highwaymen!”

  She pressed back into the seat as Samuel drew his pistol and cocked it. The man who’d seemed shy and malleable compared to McCallum now had the demeanor of a deadly soldier, eyes hard, mouth pressed into a grim line.

  “Whatever happens, stay here,” he told her in a low voice, looking through the small opening in the window.

  “If you go out there, that highwayman might shoot you!” she said with urgency. “He’s probably not working alone.”

  “Odds are, they won’t hit Himself and me both,” he said, as if indifferent.

  Riona began to wonder if this robbery attempt might be her salvation. Highwaymen were focused on coin and jewelry; surely she would be worth more coin than they could imagine, if they ransomed her to her family. It was a wild, dangerous idea, but wasn’t it better to risk that than to end up a Highlander’s wife forever?

  To distract Samuel, she said, “Don’t you have a purse to give? My father carries two, his own and a small one for highwaymen.”

  “Quiet,” he insisted, leaning toward the window to hear.

  She did the same.

  “Stay in the box,” the same highwayman ordered McCallum, then added, “Keep an eye on him,” as if to someone else.

  “He has partners,” Riona whispered.

  Samuel ignored her, head cocked as he listened intently.

  They heard the crunch of boots approaching on gravel.

  “Ho there, inside the coach. We have pistols on your driver and will use ’em if we have to.”

  Riona let loose with a shriek, and Samuel gaped at her.

  “I’ve been kidnapped! Free me and I’m worth a great ransom!”

  Samuel dove to cover her mouth, and she had no choice but to let him. Then the carriage rocked, as if McCallum had jumped from it. A gunshot echoed.

  “Ballocks,” Samuel muttered. He flung himself at the door and slammed it open, vaulting out.

  Riona followed him to the door and held on to the frame. The same stone half walls and fields greeted her, but the land rose in long flat waves to the sides, and patches of forested land covered the hillside. Not a barn or cottage was in sight—perfectly remote for two fugitive Highlanders to take her, perfect for highwaymen to avoid exposure. She imagined that they weren’t used to their victims fighting back, but McCallum had obviously been more of a challenge.

  One of those highwaymen was already struggling to mount his horse, his leg covered in blood and difficult to maneuver. Had the gunshot come from McCallum’s pistol? The clan chief was grappling with another man, and Samuel was charging at a third, sword and pistol drawn, as the retreating man ran for his horse. She was startled when Samuel let loose a bloodthirsty shout.

  The last man fighting saw his men in retreat, and it was obvious that McCallum was toying with him at sword point. The man dodged a thrust, then ran for his own horse. Not bothering with a chase, McCallum stood
triumphant, sword point resting in the ground, barely breathing hard.

  “Cowards!” he shouted as the horses galloped away.

  Riona’s plan had failed, and she wondered what her punishment would be. But for the moment, McCallum and Samuel seemed to have forgotten her scream and simply grinned at each other like boys who’d just won a horse race. She hadn’t seen McCallum smile before, and she was surprised at how it lightened the cragginess of his features, made him actually appear . . . handsome, in a rugged way.

  But that smile died when he turned and focused his narrowed gray eyes on her. His hair had come loose from its queue, and the dark waves settled to his shoulders. He looked like a wild Highlander, and she’d just gone against him. She tensed in the doorway, knowing it was too late to flee.

  “What did ye think of my plan?” Samuel called, as he slid his sword back into its sheath. “Lady Riona’s screaming, I mean.”

  She stiffened and tried to mask her shock.

  “That was a plan?” asked McCallum skeptically.

  “I was certain they’d want the chance to ransom a highborn lady,” Samuel continued. “Their hesitation was all ye needed to attack. Ye got two of them with one jump. Impressive.”

  She swallowed heavily, attempting to appear confident, while inside she was stunned that Samuel would defend her. She wasn’t certain why he’d do such a thing, and it made her feel both indebted and worried about his motives.

  “You have my thanks, because it worked,” McCallum said. “That piercing scream distracted them like nothing else.” He glanced at Riona, then spoke with a trace of reluctance. “Well done.”

  She nodded, surprised to feel vaguely guilty. Why should she feel that way when she was but their prisoner? “I don’t suppose you’ll be better prepared next time.”

  One dark brow arched, but he seemed in too good a mood to respond in kind. “We’ll not have to fash about that in Scotland. The pickings are too poor for highwaymen.”

  Samuel laughed but she didn’t see what was funny.

  “I’ll drive until midday,” McCallum said. “Let’s put some distance between us and these brigands before they get their courage up again.”

  Silently, Riona climbed into the coach and felt it dip behind her as Samuel followed. He seated himself across from her, and she simply stared at him in confusion. The coach jerked into motion, even as Samuel closed his eyes.

  “Why did you lie for me?” she asked hesitantly.

  He opened his eyes and regarded her with a sympathy that felt foreign to her.

  “Ye’re a frightened, desperate lass. And I understand ye, so I helped ye this time. But he’s my chief—my friend. I won’t help ye again, so don’t make a foolish mistake.”

