by Gayle Callen
“I imagine my mother was not impressed with meeting a groom,” he said.
“I don’t know about impressed, but she practically swooned.”
He rose to pour himself another goblet of wine, silently offering her one. She shook her head.
“You’ve got nothing to say, Hugh?” she asked softly.
“I’ve told ye my conditions for free and open talk between us, lass. Have you accepted that ye’ll be my bride?”
She bit her lip and turned to look at the smoldering fire. “I’ve already told you I can’t.”
He came to stand before her, tall, imposing, but not menacing. He could never be that for her again. Then he took her by the arms and raised her to her feet.
“How can ye keep denying this?” he demanded, then pulled her hard against him and kissed her.
She didn’t try to fight him—she was incapable of it, she knew that now. She could even admit to herself that she missed him, that she put her arms around his neck to hold him to her, as if she could cling to him and push away the future where he’d suffer for choosing the wrong bride.
His body felt so right, his mouth slanting across hers was something she’d dreamed of these last few nights alone.
Against her lips, he murmured, “I’ve missed ye, lass. Say ye’ve missed me, too.”
She couldn’t say the words—it wouldn’t be fair. But she pressed kisses to his cheek, his chin, his throat, reveling in the feel of his hands sweeping her body, cupping her backside to pull him hard against her, against his erection. She shuddered at the feel of it, and then his other hand cupped her breast and kneaded it through the thin fabric of her nightclothes. Their kisses grew harsh and gasping, their hands frantic on each other. She felt feverish and dazed, her rational thoughts fading away.
She broke the kiss and whispered, “The rope. Use it. I don’t trust myself.”
She saw the triumph in his expression before he turned away, and regretted her words immediately. She was giving him exactly what he wanted—giving in to his seduction. Their roles had reversed, and she was the one leading him on now, leading him to believe she was closer and closer to being his wife. She should stop him—stop this disaster looming ever larger and larger in the near future. The closer they got, the more it would hurt when he at last had confirmation she was telling the truth. And that confirmation could come any day now—surely her uncle wouldn’t take much longer to crow about his victory over the McCallums, and how Hugh had not lived up to the terms of their agreement.
But she said nothing—did nothing as he knelt at her feet and tied the rope around her ankles. She was trapped by her own neediness. What did she think could come of this, except her own despair, when she might be completely in love with him, and he had to reject her? But he wasn’t rejecting her now—he picked her up and carried her to the bed, laid her down gently, then came over the top of her to kiss her again. She clung to him, hating herself for wanting his touch, hating that she felt betrayed by her own body. Desire had taken over, stripped her of caution and common sense.
When he slid his hand beneath her nightshift, she didn’t stop him, only moaned and writhed like some kind of wild woman at each caress along her hot, sensitive skin. She shuddered with disappointment when he teased along the outside of her hips and then across her belly—until she realized what he was doing, sliding her nightshift ever higher. She felt the draft of air across her bare breasts only a moment before he bent his head. The first kiss on her nipple was delicate and moist, but it made her cry out with gladness. He swirled his tongue around her nipples before drawing each inside his mouth in turn. She arched, desperate for more, sounds coming from her throat she’d never imagined.
And at last he gave her what she wanted, sliding his fingers between her trembling thighs and into the wet depths of her. He knew just where to touch, just what to do. With his mouth at her breasts, and his fingers stroking and circling, she came apart in a climax more powerful than the one he’d given her just a few days before. She hadn’t imagined such pleasure could increase, but it had. And he’d given this to her more than once now, never asking anything of her in return—except that she marry him.
He rolled onto his back, breathing harshly, hands fisted.
“Hugh?”
“Nay, ’tis all right. Go to sleep. I’ll return to my own bed.”
She told herself not to touch him, but she couldn’t help it. She placed her hand over his erection where it pressed hard against his breeches.
He inhaled swiftly. “Riona, don’t start what ye don’t intend to finish.”
“Are you going to your room to . . . finish?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Let me help.”
