The Wrong Bride

by Gayle Callen

  Mrs. Wallace turned to Riona expectantly, and if she had any concerns about a Duff making herself at home at Larig Castle, she didn’t show it.

  “Mrs. Wallace,” Hugh said formally, “may I present Lady Catriona Duff, soon to be my wife.”

  The housekeeper bobbed a little curtsy. Riona nodded her head hesitantly, but to Hugh’s relief, she didn’t make any protest. He’d wondered if Riona would bring up the kidnapping when they arrived, but so far, she’d been circumspect. He hoped that meant that at last she was accepting their inevitable marriage. Perhaps it had begun when they’d woken up together at the inn, after so naturally turning to each other in their sleep.

  But by looking into Riona’s lovely face, he couldn’t tell one way or another what she was thinking.

  “Come, Laird McCallum, Lady Catriona,” Mrs. Wallace said, leading the way. “’Twill be your first time in the chief’s rooms,” she added over her shoulder to Hugh.

  They followed her up the curving staircase built into the square tower just outside the great hall. On the second floor, a central corridor ran along a series of bedrooms. The last one took up one end of the towerhouse, several rooms overlooking the courtyard and gardens below, and beyond, the whole Balquhidder Glen in which Loch Voil nestled. He stood at the window and remembered thinking that when the sun shone, the loch looked like a jewel.

  Behind him, Mrs. Wallace gestured to the dark wood wainscoting that covered the walls, as in most of the family rooms, talking to Riona about the Scottish landscapes hung there, but Hugh only paid half a mind. The large four-poster occupied its place of prominence against one wall, its curtains woven of the McCallum tartan. A massive wardrobe for hanging garments resided next to a chest of drawers, while several chests with lids lined a wall. At a writing bureau near the window, his father had done much of his correspondence, and the old man’s wig stand still rested on the dressing table. Hugh grimaced. He was not a man made for hot, uncomfortable wigs, regardless that they were the fashion.

  Mrs. Wallace led Riona through the dressing room where his parents had once entertained close friends, and then into the mistress’s bedroom. Hugh followed and stood leaning against the door frame, watching Riona’s expressive face as she took in the lightly colored wainscoted walls, the delicate furniture in a French style. Instead of a four-poster, this room had a box-bed built into the far wall, with tartan curtains to enclose the bed in privacy. There was an elegant writing desk, and on the dressing table rested a swivel mirror. Nothing but the best for his mother, he thought, repressing the usual surge of bitterness. At least this would not be his mother’s room again.

  Riona put a hand on the bathing tub that already rested before the fire. Her expression looked . . . relieved.

  “I’ll leave ye to your bath and Mrs. Wallace’s excellent care,” Hugh said.

  Riona gave him a long look, but only nodded.

  “If ye need anything, ye know where to find me.”

  RIONA watched as the door closed, saying nothing, wondering if he would really give her the privacy she hadn’t known for two weeks. Mrs. Wallace eyed her curiously for a moment, then bustled to the wardrobe and opened it.

  “Ye’ll find plenty of things to wear in here, Lady Catriona,” Mrs. Wallace said. “Some will have to be taken in, I’m sure, but ye know the lacin’ on others will do wonders to adjust to yer fine figure.”

  “You’ve noticed I’ve come with no garments of my own,” Riona said with a trace of bitterness.

  “I ken ’tis a long journey from England, my lady,” Mrs. Wallace said gently. “Ye did not remember how remote we are here in the Highlands?”

  “I don’t remember Scotland at all,” Riona confessed. “My parents took me away when I was but a child.”

  “And educated in the ways of England, I can tell by yer accent.” Mrs. Wallace sniffed disapprovingly, though her smile returned. “But that isn’t yer fault, my lady. Ye’re back now, and ye’ll come to realize ye’re simply one of us.”

  “I—I’m not one of you,” she whispered.

  But before she could say more, someone knocked on the door and a line of servants entered with buckets of steaming water. Mrs. Wallace wanted to stay and help her bathe, but it had been so long since Riona was alone, she excused the housekeeper, who seemed to understand.

