The Wrong Bride

by Gayle Callen

  “Ye may deny it all ye’d like, but ’twill not work with me.”

  She flung her arms wide. “I am telling the truth.”

  “Ye’re Catriona Duff.”

  “Yes, but there are two of us. My cousin and I share the same family name because neither of our fathers would give in to the other. We call her Cat and myself Riona.”

  He ignored her ridiculous attempts to dissuade him. He knew the duplicity her family was capable of—there were centuries of evidence, including cattle raids during a time of peace. “Riona fits ye well. Womanly.”

  He took a step toward his betrothed, feeling the need to touch her. When she darted to the side, he told himself he could be patient. Too much was at stake within his own clan. The money from her tocher would increase their prosperity. And he needed a peaceable, willing bride on his return home after so long away, to cement the clan’s respect and dull their memories of his foolish youth.

  Knowing he could outrun Riona, he waited to see what she would do. She hesitated, and her tense shoulders gradually slumped as she gazed solemnly at the vast expanse of the valley, the dales rising in the northwest, the moors to the northeast. Their long journey would take them up the center between them. She was as cautious as a butterfly, waiting to see which way the wind would blow her. At last she faced him again.

  “Laird McCallum,” she said.

  She was now trying to sound reasonable, although the trembling gave her away. One eyebrow raised, he simply waited to see what she’d do next.

  “Take me back,” she insisted. “Surely we cannot be that far from York. My uncle will explain everything. Cat was in the country yesterday, but she was to return today.” She briefly closed her eyes. “Goodness, Cat doesn’t know about this betrothal. When she finds out . . .”

  Hugh appreciated her determination, if nothing else. He was not offended that she tried so hard to deny their upcoming marriage. It had obviously taken her by surprise. Though his own father had been a poor specimen of a man, drunk more than sober, at least he’d informed Hugh of the commitment when he’d been old enough to understand. Not that Hugh had accepted his fate with good grace . . .

  And then his father had taken to the whisky even more, until Hugh’s mother had taken him and his sister to live with her family.

  “I can’t marry you!” she cried. “I’m—I’m already betrothed.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever actions ye committed because your father did not have the honor to tell ye the truth have no bearing on the agreement between our families. Your family agreed to this contract at your birth, and from that time on, they have shared the wealth of our best land. Now ’tis time for my own family to benefit—with the tocher.”

  She blinked at him. “Tocher?”

  “The bride price. The dowry.”

  “So it’s money you want,” she said disdainfully.

  He eyed her. “Is not money involved in every marriage among the privileged? But ’tis not only the money. My clan has dealt honorably with your father, giving up full control of the purest springs, the finest peat, the best barley, all that we use for our whisky. This product supports my people. The contract was a great sacrifice my father made to ensure peace between our clans with only the promise of future honor on your side. We mean to see the bargain met.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then gave an abortive laugh that held no amusement. “Cat’s life and freedom were a tradable commodity to promote whisky?”

  He frowned. “Do not ever let my people hear such disdain in your voice for that which promotes our clan and provides coin, something there is little of in the Highlands, thanks to the Sassenachs.” He practically spat the last word.

  Her forehead knit with confusion. “Sass . . . what?”

  “Englishmen, outlander. Did your family have so little pride as to neglect your Gaelic?”

  She drew herself up. “My mother is English.”

  He turned away, saying over his shoulder. “’Tis not true. Your falsehoods will not change your circumstances, Lady Catriona. Like every woman, ye knew ye had to marry and that the choosing of your husband would not be in your own hands.”

  “Well I wouldn’t have chosen you! And neither would my cousin Cat. If you don’t take me back, you’ll have no hope to win her. Our family will consider this act of treachery an insult and—and a reason to break the contract.”

  And then he found himself looming over her, watching her shrink back against the coach. “Do not speak to me of treachery after the way your father coldly tried to negate the contract yesterday, claiming he could not in good conscience allow his daughter to be ‘hauled off to the McCallums’—his words. I saw a man—if he can be called one—looking for a way to break the contract. My father is now dead, and the responsibility of Clan McCallum is mine. The earl will live up to his bargain when he sees he has no choice. He is the reason you were stolen from your rooms instead of presented to me with honor. I came with gifts suitable for the joining of our clans. Our meeting should have been celebrated as the promise of the future.”

  “I—I—”

  To his surprise, she pushed at his chest. He didn’t move, although this display of spirit improved his mood. It wasn’t her fault she’d been brought up poorly. He grasped her soft, delicate hands and kept them on his chest. “Examining the goods, my lady?”

  She gasped and pulled away, and he let her. He almost smiled, but he would not let her think him her friend, or a man who could be convinced to change his mind. He was none of those things. He was her future husband, her laird. She had to understand that she would now be ruled by his word alone, not by her treacherous father.

  “Now fetch the food I left inside the coach,” he said. “Unless ye mean to starve.”

  Her green eyes narrowed mutinously, and he almost hoped she’d defy him, so their sparring could continue. Then she lifted her chin and turned to climb inside the coach.

