The Wrong Bride

by Gayle Callen

  “The McCallum has told me his father wasn’t a good-tempered man.”

  “Nay, he was not, and poor wee Hugh and Maggie suffered for it.”

  “When did their mother die?”

  Mrs. Wallace’s eyes widened. “She’s not dead, lass, but living in Edinburgh near her family. Did Himself not tell ye this?”

  Riona flushed. “We’ve only . . . just met. We haven’t had time to discuss much of anything, really.”

  “Ah, no wonder he plans to have supper at yer side every night. Ye have a lifetime of learnin’ ahead of ye.”

  Not a lifetime—not if she could help it. “Do you have a library?” Riona asked to change the subject.

  Mrs. Wallace’s look was uncomprehending. “Any books are in the McCallum’s solar. Who else would need to read them?”

  “Other members of the household?” Riona ventured. “Ladies?”

  “Sadly, ye’ll not find many women here with much use for reading, except on the Sabbath.”

  “Oh.” She was used to reading as much as she wished, and discussing the latest books with her partners at dinners. Did the McCallums care nothing for education?

  They left the main towerhouse and explored the other buildings constructed into the curtain wall, many for the servants, like the brew house, the dairy, or the woman house, where village women spun and wove cloth. The kitchens were on the ground floor beneath the great hall, and next to them was a half-walled vegetable garden, and more gardens beyond the curtain walls themselves, Mrs. Wallace told her. Always they were watched by men patrolling the battlements along the curtain wall, as if they thought the British intended to attack at any moment.

  Or the Duffs, she reminded herself. Or the Campbells, or any of the clans, for they were a warfaring people, or so her father always told her with disdain. And there had just been a series of battles with the English a little over ten years before. Of course all of the McCallums would be prepared.

  They stood in the arched entrance to the lower courtyard, out of the way of the men who came and went. Except for the stone barracks, wooden buildings surrounded this courtyard, where the clansmen trained for war. There were large muck piles from dealing with animals, many of whom roamed freely in both courtyards, chickens, dogs, and even pigs. There were stables and shops for craftsmen, like the smithy and the carpenter.

  She studied the clansmen as they battled each other with swords, holding shields called targes to deflect blows from their opponent.

  To her surprise, she saw McCallum in their midst, fighting against an opponent. And if this was simply training, their battle looked far too real, provoking an occasional wince out of her. A rare summer sun beat down on the training yard, and most of the men had shed their coats, and some even their shirts—like the McCallum. His plaid was still buckled around his waist, but the loose ends hung over the belt without being attached to his garments by brooch. Many of the men had gathered around to watch, and she couldn’t blame them. He’d been elected their chief because he was the heir and a hero at Sheriffmuir, but they hadn’t seen him for ten years.

  His body gleamed with sweat, and she was able to see a scar or two slicing across firm muscle. His abdomen had actual ridges. Staring at him made her feel hot and uncomfortable, so very aware of him as a man, and not just as her captor. The memory of his kiss suddenly seared her, and she felt the heat of a blush. She didn’t want to be drawn to him, had been fighting this betrayal of her body all along, but her resistance didn’t seem to matter.

  “Ye’ll be noticin’ the scars,” Mrs. Wallace said, not bothering to hide her amusement.

  “Oh . . . of course. Sheriffmuir?”

  “Och, and as a lad. Broke a bone at least every other year, it seemed. I’m still amazed he turned out whole.” She sighed with contentment. “He is a fine lad, and the worryin’ of some was for naught.”

  “He hasn’t been here these last ten years, I know. What was he doing?”

  “Another thing ye can ask him when ye don’t ken what to say at supper.”

  How was she to discover anything if people didn’t want to talk? “Who is that he’s training with?”

  “Ah, that’s Alasdair Lennox.”

  “I’ve heard that name,” she said, relieved to concentrate on something other than McCallum’s superior physical condition. “He and the McCallum were friends as boys.”

