The Wrong Bride

by Gayle Callen

“Where else could I sit, since the Crown went back on its promise to allow Scottish nobility an immediate seat in the Lords? Not that I’m a nobleman like your father.”

  She blinked at him. “It takes me a minute to remember you don’t mean my true father when you say such things.” He just looked at her, and she waved a hand, dismissing that topic. “I am still trying to picture you as an MP.”

  “’Tis not an easy thing for a Scotsman to be. Ye saw what the journey is like, and most MPs do not have coaches. We come down by horse the whole length of Great Britain, a journey of weeks, only to be treated as if we’re country simpletons with no understanding of our land. Contempt is too mild a word for how we are viewed.”

  “And you’ve done this for ten years, from January to August,” she said slowly, seeing him in a new light, rather than simply an uneducated villain.

  “Seven years.”

  So that left three more unaccounted years, but she’d think about that later. “How could I never have met you?”

  “And did ye meet many untitled Scots at your fine London dinner parties and musicales?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Oh. No, I did not. Unless you count men like my father, the sons of noblemen.”

  “Not often invited, were we, the sons of chiefs? Some of us could not have afforded the necessary garments, of course. Living in London was an expense many had not anticipated, and few could tolerate for long.”

  “You did.”

  He nodded slowly, taking another bite of goose and chewing before continuing. “Aye, I wasn’t going to turn tail and head for the Highlands at the first sign of trouble. I even served on a parliamentary committee long enough to be named the chairman.”

  “What committee?” she asked curiously.

  “Gaols. Few wanted to discuss or implement prison reform. Perhaps my early lawbreaking against redcoats, that could have landed me in gaol, subconsciously guided me.”

  She still couldn’t believe he’d been in London all those years and their paths had never crossed. “Did you wear your plaid?”

  “Nay, that would have kept Scottish MPs permanently on the outside. Londoners could almost pretend we were English northerners when listening to us speak. But to wear colorful tartan? Nay, I chose to blend in with my breeches and coat.”

  Just as she’d first seen him. “Ye did not try to meet Cat?”

  His face hardened. “I met your father once and he gave me strict orders to stay away from ye, said ye were having a difficult time accepting your duty to your family. And I believed him. When all the while, ye were simply kept ignorant of the whole situation.”

  She froze when he reached across the table and touched her hand.

  “If I’d have seen ye on the street,” he said huskily, “I would have followed ye anywhere.”

  His gray eyes were not so wintry when he looked upon her, and they strangely drew her in with a feeling of intimacy and focus she wasn’t used to experiencing with men. She pulled away, uncomfortable.

  He didn’t protest, just went back to eating, and she did the same. For several long minutes, the silence seemed to stretch into a tension she’d only ever felt with him. He was watching her too closely, seeing things about her, intimate things, she hadn’t known she could feel. She didn’t want to feel anything but loathing for him after how he’d forced her from her family against her will.

  But . . . none of that seemed to matter where her body was concerned. She could hear him breathing, knew that it quickened, which somehow made her own lungs labor. The weight of his stare was like a caress, and gooseflesh spread across her skin. She shivered.

  “Are ye cold?” he asked quietly.

  She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. It was as if her lips remembered the feel of his upon them, and she could not forget the sight of his naked chest.

  She forced herself to remember her plight. “I’ve thought of a way I could prove my identity to you.”

  He groaned and took a deep drink.

  “Send a man to my uncle’s castle. Discover that Cat is in England, that she is my cousin.”

  “What would that prove? I already knew ye were in England. And I won’t be risking the life of my man by sniffing around Duff lands.”

  “But you said this marriage was a bridge between clans. Surely he’d be safe—”

  “Nay, I’ll not do it, Riona. Stop trying to change what cannot be changed.”

  She jumped to her feet. “I—I should like to retire,” she said furiously.

  “I shall bathe while ye prepare for bed.”

  He bowed and retreated to his own chamber before she could speak. She frowned at the closed door. What did he mean by that?

  For just a moment, she contemplated surprising him at his bath, so he could see how it felt. And then she realized he would love nothing better. She would stay far away from his chambers.

  Just when she was about to climb into her cozy box-bed, Mrs. Wallace knocked and entered, looking . . . uncomfortable.

  Riona frowned. “Mrs. Wallace? Is something wrong?”

  “Nay, my lady, at least . . . I don’t think so. Himself asked me to wait here for him.”

  When the housekeeper kept her eyes downcast, Riona became truly concerned. They didn’t have long to wait. McCallum entered from the dressing room, wearing a shirt and breeches, and carrying a length of rope.

  Riona’s lips parted with distress. “What is that for?” she demanded.

  “Since ye’ve heard of handfasting, I thought I’d introduce ye to another Highland tradition. Bundling.”

  She blinked at him. “But—but—”

  “Ye’ve not heard of it? ’Twas even common in parts of England. During courtship, the woman’s legs are tied together, and the two lovers lie talking in bed getting to know each other.”

  “I’ve heard of bundling!” she finally cried. “But I never thought I’d be part of it. It is such a—a country custom.”