  She swallowed but her words still sounded hoarse and full of pain, even to her own ears. “Is it foolish to want to go home?”

  “’Tis foolish to wish to change what cannot be changed. This was decided long ago, my lady,” he said kindly.

  “But not for me!” she whispered fiercely. “You’ve got the wrong woman.”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes again, and Riona angrily wiped away a tear. Crying was useless and would get her nowhere with these men.

  THEY crossed the River Sark and into Scotland two days later, and it was like a little part of Riona died, along with her hope of rescue. She could only depend on herself now.

  They stopped to refresh themselves and the horses in the river, and it was as if McCallum and his coachman thought the water tasted better on this side of the border, they were so glad to be back. The water ran fast and high due to the rain that had plagued them the last day, and the bank was muddy and overgrown with weeds. Riona tried to wash her face and ended up sliding down the embankment and up to her thighs in icy water. McCallum reached her first and hauled her to safety, where she stumbled and landed on her backside, her skirts a sodden mess. She desperately wanted to cry, felt filthy and smelly, and now her gown was ruined. Shoulders slumped, she covered her face with her hands and took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “We should stop at an inn tonight,” Samuel said. “We need fresh clothes.”

  She kept her head bowed, knowing if she looked too hopeful, McCallum might deny the request.

  “Aye, we’ll stop in Gretna Green,” McCallum said, “at a good Scottish inn.”

  Where no one will help a Sassenach, Riona thought despondently. Of course, part of her was Scottish, but a lot of good that would do against a clan chief. Yet to be clean and dry seemed the height of luxury five days into their journey, so she’d hold off complaining until tomorrow.

  Not that McCallum had seemed all that bothered when she’d tried to annoy him into abandoning his plan to marry her. He’d simply ridden in the coaching box with Samuel, leaving her all alone for hours on end. Samuel had slipped her a pack of cards the day before, and she sometimes occupied herself by making random patterns, because she knew no games to be played alone. But it was something to do with her hands.

  Often, she stared out the slit in the leather curtain for hours, watching for the changes that would mark Scotland, but there was nothing very different about the Lowlands.

  They reached the small village of Gretna Green, where several roads converged around a triangular green. There were a collection of thatched-roof, whitewashed cottages, a blacksmith shop, a church, and little else. If there was a “good Scottish inn” here, she was baffled. Frankly, she didn’t care where they stopped, if only she could be free of this coach for a night.

  The “inn” ended up being two rooms above a tavern, only one of which was private. She was exceedingly grateful when McCallum led her up the cramped rear stairs from the stable yard, rather than through the front hall where she’d be gawked at. She knew he was probably trying to avoid curious stares, but she didn’t care.

  The private room was small; only a bed, a table with two chairs, a washstand, and pegs on the wall for her clothing. Inns in England were luxurious compared to this. Or the ones her parents frequented were, she amended to herself.

  “Please tell me you were able to ask for a hot bath,” she said, keeping her voice polite.

  McCallum eyed her. “The innkeeper wasn’t happy, but he’ll oblige us.”

  “Us?” she echoed, feeling a new stirring of unease.

  “There’s a bed for Samuel in the dormitory, but of course, a man and his wife can share one.”

  She stared at him in growing anger. “Y-you told him we were married?”

  “Ye’ve not proven yourself trustworthy, Lady Riona. I cannot allow ye to be alone for a night, and I cannot name ye my mistress, can I?”

  Her mouth moved, but nothing came out.

  “If it helps, the innkeeper’s wife was very gracious about your river accident, and promised fresh clothing and will have yours cleaned.”

  Fresh clothing—it sounded like heaven. Just days ago, she’d taken such things as baths and clothing for granted. No more. And hadn’t she slept in the coach with McCallum—how was this different?

  But it was different, and she knew it. “We will not be sharing that bed,” she told him, hating how her voice trembled. Every choice was being taken away from her—she had to stand up for herself.

  “We will,” he answered, as if he expected his word to be law. “And I will hold to our agreement that I will not take ye before we’re wed.”

  Her face heated, even though her limbs still shivered with the wet and cold.

  He eyed her. “I can’t have ye sick with the ague. Where is that bath?”

  He went into the hall to call for a maidservant, and Riona tried not to panic. How was she supposed to bathe? If she were smart, she’d try to escape right now, but . . . who would help her in this tiny village against the chief of the McCallums? Where would she go?

  She was just as trapped here as she’d been in the coach. Her feelings of hope and perseverance were slowly draining away. Nothing she’d said had convinced this man he was wrong. She would keep trying, of cou
rse, along with denying him her consent to marriage. She wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but she could see no easy choices.

  McCallum opened the door and held it open for two male servants carrying a bathing tub between them. Soon buckets of hot water were carried in a slow procession, until the heat steamed from the tub. The towels were rough, but clean, and the soft soap in a pot didn’t smell terrible.

  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 immovable 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.