by Gayle Callen
“How does one become the tanist?”
“I was selected at the great gathering that followed the old McCallum’s death, just as Hugh was. Hugh could have attended, of course, but he felt it important to bring home his bride.”
The disapproval was obvious in his voice, and she was surprised he didn’t hide it from her. It gave her hope that focusing on getting to know him was the right course.
“Laird McCallum was selected as the tanist for his father?” she asked.
“When he reached adulthood, aye, the summer after Sheriffmuir. He was well admired for his bravery during the Rising.”
There was an edge to his voice that intrigued her. “Were you there, too?”
“I brought him home after fighting at his side,” Dermot said, his gaze now on McCallum as he talked with several young men. “I can attest to the bravery of all the men of our clan.”
“Yourself included,” she murmured.
His gaze sharpened on her, even as he gave a small smile. “Surely I cannot be expected to speak of that, my lady.”
She chuckled, and it felt rusty, for she hadn’t had a reason to laugh in a long time. But she was playing a part now, and it made it easier to hold back her fear.
“Do you have a wife to perform brave deeds for, Dermot?”
He shook his head, then spoke dryly. “Not yet. I’ve been busy these last months with the McCallum lands, including helping my father. There doesn’t seem to be enough time to court a young woman.”
If Riona decided to come to him for help, at least he wouldn’t have a woman distracting him.
“Did you know Laird McCallum growing up?”
“Of course, Lady Riona. We often ran the hills together.”
“I understand he was something of a scamp.”
Dermot’s dark eyebrows rose. “A scamp? Are not all little lads?”
“So he was like other boys?”
His expression clouded with the memories, and they didn’t all seem to be good ones.
“As many lads are wont to do,” he said, “Hugh played the occasional prank on the farmers, leading astray cattle so that it looked like we’d been raided. No true harm was done.”
But she sensed the disapproval that even youthful Dermot had felt. She got the impression that he and McCallum had never gotten along well, and that could prove to her advantage. He might be eager to help her convince McCallum that he’d made a mistake kidnapping her.
“Often he’d disappear into the hills for a day or two, upsetting his mother, but not his—” Dermot broke off.
“But not his father?” she finished for him.
McCallum was suddenly beside them, a frown darkening his brow. “My father little cared what I did, Lady Catriona. Did Dermot mention that?” He eyed his cousin coldly.
“I was simply asking what you were like as a boy,” Riona said, knowing she’d made a mistake being so curious where he could overhear.
Dermot crossed his arms over his chest and said nothing. The brooch pinning his plaid matched McCallum’s, and she couldn’t help wondering if clan loyalty was all they’d ever had in common. For although they seemed like two serious men now, she sensed their youths had been vastly different.
“If we’re exposing past sins,” McCallum continued, his voice practical but cool, “did ye tell Lady Catriona about our encounter with the redcoats?”
Dermot’s eyes were now like ice as he stared at his cousin. “I did not.”
McCallum’s expression was pleasant, as if he were about to relate an amusing story, but there was nothing amusing about the tension that crackled between the two men.
“We were bold that day, the three of us, weren’t we, Dermot?”
When Dermot said nothing, Riona asked, “Who was the third?”
“My foster brother, Alasdair,” McCallum said. “For a year or so we were raised in each other’s houses, a tradition among our people. But when we were all twelve or thirteen, we spied a party of redcoats across the hills, and for a lark, we followed them.” He glanced at his cousin. “Dermot was against it, of course, because being elder by a year, he’d decided it was his duty to look out for us.”
“Someone had to,” Dermot said impassively.
And now Dermot had been looking after the clan for McCallum, Riona thought, echoing a time in their lives when the boys had obviously been at odds.
“What happened next?” she asked, more intrigued than she wanted to admit.
“We followed them for a day,” McCallum continued, “and when they made camp, we lured away their guard, slipped in, and stole their muskets.”
Riona gasped. “You weren’t caught?”