And without waiting for his answer, she pushed his shirt up and began to unbutton his breeches. To her surprise, she thought she felt the briefest tremble, but he mastered himself. She folded back the flap and saw that he’d worn no drawers. In the shadows, she could see little except the dark silhouette of his penis. So she touched it, heard him gasp, felt the jump of his response. He was so very hard and hot and yet silky. She caressed him, exploring, until he spoke between gritted teeth.
“Like this.”
He took her hand and fisted it around him and then showed her how to move. With her hand she pleasured him, with her mouth she kissed him, and it wasn’t long before he spilled his seed across his stomach, his body jerking as hers had. She let go and stared at what she’d done, shocked now that the passion had ebbed, that she could so lose herself and forget her determination to resist. Or was it because he was leaving to go against another clan, where dangerous things could happen?
Dazed, she withdrew mentally when he stood up to clean himself. Turning her back, she felt unable to face him, to face that she’d let their relationship go another step further. He folded himself in behind her, his hips against hers, his arm around her waist. As he fell asleep, his hand cupped her breast as if it were the most natural thing possible.
And she bit her lip and tried not to shake with her crying.
CHAPTER 18
Hugh left before dawn for the raid on the Buchanans. He didn’t wake her up, and Riona pretended she was asleep, which proved difficult when he gently touched her head before leaving.
Don’t die, she thought with a prayer, don’t die!
When he’d gone, she questioned herself. She hadn’t been able to convince him that her denial of marriage was more than a foolish girl afraid of being married. So was she just accepting what happened to her, passively waiting until it was too late, until he hated himself—and her—for breaking the contract?
There was no one to help her make Hugh see the truth. Her last hope had been Dermot, but now she didn’t know if she could trust him not to use this new knowledge against Hugh, have him ousted as the chief before he’d been formally inaugurated. Riona didn’t know if she could live with such an outcome.
She bathed and dressed and tried to get through the day. The castle was abnormally quiet, a few servants going about their chores, but everyone seemed to be holding their breaths. It felt . . . oppressive and frightening. Every time she looked in on Lady McCallum, her head was bowed over her rosary beads, and after a while, her fear secreted its way into Riona. To clear her head, Riona took a walk outside, where tasks went on in the courtyard, but without the cheerful conversations or occasional hail across the yard.
She, Maggie, and Lady McCallum were just sitting down to dinner in a mostly deserted great hall when a clansman ran through the open double doors.
“Lady Riona, the watchmen have seen mounted men approaching. Samuel told me to tell ye.”
Riona ran, Maggie behind her, practically stumbling down the outdoor stairs that led to the courtyard. Samuel waited there, arms folded across his chest, his normally cheerful expression replaced by one as immobile as stone.
Riona skidded to a stop next to him, then stared at the open gatehouse. “Do you . . . lower the portcullis, in case it isn’t t
hem?”
“’Tis them,” he said with cool assurance. “I could see our tartan.”
She eyed him, not used to seeing Samuel like this. But he hadn’t been able to watch over Hugh, his position these last ten years. He’d been left to sit with the women, and apparently, he hadn’t appreciated it, though he’d let no clue show in front of Hugh, Riona remembered.
Mounted men suddenly thundered beneath the gatehouse, then into the upper courtyard, their horses tossing their heads with excitement. She caught flashes of grins, heard excited laughter, saw no barebacked horses absent a rider. She tried to calm herself, even as her heart was pounding so hard she felt a little weak.
Samuel stared down at the hand she’d put on his arm without realizing it.
She pulled away. “Forgive me,” she called over the sound of men and horses.
He nodded, but didn’t give her his usual grin, probably because Hugh had seen them. Hugh rode toward them, and Riona couldn’t help her smile of welcome, even as she looked him over for injury, but saw none. His bare knees flashed beneath his plaid as he dismounted. He wore a bright blue coat, and with his black and red plaid, he looked as colorful as a king. But she hung back and let Samuel do the talking.
“It went well?” Samuel asked.
