The Wrong Bride

by Gayle Callen

  He slid the rope free. “See, not a permanent mark on ye.”

  She bent her knee and put her heel on the bed, the better to look at her shin. There were faint impression marks there.

  “Shall I kiss them better?” he asked softly, leaning forward.

  She swung her legs away with the speed of a swordsman and tucked them beneath her. “No, thank you. You can leave now, go about your day, whatever you’d like to do.”

  He stood up. “I hope the day passes swiftly, so that we’re soon together again.”

  She looked aghast at the notion, and with a shaky finger pointed at the door. “Please leave! If you thought tying me up would help your cause, you’ve miscalculated. I’m more offended than ever by your uncivilized behavior.”

  Leaning against the bed frame, he eyed her rumpled garments with interest. “I think ye’re lying to yourself. You enjoy kissing as much as I do. Ye’ll enjoy what follows even more.”

  She came up on her knees and screeched, “Out!”

  He laughed, and wearing a victorious smirk, he left.

  RIONA ate breakfast in the great hall without Hugh, and at first she thought that was better than staring at him across an intimate table in his suite. But she was eating in the company of a household of mostly men, and though they obviously tried not to stare at her, they all took turns sending her surreptitious glances. She’d never felt so on display before, regarded with such curiosity and speculation. She was their enemy—many must think it. Some might also consider her their clan’s very salvation. It was an awkward, scary place to be. She’d spent much of her childhood and young womanhood praying someone would notice her; she’d gotten her wish and the irony was keen.

  She was grateful Samuel made time to see how she was doing, but other than that, conversations continued in Gaelic all around her, and she felt very alone, an outsider in every sense. But to bolster her spirits, she reminded herself that she would leave someday—she had to leave, she thought firmly, considering all that had happened between her and Hugh last night.

  She explored the castle for much of the morning, opening random doors, speaking to servants, reluctantly introducing herself to Hugh’s young gentlemen who helped him run the business of the clan estates. She didn’t see Dermot. Everyone was polite but distant, sometimes even wary, and she felt very much like the enemy, a Duff in the midst of McCallums. But she’d be a Duff who knew Larig Castle if an opportunity to escape presented itself—not that she was counting on that.

  As the day went on, memories of her night tied in bed with Hugh began to overtake her, and anticipation built stronger and stronger. Though she told herself she’d use the opportunity to learn more about him, learn his weaknesses, deep inside she imagined how he might touch her, and how it would feel, and what would come next.

  Why was she having these kinds of thoughts about her cousin’s betrothed? Much as Cat didn’t even know about him, their families had this marriage long planned. Riona should respect it, even as she tried to escape it for herself. Instead she was discovering a wicked part of her she’d never imagined.

  To distract herself, she went to the kitchens and watched the cook and servants prepare tarts they’d be serving with the main course for dinner. Mrs. Wallace was there as well, chatting cheerfully as if she hadn’t seen Riona tied up by the McCallum. Riona couldn’t stop blushing, but perhaps they’d think the cause was merely the heat in the kitchen. Then a ragged man entered, and Mrs. Wallace called him a gaberlunzie, a beggar granted a license to beg. Apparently he was a regular gossip with the servants, and brought news in exchange for a meal. Mrs. Wallace asked hesitantly if Riona wished to have a say in whether he was still welcome, but she demurred. She wasn’t going to be the mistress of the castle and didn’t want to give that impression.

  But . . . it had been rare to be asked her opinion, and she’d been grateful that Mrs. Wallace had given her the chance. To turn down having her own say had been bittersweet.

  After the midday meal, she wore a hooded cloak and boots outside into the cloudy, misty—muddy—day. She was used to occasionally walking alone in London’s public parks or shopping on Regent Street, so it was strange that someone would be assigned to watch over her. She didn’t know who it was, and there were so many people in the courtyard that his identity was well hidden. But she couldn’t let that stop her from exploring, because she’d go crazy with nothing to do. She briefly considered just walking through the gatehouse and into the forbidden world, but what was the point? She could get nowhere on her own, didn’t even know where the nearest village was. And it wasn’t like there was a road with a sign pointing the way. The trails that crisscrossed the mountains as they’d approached could have been from cattle roaming and might lead nowhere. She wasn’t about to risk death in so foolish a manner. But she did spend a while studying the guards’ focus on people entering the castle, and realized they were far more indifferent when people left.