  In the blessed silence, Riona heaved a sigh and went to the window. Below her, she could see the crowded courtyard, but beyond the curtain wall, Loch Voil glimmered with hushed beauty, serene, peaceful. There might have been a time that she would have enjoyed such a view, but now? She was a prisoner, and the lovely scenery might as well be a landscape painting, for all she’d be able to enjoy it. If she wasn’t locked inside her bedroom, she might as well be. She could go nowhere without assistance of some kind, and she had no one to rely on. Chief McCallum was the rule of law in these hills, the sheriff, the judge. To speak against him was to risk . . . everything.

  But Mrs. Wallace had been so kind that Riona had almost made the mistake of talking to her about what McCallum had done—and would that have been the wisest thing? Mrs. Wallace had obviously been here since at least McCallum’s youth. She, and everyone else, would be with the McCallum and against a Duff. Goodness, the woman most likely was a McCallum from somewhere in her parentage.

  Riona was an outsider, practically a Sassenach, according to McCallum. She would have to be smart and bide her time. Dermot McCallum—he didn’t seem all that happy to see his cousin. Perhaps his disapproval would help convince McCallum that he was in the wrong. She would have to find out more about Dermot, see if he was the sort of man who could objectively listen to her story and confront McCallum at her side.

  Feeling more at peace with a plan, however tenuous, Riona began to unlace the bodice of her gown, pull out the stomacher that covered her chemise, and let the gown sag off her shoulders and onto the floor. It was so travel-stained that she didn’t want it to contaminate the upholstered chairs or the bedding. The petticoats came next and at last the chemise. She sank into the tub with a groan of delight. No one was going to use the water after her; no one was there to hurry her along, stare at her, or make her feel all flustered and overly warm.

  She washed slowly and leisurely, eyes half closed, letting the steam as much as the soap cleanse her skin.

  “I had no idea I’d be a lucky man again.”

  She let out a gasp and dropped the cloth; the splash caught her in the face and she sputtered. McCallum stood leaning in the doorway, his narrowed eyes full of satisfaction.

  “You—you—this is my bedroom! If Mrs. Wallace finds you here—”

  “And what will my housekeeper do if she finds me in my own suite of rooms?”

  And what could Riona do about that except feel furious, exasperated, and helpless.

  He strolled forward and she sank lower, knowing that there was little to hide her from him. Once again, she pulled her knees to her chest. He stood for a long moment and looked down at her. She knew he could do whatever he wanted to her, and no one would stop him. But he turned away and went to sit in a chair near the fire, where he could no longer see her body.

  To her horror, she felt a tiny stirring of disappointment, and couldn’t understand herself. To cover her confusion, she insisted, “I should have my own room, separate from you.”

  “And why is that? We’ve been bound together since your birth. We’ll be married soon. In Scotland, all we need to do is profess it before witnesses and the deed is done.”

  “I am not professing anything, and it is not a marriage if not done by my own free will.”

  But he only continued to look at her with easy satisfaction. “Ye’ll get cold if ye don’t finish your bath,” he said in a low voice. “These old walls hide the fact that ’tis summer.”

  “Then I suggest you leave.” She sounded like a prim maidenly aunt.

  He crossed one ankle over the other knee, obviously prepared to wait her out. But . . . he’d never tried to force her into anything intimate,
had let her flee when he had her alone in bed. And though his word was law here, he seemed to be a man who believed in honor, in his own code, if not one she’d agree with. She was to be his wife, and he expected her to freely say her vows, and seemed patient enough to make it happen.

  So . . . if he wanted to play these games with her, to tease and make her uncomfortable, she could do the same. He deserved to feel frustrated, because she certainly did. Knowing he was far enough away not to see beneath the water, she dipped her head back to soak her hair, then reached for the soap and began to lather it in.

  And he watched her, his eyes going impassive rather than satisfied. She was glad to be able to affect him, even if only to make him shield his thoughts. She felt another surge of satisfaction when he glanced away.

  “I’m here,” he said, “because I want to know why ye didn’t tell the entire clan that I forced ye to come here.”