  Mrs. Wallace nodded, eyes narrowed as she studied the two who’d grown into men. “Aye, foster brothers who took turns bein’ raised in each other’s households. Friends sometimes, opponents others, and I can see that might not have changed.”

  “It’s been a long time since Alasdair took the whipping that McCallum deserved.”

  The housekeeper’s gaze flashed to her in surprise. “Ye be knowin’ about that already?”

  “Dermot and Himself told me.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to be a part of that conversation.”

  “It was certainly uncomfortable,” Riona admitted.

  Mrs. Wallace eyed her, then looked past her at McCallum and shook her head. “I’ll be leavin’ ye then to learn yer way about. Dinner will be at one by the mantel clock in the great hall. Until then!”

  And the cheerful woman bustled away, leaving Riona alone. Truly alone, for as she stood in the archway, more than once she saw people who hadn’t been in the great hall, and didn’t know who she was, give her strange looks. She received the occasional nod or curtsy, but everyone seemed too intimidated to talk to her. She was used to feeling inconspicuous, and had often wished someone, anyone would notice her as she cared for the ill Bronwyn.

  Now she had all the notice—the notoriety—as the McCallum’s Duff bride brought to end the feud.

  She stood for a while longer, watching the training, especially watching McCallum. She’d felt his strength when he’d tossed her over his shoulder and carried her off her balcony; she’d felt the smooth, warm firmness of his muscles when she’d pressed against him in her sleep. But seeing him half naked in front of so many people—it seemed sinful.

  She leaned against the ancient stone, pretending she was out of the way, and tried to understand him. He spoke to his men with conviction, as if he’d been born to rule. He was forceful and aggressive in his mannerisms, then demonstrating a technique with patience, even when one of the men was slow to learn.

  What did his people see when they looked at him? Where had he been for ten years, hiding away from his father?

  Then the man who’d first been his opponent clapped McCallum on the shoulder and suddenly pointed at her. She stiffened when McCallum looked up at her, and though they were separated by half a courtyard, she felt the pull of him, the awareness of what he wanted of her, of how he wanted her to submit. It was as if he kissed her even now, and everyone could see.

  The men shared a laugh, and though McCallum raised a hand to her, he did not leave his training. She turned away and had to force herself not to run back to the safety of her bedroom—but really, it was his, wasn’t it? Everything she had, everything she did, was only because of him. She was as under his control as she’d been under parents’ control, like trading one prison for another. But then, she hadn’t exactly known it was a prison—she’d simply been a daughter without the means to set up her own household unless at her father’s whim.

  Now? Now McCallum wanted to make her his wife, to give her her own household—her own castle! But it was all against her will, against the very contract he thought he was upholding. It was a terrible mess. When these people who now looked at her with confusion or skepticism discovered the truth, and perhaps lost the precious land they counted on for the whisky they sold—their expression would turn to betrayal and disgust.

  She shuddered and hurried back toward the laird’s towerhouse.

  CHAPTER 9

  Hugh watched a moment too long after Riona ran away from the lower courtyard.

  “Your bride doesn’t seem in a hurry to be with ye,” Alasdair taunted lightly.

&nbs
p; Hugh eyed his foster brother. They hadn’t seen each other for years after fighting side by side at Sheriffmuir and the disastrous summer after Hugh’s recovery. Several years back, Alasdair had journeyed to Edinburgh for a family matter and contacted Hugh. They’d met at a coffee house, and it had been like they were lads again, away from the Highlands and the influence of their fathers.

  But now that Hugh was back at Larig Castle, and been nominated as the chief? There was a change in Alasdair, too, almost a need to prove himself Hugh’s equal—when that had never been in doubt.

  Hugh told himself to be patient, that it was only his first day testing the preparedness of his gentlemen.

  But the two men once closest to him, Dermot and Alasdair, had not granted him the reunion he’d hoped for. And the rest of the men?