She glanced at Dermot, who spoke without emotion. “Nay, they were not. I remained as lookout, and did not go into the camp myself.”
“Which helped him in the end. Being the son of the chief helped me,” McCallum added, bitterness beginning to thread through his voice.
“I don’t understand,” she admitted.
“When my father found out what we’d done—”
Dermot interrupted, “Ye couldn’t help bragging to the other boys.”
“Aye, I didn’t always think things through in those days. Word got back to my father. Many ghillies—”
“Ghillies?” she interrupted.
“Regular clansmen,” McCallum clarified for her. “Well, they boasted to each other how mere boys had outwitted British soldiers, and of course, someone finally congratulated Himself on our daring. My father claimed—rightly so—that we could have led the redcoats right back to Larig Castle and caused major problems between the clan and Fort William to the north. He ordered a whipping to teach us a lesson.”
She winced. “A harsh punishment.”
“Not for Dermot or me. Dermot hadn’t stolen the rifles and was excused. And I was the McCallum’s heir.”
She blinked in confusion. “Then who suffered—your friend Alasdair?”
“He had to take the whipping for all of us,” McCallum said.
Though he kept his voice neutral, as if it was long in the past, she recognized that it must have been terrible to have his foster brother punished in his place.
McCallum shook his head. “Though but thirteen, he was incredibly brave. Any blame he could have attached to me for my father’s cruelty, he put aside.”
“Which meant they continued to court trouble,” Dermot said dryly.
Something passed between them, an escalation of tension, as if both were remembering other deeds from the past.
“More stories you’d like to share?” Riona asked.
“Nay, I think I’ve lowered your opinion of me enough for tonight, Lady Catriona,” McCallum said.
“So ye haven’t told her about Agnes?” Dermot asked silkily.
McCallum’s eyes narrowed, and the gray roiled like storm clouds. “’Tis unworthy of ye, cousin. The poor lass is long dead.”
He took Riona’s arm, his grip harder than he perhaps realized.
“Come, Lady Catriona, allow me to introduce ye to some of the wives of my chieftains.”
Riona couldn’t help glancing at Dermot as they left, but his expression revealed nothing.
CHAPTER 8
Riona was allowed to retreat to her room within the hour, claiming exhaustion. McCallum had shadows of his own beneath his eyes, but she knew he would stay with his clan as long as he felt necessary.
The little maid, Mary, was asleep in a chair by the fire, but she jumped to her feet when Riona entered, as if she thought herself derelict in her duties.
Riona smiled at her. “I did not mean to disturb you. I should have been more careful shutting the door.”
“Nay, my lady, I should never have fallen asleep.”
“Of course you could. It was a long evening. Think nothing of it.”
Color flooded back into her thin face, and although she didn’t smile, the worst of the tension seemed to leave her shoulders. “Thank ye, my lady. I’ve put your nightshift near the hear
th to warm. Though ’tis summer, this old castle feels like winter year round.”
It was the most she’d yet spoken, and the tips of her ears went pink as if she thought she was babbling. Riona allowed the girl to help her out of her garments, and heaved a weary sigh when the stays were loosened and she could take a deep breath again. Mrs. Wallace had seemed to believe that if the garment was painful, it was doing its job.
The nightshift truly was warm. After Riona had wrapped herself in a dressing gown over it, she sent Mary to find her own bed, so that Riona could wait in peace. She knew that McCallum was coming. He’d put her in his own rooms for a reason, and now that she’d heard of this trial marriage arrangement, she wouldn’t put it past him. Her nerves began a little dance of worry that made her pace.
She tried to think of anything but what might happen tonight. She thought of serious McCallum as a carefree boy who ignored the rules—well, the “rules” part was still true. He’d had no problem kidnapping her and dragging her home. But the conversation between Dermot and him had truly been enlightening. Who could Agnes be, that Dermot would sound almost triumphant bringing her up, and McCallum would look as if it were a sin to mention a woman long dead?