  She worked her hands through her soapy hair slowly, as if giving his question great thought. She surreptitiously watched him from beneath her eyelashes, not knowing what she was looking for, but he didn’t seem to be having trouble with her brazen display of . . . cleanliness.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” she finally said. “I know no one here—who would want to believe me or help me? And yet . . . I feel that you aren’t all that comfortable here either, though it’s your home. So if you want me not to name you a kidnapper, I’d like to know more about your youthful indiscretions before your mother took you away. I’d like to know how things got so bad with your father that you left, and how you ended up in London—I heard your men mention it.”

  “Ye’re very curious for a woman alone in a precarious situation.”

  “Believe me, I know precarious—I felt it for nearly a fortnight, have I not? You frightened me and overwhelmed me and dragged me across the country and into the middle of a feud that has nothing to do with me. But I also have some power here now, and I want answers.”

  “A woman who professes herself willing to be my wife deserves those answers.”

  “Why would a woman ever agree to be your wife without those answers in the first place?”

  “We seem to be at a stalemate.”

  He stood up again and advanced, this time coming right to the edge of the tub. Soap bubbles hid the sight of her from him, but they were no true protection. But she was sick of constantly showing her fear, so she stiffened her shoulders and tried to meet his cool glance with one of her own.

  He lifted the bucket of clean water left to rinse her hair and raised it above her head.

  “McCallum—”

  “Tilt your head back—ye wouldn’t want me to get soap in your eyes.”

  “McCallum—!”

  But he wasn’t stopping, so with a gasp, she put her head back and met his amused gaze with her furious one, even as the water began to run through her hair and down into the tub. Seeing that his gaze lowered, she had a terrible feeling that the water was not only removing soap from her hair, but driving it away from her body.

  She covered her breasts with her hands. “Just finish!”

  He did at last, and she bowed her head, knowing he’d gotten the best of her once again. Still feeling watched, she at last opened her eyes to see him crouched at her level. Water dripped down her face and she blinked rapidly.

  “Ye may feel ye have power here,” he said in a hoarse voice, “but ’tis only at my whim. Ye could make things as unpleasant as ye’d like, and I would survive it, for I am laird here, and all ken the terms of the betrothal and how important our marriage is. There’s many a man who would cheer me on for taking matters into my own hands when your father tried to betray me.”

  She didn’t bother to deny her uncle’s relationship to her—McCallum wouldn’t listen. And she found herself unable to speak, caught up in his intensity and nearness—and passion for his clan. She’d never met anyone who made her emotions waver so wildly from anger to despair to intrigue. She didn’t want to feel this way, out of control, racing toward some desperate clash between them. He was right—they could be married by tonight, and really, could she deny him if he would have his way? Or would he simply take what he wanted?

  She shivered, but it wasn’t from the water’s chill. It was from the frightening realization that there was something powerful between them, something that called to her, that made the risks he’d taken to have her for himself seem arousing, not just self-serving. There was a place inside her she’d never sensed before, surely a recklessness, a weakness.

  “Ye’re strangely quiet, lass,” he murmured.

  His gaze lazily moved over her face, dipping to her breasts, where the upper curves were displayed above the soapy water. Her skin felt . . . prickly, sensitive, even inflamed.

  “I’m not done fighting you,” she said at last, almost wincing at how breathless she sounded.

  A slow grin curved his mouth, even as he reached his hand to cup her face and tilt it toward him. The shock of his warm palm settling so gently on her skin made her tense, but she didn’t pull away, as if that would show that she’d given up, that she was afraid of what he could do to her . . . what he could make her feel.

  He leaned over the tub and kissed her, his palm guiding her head. She wanted to show him he didn’t move her, that this display meant nothing to her. But his lips were warm, and glided over hers with purpose, parted gently as if he wanted to taste her. She’d never been kissed . . . She felt her head swim at the sensation that seemed to travel down her body, to her breasts, to the pit of her stomach and between her thighs as if he’d touched her in her most secretive places.