  Hugh met Samuel’s gaze and found himself nodding with satisfaction. Samuel’s smile was tinged with worry, and he shook his head. Hugh thought his bodyguard’s concerns unfounded. They’d come to York and done what they’d had to. But he could admit to himself that he, too, had been worried about the kind of wife he’d be saddled with. True, she might still be a shrew, but he hoped he could settle her eventually.

  She appeared in the doorway of the coach, the cloth sack in one hand. He reached to assist her down, but she thrust the sack into his hands and descended on her own.

  Not meeting his eyes, she said stiffly, “I need a moment of privacy.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke firmly. “If ye try to run, I will be forced to bring ye to ground. There’s no one here who can help ye.”

  “I’m not blind. But the countryside will not always be so desolate.”

  “Ye’ve not been to the Highlands lately, have ye?”

  “We’re not there yet,” she returned heatedly. “I assume you’re both gentlemen. Please remain here while I’m behind the coach.”

  “My patience is not endless. If ye don’t reappear in a suitable time—”

  Exasperated, she said, “Then I will call out and tell you my plans moment by moment. Does that suit you?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, just huffed, walked around the large wheels of the coach, and disappeared behind.

  WHEN she’d finished, Riona lingered for just a moment by the half wall of rock that seemed piled almost haphazardly, yet was overgrown with moss and weeds as if it had weathered centuries. She gazed with despair across the pastoral scene and prayed there would be a shepherd she could wave to for help.

  But what would a poor shepherd do against two large Highlanders, one of whom called himself chief of the McCallums? How could she bring innocent lives into her dilemma, perhaps getting them killed? She didn’t even know if he’d told her the truth. Except . . . she recognized the clan name he’d used, enemies of the Duffs, her father’s clan. They shared a contentious border. But that didn’t mean this ma
n was telling the truth. He could have kidnapped her for her dowry, as if the Dark Ages were still upon them. He might be lying about everything, and she’d end up in a hovel doing his bidding.

  She might end up that way even if he were the chief, she thought with a shudder. She’d heard stories of the wretched Highlands from her father, who’d fled to England in his youth. How often he’d said he was lucky to be the son of an earl, with the ability and opportunity to escape his native country. He’d never understood the clansmen who’d worshipped his father, and now his brother, as if they were gods. Highlanders were a savage lot, according to him, and he’d told her stories of senseless raids back and forth on rival clan’s cattle, of feuds so bloody that entire clans were demolished.

  She’d never felt so helpless. She’d thought she’d had little control in her life up until now, told to remain closeted with her sister most of the time, left behind when the rest of her family had gone to the Continent. But now, she couldn’t even have a moment of privacy without her captor’s permission.

  She hugged herself and rubbed her arms, though the sun was warm in the vale. It wouldn’t stay warm for long. In the Highlands it was rainy and cold more often than not. Bleak and forbidding, that’s what her father had called it. Full of savages who had to plow through rock to survive. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t in Scotland yet, and perhaps she could find a way to change her captor’s mind—or escape. They had to travel through a village sometime. Surely they’d need supplies.

  “Lady Catriona!”

  Her captor’s voice was a bark that made her jump. She gave one last look at the rolling pastures and then walked slowly to the other side of the coach. The two men were speaking to each other in Gaelic, and they didn’t even look at her as they chewed their oatcakes and cheese, washing it down with the dubious contents of another bottle they must have stored in the coachman’s box.

  Silently, Laird McCallum pointed to the coach.

  She winced. “I cannot even see outside this prison.”

  “When ye’ve proven to me ye can be trusted, I will give ye a window. Until then—”

  With his strong fingers, he pulled two of the nails free and tacked several inches of the leather curtain.

  “Thank you so much,” she said with sarcasm.

  She climbed up inside, but instead of folding in the stairs and shutting the door, Laird McCallum followed her and sat down on the bench at her side.

  She slid into the corner, then thought better of it and fled to the opposite bench. “What are you doing?” she demanded, trying to keep the thread of fear from her voice.

  “Getting some sleep.”

  “But—but—”

  Her mouth sagged open in dismay, even as he stretched out his legs until they could go no farther. His broad torso seemed to take up his half of the coach. She was intimately alone with this man—this kidnapper—and totally under his power. She swallowed, but the lump remained in her throat, and she braced herself into the corner as if awaiting an attack.

  “Samuel and I will be taking turns riding with ye,” he said. “Surely ye cannot expect us to get no sleep on a journey of ten days or more.”

  “Ten days!”

  “We’re from the southern Highlands. It could have been worse.” He eyed her coldly. “Have ye no memories of such a journey? Did your father think so little of his heritage that he denied ye your birthright?”

  “My childhood is none of your business.” It stung that he was right, but she would not give him the satisfaction of letting him see that.

  “Everything about ye is my business. Ye’re to be my wife.”

  “I will not marry you and you can’t force me to. Cat—the woman you say you were betrothed to—she won’t marry you either.”

  His narrowed, wintry eyes seemed to trap her.

  “Mark my words, Lady Riona—ye will marry me.”

  The intimate family name on his lips was chilling. He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes as if that ended the conversation. And it did—what could she do but rail against him and make him angry enough to—what? She shivered. If he thought himself her betrothed, thought that gave him the right to do whatever he wanted . . . She stared at the sword and pistol he hadn’t bothered to remove.