  He eyed them as they traded partners and prepared to test each other’s swords. In this time of uneasy peace, they were close enough to battle-ready for him not to complain. Since his father’s death, and the illness of the old man who’d been his war chief, Clan McCallum had gone without one. That was one of the first things Hugh intended to fix. Was Alasdair ready for such a position? He’d fought at Sheriffmuir with the clan, had roamed these hills outwitting Duffs and Campbells and Maclarens for more years than Hugh had. Could he do justice to the position? Hugh would have to discuss it with Dermot, he thought, grimacing at the prospect.

  THOUGH Riona had meant to rush right to her bedroom and hide, she ended up pausing at the woman room to watch the skill of the local women with spinning wheel and loom. Some spoke English, and they seemed awed and excited to meet a woman who’d spent her life among the Sassenach. Riona answered questions, and ended up with needlework supplies to keep herself occupied, and a promise to return again. It all felt wrong. She didn’t belong here; she wasn’t the bride McCallum was supposed to have, and these women would look at her with anger when they discovered the truth.

  When she left them, she kept her head down and focused on following the corridor, wanting only to return to her room, when she almost ran right into Hugh’s foster brother, Alasdair. He didn’t see her as he remained poised in a doorway, as if looking at someone in the room beyond. Not wanting to disturb him—perhaps unwilling to face him—she retreated to where the corridor took a turn, trying to remember a different way back to her room.

  “Dermot, ye don’t plan to train with Himself?” Alasdair asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  Riona’s head came up in surprise. Though she knew she should not eavesdrop, being kidnapped had made her willing to ignore propriety. Alasdair stepped within the room, and she was worried she’d no longer be able to hear any part of their conversation. After creeping back down the hall, she impulsively spilled the basket of skeins of thread and dropped to her knees to gather them. Alasdair chuckled, and she realized she’d missed Dermot’s response.

  Alasdair said, “Surely ye cannot avoid the training yard forever.”

  “I do not plan to,” Dermot said, his voice heavy with exasperation. “I just did not anticipate how difficult it would be when he returned.”

  Riona held her breath.

  “But he’s been elected by the clan,” Alasdair said, with some compassion in his voice. “Ye knew this day would come—we’ve known it our whole lives.”

  “Aye, but I thought I’d be more certain of my place at his side, and instead, I found myself questioning all he’s done leading up to this moment, especially the time he’s spent away.”

  “Dermot—”

  “I know he represented us in Edinburgh and beyond,” Dermot said furiously. “I know what kind of man his father was—but we were here dealing with the old chief, and Hugh was not. Just because he’s been elected our laird doesn’t prove to me that he deserves such an exalted position, that he’ll know what to do with it.”

  “Dermot,” Alasdair began quietly, “ye cannot let people hear ye talking against him.”

  “I’m not against him—I just need proof he’s worthy to be our chief, that he’s become a man we can trust, no longer the hotheaded lad who—” He broke off.

  “’Tis not your place to control him,” Alasdair said. “Ye couldn’t then, and ye cannot try now.”

  Riona thought she heard footsteps heading back toward the corridor, and she quickly picked up the last skein of thread and fled.

  Only when she had her back against the closed door of her bedroom did she feel like she could breathe again and think about what she’d overheard and what it might mean for her. She wasn’t concerned with Hugh—he’d caused all his own recent problems and he would have to accept the consequences. Right now, it was all about her, and somehow finding a way to freedom. She’d never have her old life back—being kidnapped was more than enough ruination for a lady—but she didn’t want that life anyway. There had to be something more for her, and she wasn’t going to find it at Larig Castle in a forced marriage.

  Was Dermot the key to unlocking this prison? How could she use his dissatisfaction?

  AS the sun was setting that evening, Riona was standing in her bedroom, looking out over the courtyard, when the door opened behind her. She turned to find Mrs. Wallace and Mary carrying supper trays.