Though Riona regretted using such a memory to drive a wedge between the two men, she’d do what she had to do to escape marriage to a stranger.
But there’d be no escape from McCallum tonight if he chose to confront her. Would she scream until help came? Hardly—what good would that do? She was at his mercy, because they all thought she was his betrothed, and of course, hadn’t she seemed all too willing today?
So . . . would she try to talk McCallum out of seducing her? The way he’d studied her when he’d first seen her in the gown made her wonder if he wouldn’t care about her protests. But she held tight to the memory of his promise not to force her to bed.
She didn’t know what she was going to do if he changed his mind, so she simply paced back and forth for what seemed like hours. He never came. At last, she made herself crawl into the box-bed and pull the curtains tight—as if they were any defense against the chief. She kept her dressing gown over her nightshift, holding it closed at her throat, listening to the wind outside the castle walls. But she heard no footsteps. At last, she sank into a troubled sleep.
WHEN a servant brought a breakfast tray at dawn, Hugh thanked him, then took it to Riona’s room, closing the door quietly behind him. He left the tray on a table and approached the box-bed. The curtains were drawn, but moved soundlessly when he slid them aside.
Riona, still wearing the dressing gown over her nightshift, lay on her side, her hands tucked beneath her chin. Her lashes feathered across her cheeks, and the golden strands of her braided hair almost glittered as the light from the window touched her.
He wanted to waken her with a kiss, but knew she might panic and give him a good bite. That would hardly start their day well. Instead, he leaned against the bed frame and remembered how she’d looked last night, her blond hair gleaming against the ruby red of her gown. He’d been proud to display her before the clan, and though she’d understood nothing of the language, she hadn’t worn a bored expression. Bewildered, maybe, and he knew there would be some who’d look down upon her for her ignorance of Gaelic.
And then Dermot had decided to relive the past. Hugh grimaced. It wasn’t as if Riona would never learn of his foolishness, and he certainly could have told her himself during their journey. But keeping a woman imprisoned, then talking idly about childhood memories, had just seemed wrong.
There was more he could tell her, but it could wait. Besides, only Dermot would be fool enough to bring up Agnes to his chief.
So . . . should he awaken Riona? He was debating the thought when she stretched like a cat and rolled slowly onto her back, arms above her head, torso arched. He got another brief view of her unbound breasts beneath the garment as the bedclothes slid down, but then she opened her eyes and gasped at the sight of him.
He gestured toward the table. “Good morning. Breakfast is served.”
She caught the counterpane to her chin again, and he found himself repressing a smile at her version of battle armor. He knew she wouldn’t appreciate the humor. So he went and sat down, glad for the hot oatmeal porridge, warm bannocks, boiled eggs, and fried herring after days traveling.
“Will ye join me, lass?” he asked.
She pushed back the bedclothes and slid her dainty feet into mules before approaching almost cautiously to sit down opposite him.
He began to eat hungrily, while she just watched him. Finally, he asked, “What ails ye, Riona?”
“I thought . . . I was worried . . .” She took a deep breath and met his eyes solemnly. “I thought you would come to me last night and demand . . . a handfasting.”
Surprised, he set down his knife. “I promised that I have yet to force myself on an unwilling woman, and I make no exception for my betrothed.”
She let out a long breath and sagged back in the chair.
“I’ll try not to take offense,” he said dryly.
“I care not if you take offense,” she retorted. “I am your prisoner and I never know what you might have planned for me.”
“So ye remember what handfasting is, do ye?”
She said nothing, just picked at the cuff of her dressing gown.
“My people will believe what they want, of course,” he continued.
“Well, I don’t want them believing that!”
He broke off a piece of bannock and put it on her plate. “Eat something. Ye look as blanched as a clean sheep.”
She coated the bread in butter and took a bite, then shuddered at the proffered ale. “I usually have chocolate to drink at breakfast.”