  “I can feel your trembling from over here. Fetch a blanket if ye’re cold, lass, but let a man sleep.”

  She wasn’t cold; the coach was stifling with two bodies breathing and taking up space. But she was terrified and trying not to cry, and wondering when help would come. But she’d had a horrible thought in the night, one that hadn’t borne examination then, because she couldn’t imagine it. But now . . . now, by the light of day through the crack he’d given her in the window, her bad thoughts surfaced. She tried to beat them back by telling herself that once her uncle knew she’d disappeared, he’d gather people to look for her.

  But another part of her whispered doubts she hadn’t wanted to face. She and her uncle had never been close. The earl was a cold man focused on his own wealth and prestige. When her parents had taken her sister to the Continent and left Riona behind, he’d only reluctantly taken her in when her cousin Cat had insisted that Riona couldn’t stay alone with only the servants.

  And now, if McCallum was to be believed, he’d talked with the earl yesterday—just before Cat discovered her parents were sending her to friends in the country. Cat had been surprised, but not displeased at the idea, although the speed of packing had seemed strange. She’d wanted Riona to go with her, but her parents had insisted there was no room at the house party. But . . . had all this been deliberate, sending Cat away after McCallum’s appearance? Had the earl regretted the contract so much, he’d gotten his daughter out of harm’s way?

  And the most damning part, the part she couldn’t get out of her mind, was that at dinner, her aunt had seemed pale and withdrawn, eyes downcast when the earl brusquely told Riona she should sleep in Cat’s bedroom, since hers had to be cleaned and painted. It had seemed so strange—why not wait to paint until they’d departed for London?

  But now, it made much more sense, and her stomach twisted with betrayal and grief. Had the earl put her in Cat’s room because he’d anticipated the savage Scot trying to make off with Cat, and was looking for a legal reason to break off the betrothal altogether? The earl could have stationed guards there and caught McCallum in the act. It seemed unbelievable for just that reason, yet . . . She swallowed and tried not to think the worst. If she let her terror overwhelm her, she’d never find a way to escape the man who now rested with eyes closed and chin on his chest, his broad legs taking up all the room in the coach, forcing her to press deeper into the corner to avoid touching him.

  He spent two hours sleeping, barely moving, as he if he was long used to sleeping quietly and expediently. She couldn’t sleep at all, for fear he’d wake up and try something wicked. When he finally did awaken, he eyed her impassively, and without a word knocked on the roof of the coach. It came to a stop, he got out, and then Samuel took his place.

  When the coach began to move, Samuel looked around, and then out the narrowed window, seeming to try to settle himself without meeting her gaze. Now was her chance.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced, sir,” Riona said.

  His skin was freckled and fair beneath his bright hair, and he reddened almost to match it. “Samuel McCallum, my lady.”

  “Of course you’re related,” she said, feeling defeat encroaching, but not ready to let it claim victory.

  “Distant cousins,” he said, a small smile of sympathy growing. “Ye’ll find a lot of McCallums where we’re going.”

  She wasn’t ready to give up. “Surely you see what he’s doing is wrong.”

  Samuel’s expression remained pleasant and even understanding, but he shook his head. “Nay, my lady, I don’t see that at all. Ye’re his betrothed.”

  “But I’m not!”

  “Ye’re Catriona Duff, are ye not?”

  “I am, but
so is my cousin!”

  “Sorry though I be, I cannot help ye. A contract was signed between your families, and we take that seriously.”

  “I know nothing about any contract,” she grumbled, folding her arms beneath her breasts and narrowing her eyes at him.

  “That is the fault of your father. I’ve been Hugh’s man a long time, and he’s known about the betrothal since he was a lad. Believe me, it’s interfered with his life more than once.” He seemed to break off even as he looked away.

  “Interfered how?” she demanded.

  “That’s none of your business, my lady. Now do let a man sleep.”

  He closed his eyes and dropped his chin, just as his chief had done.

  “But wait, would money change your mind? I don’t have much, but if you help me . . .” She trailed off.

  He didn’t even open his eyes as he spoke. “Your coin cannot buy the loyalty earned through generations, my lady. And your coin cannot make me forget the treachery of the Duffs through that same time. Now hush.”

  She blanched. Treachery by her ancestors? A marriage between their clans was supposed to make up for that? Any Duff married to a McCallum would never be at ease, it seemed, if such grievances were never forgotten. She’d heard stories of the feuding when her uncle and father were in their cups, reminiscing with anger and pride. No wonder they stayed away from Scotland, she thought, leaving their factors and tacksmen to manage their estates.

  But this feud had become intensely personal, and she wasn’t about to meekly accept what was happening to her. She was still in England, where people would help her against the Scots. When they stopped for the midday meal, she’d look for her first opportunity to escape. If that didn’t work, she’d come up with something else.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hugh knew Lady Riona wasn’t going to give up her attempts to escape. Her moods alternated from anger to frustration, although her fear seemed to be easing away. He wasn’t certain that was a good thing.