  “Ye want to know me better, and I want to know you. I thought ye’d be most comfortable with this.” His voice deepened as he came closer. “Climb into bed, lass, and I’ll tie ye up.”

  Short of running screaming into the hall, what could she do? Fuming, she sat down on the edge of the bed and watched McCallum kneel before her and remove her mules.

  Mrs. Wallace took a deep breath, and as if to distract Riona, said, “Now, this is a proper courtship, my lady, the one ye couldn’t have because of that silly contract. Himself has the best intentions.”

  Riona clenched her jaw and said nothing, because she wasn’t sure McCallum’s motives were all that pure, at least not tonight. After this, Mrs. Wallace surely couldn’t see him as her little lad, come home to settle down and do his duty.

  Oh, she was just trying to distract herself from feeling McCallum’s hands on her bare ankles. His skin was rough with calluses, something she already knew and which . . . didn’t bother her. He had a man’s hands—and she saw that those hands now had abrasions and cuts from the afternoon’s training. And, of course, he had no problem touching her with conviction because he always believed he was right.

  At last he straightened and glanced at the housekeeper. “Thank ye for being a witness, Mrs. Wallace, should there be a question about this someday.”

  “O’ course, Laird McCallum. A good night to ye both.”

  And without meeting Riona’s beseeching eyes, she left, shutting the door behind her.

  McCallum went around the room and, one by one, blew out the candles until just the faint glow of the peat fire left the corners of the room in shadows. Then he approached and leaned past her to draw down the bedclothes.

  They were alone for the night. She stubbornly remained seated, arms crossed over her chest, trying to give every evidence of fury.

  While her insides melted. They’d been alone countless times on their journey—why did this seem so different? Why did her limbs tremble, her mouth seem dry, her heart tumble about in her chest? He loomed over her, and with a gasp she fell back
onto her elbows.

  He braced a hand on the bed frame and frowned. “Are ye still afraid of me, lass?”

  How could she say that she was afraid of herself? Afraid that she’d reveal this unnatural desire for him, the man who’d kidnapped her? There must be something wrong with her, to have such feelings. But she couldn’t say any of that.

  “Yes, I’m afraid,” she whispered. “I know you’ve promised not to—to take me to bed before I give my consent, but I have heard whispers that a man in the throes of passion is not always . . . rational.”

  “Is that what virginal lasses discuss when we’re not around?”

  She said nothing, then gave another gasp when he picked her up against his chest, then laid her out closest to the wall. He stretched out beside her on his side, head braced on his hand. She felt trapped between his big body and the wall, the width of his chest practically all she could see. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, dark hair scattered there, and she could smell soap from his bath.

  She closed her eyes and slowed down her breathing.

  His chuckle was deep and raspy. “So ye think ’twill be so easy to forget I’m here?”

  “I certainly did so at the inn, until you rudely pulled me to you.” She didn’t open her eyes.

  His breath was soft on her face as he spoke. “I seem to remember us cuddling together quite mutually.”

  “You have a habit of believing what you want to believe. I’m trying to picture your real bride tolerating these strange advances. Cat would never stand for it.” She tried to move her legs, but he’d expertly tied her without hurting her.

  He put a hand on her knee. “Hush, there’s no reason to struggle.”

  Even through the fabric of nightshift and dressing gown, she could feel the heat of him. With a low groan, she turned her head to the wall.

  “So I have a sister, and you have a sister,” he said.

  For a long minute she said nothing, then spoke between gritted teeth. “Unhand me, and we can talk.”

  He did so. “That’s better. Don’t ye want to know about my sister?”

  “Fine, go ahead and speak of her.”

  “Maggie is younger than me by four years. She draws attention to herself, and not just because she’s pretty—her eyes are two different colors. One’s blue, and the other’s green.”

  That made her turn her head to give him a skeptical stare.

  He raised his free hand. “I swear. There are other things about her that are unusual, but since ye’ll meet her eventually, I’ll let her choose what to tell ye.”

  “I know Scots are a superstitious people—”

  “Ye make that sound like ye’re not one of us,” he teased.

  She ignored that. “So did the clan treat her differently?”

  His amused look faded. “Some do. She’s not yet married, and I worry that she’s holding back out of fear a man won’t understand her . . . differences.”

  “So you’re not forcing her to marry?” she asked dryly.

  In a solemn voice, he said, “Do to her what was done to us? Ye forget, lass, that perhaps there was someone else I wished to marry.”

  She looked up at him in surprise, then took an educated guess. “Agnes?”

  He studied her too long before looking away. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Did ye have someone else?”

  She wanted to lie to him, hoping to hurt him as he’d hurt her. But she felt too wounded, too raw, to be convincing. “No.”

  “Perhaps your family kept ye away from suitable men because of the contract?”

  “And not tell me? I mean, tell Cat? That makes no sense. No, I was more important to them for Bronwyn’s sake.”

  He touched the braid that had tumbled over her shoulder and gave it a wiggle. “How old is she?”

  “Twenty. She is a true innocent, so naïve about the pitfalls of life.”

  “And ye’re so very worldly?”

  She sensed laughter beneath his calm surface, but he didn’t release it, and she reluctantly appreciated that. “I didn’t say that. But if you’d have done to her what you did to me, she’d have stayed in a perpetual swoon.”