“No chocolate here. But we can find ye some tea. And of course, there’s buttermilk.” He took a deep draught of his and smacked his lips.
They ate in silence for a few minutes until she raised her gaze to study him.
“So what do you have planned for me?” she asked. “What am I supposed to do with myself all day?”
“First, I’ll be having your word that ye won’t try to escape.”
She stiffened. “I cannot give you that. I’m a prisoner! You would try to escape being held against your will.”
“I’ve already told ye,” he said with a long-suffering sigh, “that I long ago accepted my duty to my clan. Ye’ll come to accept your duty, too. Until then, if ye cannot promise me to stay put, then ye’re confined to the castle with a bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard?” she repeated blankly.
“I’ll not make it so obvious, for I don’t want to embarrass ye.”
“You mean you don’t want to embarrass yourself by showing the clan that your bride is unwilling.”
“Again, ye forget that everyone kens ye’re a Duff. They might assume ye to be not so willing. Ye’ll have free run of the castle grounds, but beyond that, ye cannot be going. Not without me.”
As usual, her very expressive face revealed her emotions: dismay, frustration, stubbornness. When at last she seemed calm, he thought that now it would be time to worry.
She swallowed a bit of egg and eyed him with curiosity. “My conversation with Dermot was interesting.”
He eyed her right back, boldly. “Dermot’s memories aren’t always to be trusted.”
“So you’re saying his mental acuity can’t be trusted? Amazing that your clan elected him your tanist.”
“Oh, he’s a canny man, as ye can well see.”
“But you don’t trust him.”
She was too eager for all his secrets. “He’s my cousin. A bond like that goes deeper than trust. He’ll do what’s right for the clan.”
“Ah, but will that be what you think is right for the clan?”
He leaned toward her. “What I think is right is all that matters, lass.”
She scowled at him and he resisted a chuckle. It wouldn’t do for her to know how amusing he found her. She might think she was more special t
o him than just part of an arranged marriage.
“Who was Agnes?” she asked.
To his surprise, he had to swallow heavily at the onslaught of memories, but he met her gaze. “A village maid who died long ago.”
“So I understood from you last night. But who was she?”
“She’s in the past, and cannot be hurt anymore, can she.”
Riona blinked at him, then opened her mouth as if to say more, but he interrupted first.
“I’ll be out and about all day, and will plan to see ye at supper tonight.”
“Perhaps I don’t wish that,” she said stubbornly.
“How else will ye get to know your bridegroom? We’ll not have a good marriage otherwise. And I’m determined that we’ll have a good marriage.”
He left her stuttering and fuming. He needed a solid marriage and heirs, so he would have to come up with a better plan to woo her.
RIONA was still fuming after she dressed and sent Mary to find Mrs. Wallace. But there was nothing she could do about McCallum or his infuriating arrogance. All she could do was focus on her own plan to avoid this marriage. She might not be able to leave the castle, but it was important for her to know every inch of it, just in case.
Mrs. Wallace was thrilled and proud to show her Larig Castle. Everywhere they went, people broke off their Gaelic conversations and either bowed or curtsied to her. She wasn’t used to being so noticed, so catered to. She could see the curiosity, and even the occasional skepticism—because she was a Duff, no doubt.
But as for the castle itself, away from the main public rooms, there was more of an air of neglect, sparse furnishings, shutters instead of glass casement windows that could swing open for fresh air. The landscapes that graced the chief’s rooms were absent on plain stone walls. Even the wainscoting in other rooms held only the occasional dour portrait.
“Not much of a living to be made as a painter in Scotland,” Mrs. Wallace said lightly.
When they came to a withdrawing room meant for the chief’s family, Riona was surprised to find a spinet beneath the windows.
Mrs. Wallace chuckled at her look of surprise. “The chief’s mother had it brought here. She needed something to do when Himself . . . well, I’ll not be spreadin’ stories.”