  She wandered through the castle buildings, probably making the servants nervous as she watched them brew beer or soak the castle laundry. In the lower courtyard, she stared fascinated as the smithy worked glowing metal into a horseshoe.

  But it was all an excuse to watch Hugh with his men. Sometimes he seemed like different people to her—the merciless kidnapper, the clan chief wanting respect and authority, the potential bridegroom who kissed her with barely restrained passion. But he wasn’t her betrothed, and he was never going to be her husband.

  But one thing she’d never expected was how taken he was by a shaggy little terrier hanging around the yard, mud caked on the lower half of his tan body as if he’d been running through a bog. On top of his head was a burst of fur like a hat. His tongue hung out with doggy happiness as if he’d found his perfect master, his gaze never leaving Hugh. Riona leaned against the wall and watched the entertainment until the training session broke up. The terrier followed Hugh as he headed toward the upper courtyard. Hugh stopped to talk to the smithy, gesturing back toward the dog, but only got a shrug out of the man.

  Then Hugh headed back across the yard and the dog followed obediently, little legs trotting to keep up. Riona stepped into the shadow of the wall near the smithy, glad for the cloak that hid her. She wasn’t ready for Hugh’s gray eyes to focus on her, to roam her body, to make her feel . . . wicked.

  A young groom, who couldn’t be more than ten years old, was leading a horse from the smithy to the stables, but came to a stop when he saw Hugh, as if the McCallum awed him.

  Hugh pointed to the dog and spoke in Gaelic. The boy led the horse into the stables and came back with a length of rope, which he slipped around the dog’s neck. Dog and boy watched Hugh walk away, the dog full of yearning, the boy much more wary.

  And then she really looked at the boy, and something strange moved through her. He had dark shaggy hair and a prominent forehead. His body looked healthy, even big next to some of the boys she’d seen, as if he’d be a tall man someday. She shivered. What color were his eyes?

  With a glance to check that Hugh had reached the upper courtyard, she strode toward the stables, where the boy was talking to the dog in Gaelic. The terrier just continued to look at him with expectation.

  “Hello,” Riona said.

  The boy glanced at her, and his gray eyes shocked her. He resembled Hugh.

  She was speechless for a moment at the implication, and then told herself that the McCallums were mostly related, where similarity in looks would be common. Hugh wasn’t going to be her husband, so this wasn’t her problem.

  The boy bowed his head. “Mistress.”

  To her relief, he spoke English. “What is your name, young man?” she asked.

  “Brendan. What’s yours?” he asked boldly.

  She briefly pressed her lips together to hide a smile at her own assumption that everyone would know who she was. “My name is Catriona.”

  Those gray eyes went wide. “Lady Catriona? The McCallum’s wife?”

  “I’m not his wife yet,”
she said with a smile. “That’s a nice dog.”

  “Himself asked me to take care of it.” There was both pride and wariness in his tone.

  The wariness could have been about her, of course. She couldn’t help wondering about him or his family. Did he notice the resemblance to his chief?

  She looked around. “I see other dogs roaming the courtyard. Is this one special?”

  He shrugged thin shoulders beneath his shirt. For a boy who worked in the stables, he seemed remarkably clean.

  “The McCallum said this one was young and wouldn’t leave him alone. Might make a good stable dog. Terriers hunt badgers, Himself said. Maybe I can train it to hunt rats.”

  “Do you live here in the castle?”

  He gave her a look like she was crazy. “Nay, I live in the village with my granny. My mum’s passed on.”

  He didn’t mention his father, and she decided not to ask. Instead, she bent and rubbed the furry head of the dog.

  “Do you have a name for him yet?”

