by Gayle Callen
“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 express
ion 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 rousing 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 miserable.” 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.”
“It sounds like it still does, to you. You hold a grudge.”
He said nothing, only continued to eat as if he was unaffected. But Riona saw a weakness about him now, a man affected by emotions toward his family, a man with some guilt about the behavior of his youth. Not that she had any idea how to use these things against him.
“How long did you remain with your mother’s family?”
“Three years. Until the Rising made me stand on my own feet as a man.”
She inhaled in dismay. “You were with the Jacobites during the rebellion?”
“Rebellion?” he scoffed. “Now ye truly sound like a Sassenach using that word.”
That made her hot with embarrassment, but she said nothing.
“But I ken ye’ve been living in England, and ye cannot be blamed for what your father made ye do. England must accept that we won’t forget our true and rightful king. The King Over the Water deserves our support.”
“He will never be king of Great Britain, McCallum—or so my father says.”
“Your father, the one who can be trusted to keep a contract?” he sneered.
“That is my uncle, as I’ve told you over and over again.”
He snorted.
“My father is his younger brother. But regardless, they speak often of the futility of going against the Crown. James Stuart can never be king—he’s Catholic. He won’t be accepted now that his cousin George is on the throne.”
“That means nothing. It’s been obvious since the Act of Union that England only meant to keep us subservient to them. Scottish noblemen were denied a place in the House of Lords, though they’d been promised it. Our taxes went up, our privy council was abolished—we were betrayed.”
“But you cannot raise a large enough army—didn’t Sheriffmuir and the failed march into northern England make you see that?”
“The Earl of Mar was a poor leader. We were twelve thousand strong in Perth, ready to march south, and instead he delayed. And delayed. Men deserted over the lack of discipline. We had superior numbers at Sheriffmuir when we met the Duke of Argyll and his supporters. And we were victorious.”
“Didn’t Argyll claim victory, too? I heard there were many casualties on both sides, and nothing was decided.” He opened his mouth angrily, but she rushed on, “You were so young—were you hurt?”
He ignored that. “I may have been young, but I knew our victory could have been conclusive if Mar would have risked the whole army, but he wouldn’t, and victory was hollow when nothing came of it. I couldn’t march into England for the battle at Preston that ended in surrender. Even when our true king came to our shores, it was too late to matter.”
“I heard the man was ill and left within the month.”
McCallum said nothing, just tore a piece of bread apart like he was taking apart the enemy.
“If you didn’t march into England, were you wounded? If so, you were lucky. You might have been captured.”
“Not so lucky. I had to spend the spring recovering at Larig. I thought I could alter my relationship with my father, but everything became worse.”
He stared into the fire, and the shadows flickering over his face looked harsh and menacing, as if his memories of that summer were terrible. She could not press her luck, not this night.
“So you only stayed with your father the first half of the year after the Rising? What did you do then?”
Those gray eyes focused sharply on her again. “For someone trying to convince me ye’re not involved in my plans for the clan, ye ask many questions.”
The food seemed to settle hard in her stomach, and she sat back in her chair, no longer hungry. “I am only curious and trying to pass the time. Would you rather I sit here silently?”
“At least then I would ken your purpose.” He pushed his plate away. “Enough of this. We have to get an early start in the morn. Let us retire to bed.”
She’d known this was coming—perhaps part of her desperation
to learn something about him was just to put off the inevitable. She glanced at the bed, trying to hide her fear. Fear only showed her vulnerability.
“I already made ye a vow that I would never force ye into what ye’re not ready for,” McCallum said coldly. “I don’t break my vows.”
She had no answer to that. His vow had led him to take her captive—she didn’t trust the strength of his supposed vows. But she couldn’t tell him that. “I will sleep in front of the fire.”
“Ye’ll not. Ye need a good night’s sleep as much as I do. Get into that bed.”
She stood up to face him, gritting her teeth. She wanted to refuse, to fight, but he only had to toss her onto the bed and hold her down and maybe . . . no, she couldn’t let that happen. So she whirled and marched to the bed, climbed in and pulled the counterpane up to her chin. She wished she could protest that there was no room for him, that his big body would crowd her out.
He went to the fire, laid another piece of peat across it, and rearranged his drying garments once again. After blowing out the candle on the table, he came to her, a vast shadow against the light of the fire. Riona’s heart was pounding so loudly that surely he could hear it. She wondered if she should have insisted that Samuel share the room with them. She needed a buffer, but there was no one. If she screamed, Samuel would hear her, but . . . would he go against his chief?
McCallum sat on the edge of the bed, and it dipped toward him. She braced herself with a hand, even as he lay down on his side, facing away from her. She hovered there, waiting, looking at the width of his shoulders, and the counterpane he only caught beneath his arm.
“Are ye going to lie down,” McCallum asked with obvious exasperation, “or sit up all night?”
Very slowly, she lay back on her pillow, tense, as if she needed to spring up at a moment’s notice. But nothing happened except that his breathing deepened. Would he really leave her alone?
CHAPTER 5
It took Hugh a long time to fall asleep, though he knew he’d successfully convinced Riona otherwise. Her lithe body had barely dented the mattress, but he felt the fight finally go out of her as she slipped into sleep, and some of his own tension eased. Listening to her even breathing, he imagined the future, when the worst of this marriage battle was behind him. Would he feel at peace when he lawfully lay beside her? Would he ever find a way to convince her that he would make an honorable husband? Or would his past come between them in the end?