Hugh nodded. “Every cow accounted for and no one injured. The Buchanans fled like cowards before us.”
Relief flooded through Riona, making her knees tremble with weakness. Dermot and Alasdair dismounted behind Hugh, and she felt a little amazed to see the two of them smiling as they talked to each other. Nothing like a little dangerous warfare to make men lose their scowls.
Dermot clapped a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “We will celebrate your bravery tonight and inaugurate ye as chief. The men are already gathering over this victory—’twill be the perfect time.”
Riona and Maggie exchanged wide-eyed glances.
“Your bravery?” Maggie said, her voice raised to be heard.
Alasdair swung an arm around Hugh’s neck. “Did we not mention that your brother here crept into their camp alone and challenged the Buchanan tanist to single combat?”
Riona gave the appropriate womanly gasp, hoping to make Samuel smile, but his forehead only creased more.
“’Twas my place to defend ye,” Samuel said coldly. “If I’d have been there, ye wouldn’t have been so reckless.”
“I would have, old friend.” Hugh put a hand on his shoulder. “It needed to be done to save lives. We crossed swords only a few times before the rest of the Buchanans began to flee, and without support, he soon surrendered.”
“To you?” Riona looked past him. “Did you take him captive?”
“Nay, we let him return in defeat to his people,” Dermot said. “Why waste our grain on him?”
For the first time since she’d known him, Dermot’s expression was relaxed and confident, as if he was finally proud of his clan chief.
Her plan to have him stand at her side died. The truth might turn him against Hugh, just when Hugh had the support of all of his men. At last, she had to accept the realization that Hugh had become more important to her than her need to escape.
“Speaking of victory . . .” Hugh raised his arm along with his voice. “Let us begin the celebration of Clan McCallum!”
Men cheered and began to pour up the stairs to the great hall.
Maggie turned to Riona. “Should ye alert Mrs. Wallace?”
Riona put up both hands. “It’s not my place. You’re the sister of the chief and I have no official position here.”
“Ye’re the betrothed of the chief,” Hugh said, staring at her with narrowed eyes.
Maggie looked between them hesitantly. “I’ll make sure we have the best meal possible. I’m so proud of ye, Hugh!”
Maggie leaned up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek, but Riona felt the weight of Hugh’s stare on her. Even Dermot and Alasdair made themselves scarce.
“Ye have no place here?” Hugh asked, his voice menacing by its very softness.
“I only meant that I am not the mistress of the household,” she said.
“But ye will be.”
She didn’t answer. Her behavior in bed had probably confirmed the future in his mind, where, for her, it had made everything worse. “Let’s not discuss this now, Hugh. This is a time to celebrate.” She’d almost ended with “being a McCallum,” but stopped herself. He would have taken that as even more proof that she’d marry him. “I should go to your mother. She was quite in fear for you. I don’t think she ate anything today.”
Hugh frowned, but then turned away when someone called his name. She hastened first toward the kitchen on the ground floor to see if they needed help, but Mrs. Wallace was in her element coordinating the household. Next, Riona visited Hugh’s mother, who stood in her room looking out at the excitement of the courtyard.
“Lady McCallum, as you can see, Hugh’s home unharmed,” Riona said as she went to the window to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the older woman.
Lady McCallum nodded, her eyes moist, but not openly crying. “Thank ye, Riona. Did they take back the cattle?”
Riona explained what had happened, then allowed a moment of silence to pass, before saying, “Surely ye’ll come down tonight and celebrate his inauguration.”
“If I do, I’ll stay out of his sight,” Lady McCallum said.
Though she sounded melodramatic, Riona didn’t get the impression that it was deliberate. “You can’t win back his good graces by avoiding him.”
Lady McCallum’s shoulders dropped with a sigh. “I cannot win them back regardless. He’ll never forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what?” Riona asked gently.
“For doing what I thought best ten years ago.”
“Is this about Agnes?”
Lady McCallum stiffened, but didn’t answer.