  “I’ll be thinking about it. Unless ye’d like to do it,” he said hastily.

  “No, of course not. You’re in charge of him.”

  He relaxed, then looked over his shoulder. “Got work to do. Begging yer pardon, my lady.” And he led the dog into the stables.

  Riona watched him go, trying to tamp down her curiosity.

  AT dinner that afternoon, Hugh strolled between the tables, talking to his gentlemen and meeting the occasional wife. Training that morning had been a little more difficult than yesterday, as the awe of his arrival was wearing off, and the distance of ten years’ absence was settling in. They’d all been afraid of his father and his drink-filled rages, but they didn’t know what to expect of him.

  It wasn’t as if a chief normally trained the men, but he’d yet to name a war chief and wasn’t sure if he should until after the ceremony. He was frankly surprised the clan had elected him their chief at all, considering his childhood rebellion and the scandal of Agnes. But his work on behalf of Scotland in Parliament seemed to weigh in his favor, as well as being the direct descendant over many generations. And then there was Riona’s dowry . . .

  He spotted Brendan McCallum eating at the rear of the hall with several other boys. Hugh had questioned his factor about the boy after seeing him at the stables and wondering why he wasn’t at home helping his grandmother. The factor was as clueless as Hugh was. They had a good house in the village, which Hugh had seen to, and money enough for a comfortable life.

  Yet Brendan was at Larig Castle, working in the stables, and it didn’t make sense. Hugh would have to talk to the boy’s grandmother.

  The terrier had been the perfect excuse to talk to Brendan, and it had been as easy a conversation as possible between a chief and a nervous groom. If Brendan had thought it strange that Hugh gave him charge of the dog, he didn’t show it. All it had taken was Hugh expressing concern that such a little dog would be dominated by the rest of the pack, and Brendan had responded.

  And it had given him a chance to look the boy over, and be glad of what he’d seen. But sad memories were hard to escape . . .

  LOOKING out her casement windows, Riona could just see Loch Voil glimmering in the setting sun. It was a beautiful sight after a day of rainy mist, but she still felt melancholy. She’d just come up from supper in the great hall, determined to be alone as little as possible with Hugh, but of course she’d felt him watching her all during the meal. As if he’d understood why she was seeking out the company of his gentlemen, he’d merely given a small smile and waved for the harpist to play for her.

  But as one by one everyone had retired for the night, she’d had no choice but to do the same. Hugh had followed close behind her, but it had been almost an hour, and he hadn’t emerged from his room for a second night of bundling.

  Then without knocking, he strode into her chamber, his hair wet from a bath, wearing just a shirt and breeches again.

  As if she’d been given a signal, Mrs. Wallace knocked and entered from the corridor. She smiled at Riona. “Well, I hope ye two had a good long conversation last night.”

  “We did, Mrs. Wallace,” Hugh said, all innocence.

  The housekeeper looked at Riona, who could only nod.

  Hugh rubbed his hands together. “Shall the bundling commence? Where is the rope?”

  She was tempted to say she’d lost it, but knew he’d just find more. She went to the chest. “I hid it from the maid so that gossip would not result.”

  “Clever.”

  He waited by her box-bed as she brought him the rope, feeling like she was playing a part for Mrs. Wallace. His eyes gleamed with candlelight mirrored in their depths. He took the rope in his big hands, and to her surprise, she shivered, and not with fear. The thought of being at his mercy would once have terrified her, but now she recognized that being bound meant none of it was her fault, that she could accept what happened—accept and secretly enjoy it.

  She looked away, mortified, then closed her eyes when he lightly ran the rope along her cheek.

  She jerked her head back and shot a glance toward Mrs. Wallace, who pointedly fiddled with the keys hung at her waist.

  “Sit down,” he said in a low voice.

  Riona did so, keeping her gaze averted when he knelt at her feet. There was something far too meaningful about looking into his eyes. She saw passion and desire, and it appealed mightily to her to be wanted by someone—by him.

  “I’ve never tied a woman up before,” he said for her ears alone. “It seems to be rather . . . stimulating.”