  “’Tis so romantic that Himself wants to dine alone with his bride,” Mrs. Wallace was saying to Mary, who blushed upon noticing Riona.

  Riona gritted her teeth and forced a smile.

  McCallum entered then, his hair drawn into an untidy queue, his garments stained from a day in the training yard. “Forgive me for not bathing before joining you. I lost track of the hour. We can eat while my bath is prepared.”

  She should be repulsed by his earthiness, but it seemed manly and invigorating to be reminded of the way he’d used his body under the sun, his muscles rippling with every thrust of the sword, every jump to miss a swinging blade.

  She had to stop thinking about this or she wouldn’t be able to meet Mrs. Wallace’s kind eyes.

  When they were at last alone, he dug into his food as if he hadn’t eaten at dinner, when she knew he had, along with the men he’d been training.

  “What did ye think of Larig Castle?” he finally asked, as he took a drink of whisky.

  She eyed the strong drink. “In England, wine would be served with dinner, and the men retire for more potent libation away from the ladies.”

  “Ye might have noticed,” he answered wryly, “but we aren’t in England.”

  She nodded with a sigh and returned to his question. “The castle is impressive, of course, although I’m given to understand that the only books are within your private solar—locked away from the rest of the household.”

  “I’ll see that ye’re given access, of course, although I don’t know if my father had the kind of books ye’d be interested in.”

  “How do you know what I’m interested in, when you know nothing about me?” she asked sweetly.

  “Very true,” he said, wearing a reluctant smile. “We could change that.”

  She ignored that and wondered why did he have to catch her eye like this? He wasn’t even that handsome. But she was learning that a man didn’t need a classic profile to be masculine and appealing.

  She hesitated, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of wifely conversation, but she needed to know everything she could. “The men you trained with today—they didn’t seem to have a problem with you having been gone all this time.”

  He shrugged. “If they did, ’twas no matter to me. I don’t need to be liked, only respected.”

  “Now that sounds like wishful thinking.”

  He paused while slicing a piece of mutton. “That I be respected?”

  “No, that you don’t care if you’re liked. You’ve brought a bride home—the wrong one, I’ll remind you—and you’re supposedly fulfilling this contract that will help your clan. You want them to like you for it.”

  He sat back in his chair and wiped his lips with a napkin. “These things I do out of responsibility and duty, Riona. We all have
such things in our lives. Did ye not have obligations at home?”

  “Obligations you took me from?” she shot back.

  “Obligations that every young woman leaves behind when she marries.”

  She sighed, knowing he spoke the truth. “I nursed my sister through illness much of the last ten years.”

  His dark eyebrows rose. “Ten years? You were but a child then.”

  “I believe you were stealing muskets from redcoats at that same age.”

  A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “True. What illness does your sister suffer?”

  “Consumption.”

  He frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  She felt a pang of old sorrow at the thought of her sister dying someday. “Bronwyn is younger than I, and when she was a child, I was the only one who could keep her resting abed with stories.”

  “Ah, the Scottish blood is yet strong in ye,” he pointed out. “Ye ken how important our stories are. The bard sings of them enough to remind us all—especially me, who’s supposed to live up to the bravery of McCallum ancestors.”

  “So the performance last night wasn’t just for entertainment?” she asked, surprised.

  “Aye, there was that. But also specifically for me to hear and remember.”

  “They expect a lot of you.”

  “Just as your parents expected much of ye, when ye should have been allowed to be a child. At least I was allowed that.”

  “What about after you’d recovered from your wounds at Sheriffmuir? Didn’t they all expect much of you then? How were you permitted to leave?”

  His face, once open and pleasant, seemed to shutter with impassivity. “I played my part in the welfare of our clan, and served them well from Edinburgh.”

  She remembered Dermot saying that as well. “And London? I heard that mentioned. How was that a part of serving your clan?”

  “I was elected a Member of Parliament for our county.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You sat in the Commons?”