  When his tongue traced her lower lip, she jerked back in surprise. He didn’t laugh, just studied her with those gray eyes that were considerably warmer. He kept his hand on her face, and his thumb caressed her cheek over and over.

  “Our first kiss bodes well for the future,” he said.

  He glanced down to her breasts again, and she stiffened. With a faint smile, he let her go and stood up.

  “Dry off,” he said, back to ordering her around. “We have things we need to discuss.”

  Not the topics she wanted to discuss, apparently, but she didn’t argue. He turned his back and went to the window, while she hastily dried herself and pulled on a dressing gown Mrs. Wallace had laid out for her, trying to forget the feel of his mouth on hers, and how instead of being afraid or disgusted, she’d felt . . . aroused. Cat had told her one could feel overwhelmed when in intimate situations with a man, and Riona hadn’t been able to understand what she meant. She did now, and felt a new kind of fear—fear of her own reaction and response to this compelling persuasion of his.

  “Come sit by the fire and dry your hair,” he said.

  Gritting her teeth, she obeyed because it needed to be done. She had a comb this time, and worked slowly on the tangles, letting the heat dry and soothe.

  “So ye did not name me a kidnapper of women because ye ken ye’re a Duff amidst a sea of McCallums.”

  She harrumphed, but said nothing.

  “I would prefer that my clan not learn that the earl meant to betray us and break the contract, so I will not speak of that.”

  “Am I supposed to thank you for not making my uncle out to be a villain?”

  “If they knew your father had tried to renege, he would be more than a villain. There are some who would demand a justified retaliation, and I don’t want the feud to resume. I want my marriage to be the beginning of a new peace.”

  Without thinking about it, she almost said “our marriage” just to annoy him, and then realized what it implied.

  He continued, “So now that we agree that we’ll keep silent about the real circumstances of our meeting—”

  She laughed without mirth. “Meeting? As if we first saw each other across a ballroom?”

  He ignored her outburst. “I think we should simply say we met when I came to bring ye to Scotland, exactly as I intended to do if your father hadn’t—”

 
“I know, I know, fine, have it your way. We were introduced, and my whole family agreed to rid themselves of me by letting a veritable stranger take me away.”

  She looked up at him through the strands of her hair as she combed. To her surprise, he wasn’t angry. He reached into the pocket of his coat and removed something that was wrapped in a delicate piece of tartan cloth in the same colors she’d seen his clan wear.

  “This is the gift I had brought for ye,” he said.

  The gift he’d brought for Cat. She let the comb slowly settle in her lap as she stared at the item.

  He held it out, and though she hesitated, she took it from him. The tartan easily fell away to reveal a small, decorated wooden box that looked quite old. Inside nestled a necklace that glittered in the setting sun when she lifted it out.

  “It has been in my family for many generations,” he said gruffly. “’Twas made here, of pearls from Scottish rivers and amethysts dug out of Scottish hills, set in gold captured in our rivers.”

  He was obviously proud of his heritage, the heritage her family had scorned and avoided. It was . . . jarring, strange. But the necklace was truly lovely, and it made her feel conflicted to be wearing something that represented his clan.

  “I thought dower gifts were of cattle,” she said at last, trying to sound scornful.

  He answered as if he didn’t take offense. “Our fathers decided to share land instead.”

  “Do not forget the money from my uncle that would have gone into this marriage.”

  He rose, then while heading for the door to the dressing room, he ordered, “Wear the necklace tonight.”

  He didn’t look back, as if he didn’t expect a refusal, then closed the door behind him.

  For some time, she sat looking at the necklace, spreading it out in her lap, the pearls creamy, the amethysts pale purple crystal. It wasn’t gaudy, but it definitely spoke of wealth the clan had had sometime in the past. The McCallums didn’t seem terribly poor now, but if they’d been desperate for her—Cat’s—enormous dowry, there was need. But they weren’t going to receive Cat’s dowry, and the contract would be broken. They were going to lose their special land, too, the one that produced their whisky. McCallum didn’t want to believe the truth, and he would suffer for it in the end. She wasn’t going to feel sorry for him. Civilized men did not respond to problems by kidnapping women.