  “Instead of fighting back and trying to escape? Maybe I’d prefer that.”

  But there was admiration for her in his tone, and it made Riona uncomfortable. She was always uncomfortable, forced to be on alert, to be wary. She didn’t remember what it was like to feel content and happy.

  Perhaps because she’d never truly known such a state.

  “Ye look sad,” he whispered.

  He dropped his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. And just like that, her sadness was drowned in a sea of conflicting emotions, passion and need and desperation.

  His face was just above hers and he only breathed the words, “I want ye to be happy.”

  He pressed another kiss, this time to her forehead, to her cheek, to her chin. Her hands might as well have been tied, for how little she could move them. And if she did move them, it would only be to put her hands in his dark hair, pull the leather tie free and let his wavy hair fall about his face.

  He stopped when his lips were just over hers, their panting breaths mingled. The moment extended on and on, exquisite torture that she made worse by lifting her head and kissing him. With a groan, he slanted his open mouth against hers, forcing her lips apart, and then his tongue began a delicious exploration she’d never imagined. She was pressed back into the pillows by his body half over hers. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, wildly, drawing a moan from her that he answered with his own. He tasted faintly of whisky, as if he’d needed something to bolster himself before confronting her. She knew that probably wasn’t true, but it gave her a wild thrill regardless, as did the hard pressure of him against her hip. Riona might be an innocent, but Cat had whispered details of lovemaking that she’d gleaned from friends.

  Riona’s hands crept up to his powerful shoulders and then into his hair. She arched into his chest, feeling the pressure against her aching breasts. She wanted him to touch them—

  And she realized that could push him past restraint. He’d tied the ropes—he could untie them, and who would ever know?

  She twisted her head to the side, her voice a rasp as she said, “We must stop.”

  He didn’t answer, just buried his face against her neck, kissing and licking as he made his way down to the edge of her dressing gown. When his hand slid up her rib cage, she caught it with her own.

  “Please, Hugh, stop.”

  Hearing his Christian name seemed to bring him back to awareness. He lifted his head slowly and looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth was still moist with their kiss, and she had an irrational desire to lick him there. She was trembling at the restraint, yet she continued to hold his hand tightly until he pulled away.

  He lifted his body off hers, rolled onto his back at her side, then flung his forearm over his eyes, his chest rising and falling like the bellows in a smithy. They said nothing for long minutes in the shadowy darkness. The bed wasn’t big enough to keep them apart, and his arm still touched the length of hers. To escape, she’d have to crowd into the wall. With a sigh, she knew she wasn’t going to do that.

  She debated what to say, how to tell him that this should never happen again, how to make him believe that he wasn’t always right.

  And then he snored.

  It was her turn to throw an arm over her eyes and groan. But she couldn’t sleep, not with thoughts dancing in her head. She had to get away from here before things went any farther. She wondered if her uncle had even bothered to inform her parents that she was gone. What had he told Cat about Riona’s absence? Besides her sister, her cousin was the only one who truly loved her, who didn’t want anything from her. She must be frantic and terrified. Perhaps the earl had created an elaborate lie about how Riona had left of her own free will . . .

  Oh, she had to stop this wild imagining. She had a plan in place, and now she knew that Dermot was the one t
o approach with her secrets. But how? He might not trust Hugh, but he certainly wouldn’t trust a Duff. If she went to him now, he’d feel no compulsion to help her. She would try to become friendly with him, so that he’d relax around her and believe her when she finally spoke of her need for his help. If they approached Hugh together, perhaps Hugh would at last be convinced that she was telling him the truth.

  Hugh rolled over and slung an arm around her waist, his face pressed into her hair. She couldn’t escape, not with her legs tied, and she wasn’t about to wake him up and risk another seduction . . .

  A seduction to which she was growing more and more susceptible.

  CHAPTER 10

  Hugh could have lain within Riona’s arms forever. One of her soft, warm arms was beneath his neck as she curled against him. It wasn’t dawn yet, but his body was awakening—in more ways than one.

  He was filled with satisfaction and confidence in the future. Riona wasn’t immune to him; it would just take a little time to make her see that their marriage could be happy. They might not trust each other, but that didn’t really matter. Trust was something that could get a person killed. Attraction was more important to him than some mystical feeling like love that could hurt her in the end.

  She gave a little sigh, and he could feel the exhalation through her chest, which was pressed along his arm. This was a good way to wake up.

  Until she went all stiff and affronted; she opened her green eyes wide and gazed into his.

  “I can’t get up,” he said with amused apology in his voice. “Someone is holding on tight.”

  With a sigh, she rolled onto her back. “I cannot control what I do in my sleep. Please sit up and free my arm now.”

  “Ye mean ye can’t hold back your desires when ye’re asleep.”

  “Just untie me, please.”

  He chuckled and stood up, then squatted as she put her legs over the edge within his reach. He untied her a little slower than necessary, making sure his fingers had to repeatedly touch her soft skin.

  When she gave several exaggerated sighs, he glanced up at her. “Ye just like having me at your feet.”

  “Only if I can kick you,” she grumbled.