  She wished she could kick him, but the rope was already wound about her ankles. She settled for an aggravated sigh that made him chuckle. When he was finished, she used her hands to slide backward into bed before he could touch her.

  “Good night, Laird McCallum, Lady Riona,” Mrs. Wallace called as she closed the door behind her.

  Riona rolled her eyes at the warm humor lacing the woman’s words. She stared at the ceiling of the box-bed while he blew out the candles and joined her. She lay there stiffly, determined not to play along with this farce, to discourage conversation. But the silence lengthened and filled with undercurrents of awareness and tension. His big body sagged the mattress, subtly encouraging her to move closer, and she had to fight to stay on her own side. He gave off heat, too, and within the cold stone walls of the castle, it was alluring. And he smelled of soap. At last, she had to distract him—or to be honest, distract herself.

  “When will you officially be declared the chief?” she asked, risking a glance at him.

  When he folded his arms behind his head and stared up as she had, she breathed a little sigh of relief.

  “At a ceremony in a week or two. ’Tis a foregone conclusion, unless ye wonder if ye’re to marry a different chief. After all, your dowry is a powerful incentive, and the clan wants it for their own.”

  She grimaced, knowing the clan was not going to get Cat’s dowry any time soon. “No, I wasn’t thinking that. I was just thinking about the duties of a chief, and since my uncle did not live in Scotland, he did not train the Duff clansmen as you do.”

  “Usually we rely on the war chief for that, but as ye probably realize, I need them all to become familiar with me again.”

  “But ye have no war chief?”

  “I’ll name one. Probably Alasdair.”

  “That man who seemed to take such delight in fighting you?”

  Hugh harrumphed. “Aye, him. He’s younger than a chief usually appoints, but his father was war chief many years ago, and Alasdair knows these mountains as well as anyone.”

  “And warfare? Does he know that?”

  “He was with Dermot and myself at Sheriffmuir. We all know the folly of bad choices. I can never forget our retreat from Perth, when some of the soldiers, under orders from the bumbling Earl of Mar, burned three of our own villages to slow the advance of the Duke of Argyll. Homes and livelihoods wasted because Mar was ineffectual and lost the initiative.�
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  The sadness in his voice made her look at him at last. His brows were lowered in a frown, muscles in his jaw working as if he clenched his teeth.

  “Alasdair may have the background you require,” she said hesitantly, “but does he have the temperament? He seemed like he rather enjoyed taunting you in front of your own men.”

  He glanced down at her, the storm clouds leaving his eyes. “Are ye upset on my behalf, like a true wife?”

  “Of course not,” she said hastily. “You can certainly take care of yourself.” Changing back to a safer subject, she said, “Wasn’t there another Jacobite battle after the Rising? Was he there with you as well?”

  “We didn’t send men because Scotland and its problems were only being used by Spain to harass the British government. Spain promised a fleet of soldiers would land in southern England, and a small fleet would meet with the Jacobites in Scotland. But just like the last Spanish armada of the sixteenth century, storms caused this fleet to founder and turn back. Only two Spanish ships came to the Outer Hebrides, and their force and the small contingent of Jacobites were no match for the redcoats and the royal ships that sailed into Loch Alsh. They fought briefly at Glen Shiel and then went into full retreat, without any Scottish deaths. A farce, the whole thing.”

  She nodded, knowing this was the history of her people as well—and her mother’s people on the opposite side. Who was she to be loyal to? Or could she just stay separate and hope the conflicts never touched her? That seemed cowardly, and she shied away from the thoughts.

  “As for Alasdair,” Hugh went on when she remained silent, “he was a friend to me when I didn’t have many.”

  Unable to stop herself, she said, “You were the son of the chief—how could you not have friends?”

  “Remember who my father was. An unpredictable drunkard with the power of life and death over his clan. They all feared him, and feared provoking him. ’Twas easier to keep their children away from me and my sister—and Maggie didn’t make it easy for anyone to approach her.”

  This Maggie was more and more intriguing, but she didn’t ask questions.