Riona knew that discovering the truth wasn’t going to be that easy. “Whatever it was, holding a grudge for ten years is a long time. You can try to work things out.”
“Then ye don’t know my son very well,” she said bitterly.
“No, I don’t. And yet you, and everyone else, think I should marry him.”
“Think?” Lady McCallum turned to meet her eyes at last. “I don’t just think it. ’Tis your duty to marry him, to do as both of your fathers wished. Have ye not seen how lucky a lass ye are?”
“Did you think yourself lucky when you married his father?”
“’Tis not the same at all.”
“No? It feels it to me.” When Lady McCallum looked as if she’d continue defending her son, Riona raised a hand. “I’m not here to argue with you. I just wanted to invite you to celebrate tonight.”
“He doesn’t want me there.” Lady McCallum spoke with sad conviction.
“Maybe not, but no one can change that but you.”
Those eyes, so like Hugh’s, now met hers in fear. “What has he told ye?”
Riona frowned. “About what?”
Lady McCallum’s gaze studied her face so intently that Riona almost felt touched.
“Never mind,” the woman whispered. “I—I need to rest.”
Riona saw herself out, but now she was even more puzzled than before. Whatever had happened between Lady McCallum and her son, it was certainly not a typical argument. Riona was still surprised by her own need to help Hugh come to peace with the past. But it was something she could do, and living among the enemy had taught her to take her small successes where she could.
But the chief’s mother did come down for the ceremony that night, and Riona stood with the family in the crowded great hall. She was surprised and moved by the formal splendor of it, the robing of Hugh all in white, the granting of a white rod of lordship and the ancestral sword of his clan. The clan chaplain, from nearby Sula, gave a blessing. The entire hall processed out onto the torchlit courtyard, where Hugh stood above his people on the stone carved with the McCallum animal, a wolf, while a long oration began of the exploits of thei
r ancestors, and a recitation of their names for generations. Riona was told all of this by Maggie, and even caught a few words here and there herself.
“Ye know, as Hugh’s wife, ye’ll have to learn the list of McCallums,” Maggie told her, smiling.
Riona gave an exaggerated shudder. “In English, I hope.”
But it might be Cat learning about the McCallums, not her. And she looked at Hugh and tried to imagine her cousin standing at his side, but couldn’t.
They all returned to the great hall for a feast that lasted long into the night. Songs were sung in Hugh’s honor, and Riona heard a few words calling him their “secured fortified rock,” their “defensive shield,” their “noble hawk.” No wonder some chiefs considered themselves a god.
But not Hugh. He accepted the honor with utter gravity and solemnity, performing each part of the ritual with focus, standing at attention during all of the oration. Riona couldn’t help being impressed by how seriously he took his part in the clan—but then she already knew what lengths he’d go to to ensure that his people thrived.
But he’d made a terrible error with her, and they would all find out someday soon. She swallowed back the feelings of grief and fear over what might happen. If Cat could be persuaded to continue the betrothal, all might yet be well. Perhaps that’s who Riona should appeal to. Appealing to Aberfoyle himself, who’d deliberately tried to ruin the contract, might be the worst thing she could do.
And then she heard her thoughts, and realized she was thinking about appealing on behalf of the man who’d kidnapped and frightened her. But her feelings, everything, had changed . . .
IT was almost dawn by the time Hugh entered his rooms, swaying and humming to himself. It was done—the clan approved of him and he was their official leader until he died. Dermot had organized everything himself, and it felt good to know that at last he’d won the man’s approval.
But would he earn his betrothed’s approval?
He went through both doors between their rooms and found her asleep, the bed curtains open as if she’d been anticipating his arrival. He laughed a bit in triumph, imagining being with her again. He lit a candle from the embers of the peat fire and brought it to the bed table to look upon her. Resting a hand for balance on the frame of her box-bed, he just stared at her, the way the candlelight seemed to shimmer through the golden strands of her hair. He’d been so proud to have her at his side for the inauguration. She’d listened as intently as if she’d understood every word, although he’d seen his sister translating for her.
