On the sloping path to the village for the two-hour journey, Riona rode between Hugh and Samuel, and said little to either of them. She was still annoyed that Samuel made her feel conflicted, both upset he’d been part of her kidnapping and chagrined that he treated her gently. She didn’t want to like him, but he seemed a good man, loyal to his chief.
As for Hugh, she was still having difficulty meeting his eyes. It would have been easier if he was his impassive self, but the more intimate time they spent together, the more it showed in his eyes when he looked at her. And she was succumbing to the lure of his desire for her. She was already a fallen woman, having been taken away by a man and having spent weeks in his company, and now nights within his rooms. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t gone with him willingly. But she had to focus on remaining true to herself, to make the best of her life. She couldn’t marry him and she wouldn’t become his mistress. All she had was her promise to herself to leave this place someday. Finding out about the surrounding countryside would help when she finally made her way out of here. Because when Hugh and the clan found out the truth . . .
Not that she knew when that might happen. Her conversation with Dermot had been disappointing, although she wasn’t sure what she’d expected. He was a man, the tanist to his chief. She was simply a woman the chief meant to marry. They hadn’t spoken long, and Dermot had made it very clear that her attempts to engage him in conversation were keeping him from real work. Trying to get to know him had only made her feel like a silly decoration hung about the castle. Women certainly had much to contribute to the running of such an immense and complicated household, but apparently he didn’t see it that way. She was offended on behalf of Mrs. Wallace and Cat, the woman who should be mistress at Larig someday.
Not that she was giving up using him to reach Hugh. Dermot had just made it clear it would be harder than she’d thought.
Upon reaching the path that ran along Loch Voil, they turned east and walked their horses along the water. In the glen at the end of the lake, she now could see the small village, with its tiny church and graveyard with a half wall all around it. Several dozen stone cottages surrounded it, topped by thatched roofs above and surrounded by small gardens and fields of long green stalks of oats beyond. In the center was a triangular village green, where several cows now roamed free.
There were men lounging outside their cottages, sharpening weapons as they talked to each other. Women worked in their gardens or stirred huge boiling cauldrons of laundry over fire pits outside. Children ran and shouted, tossing hoops back and forth.
But everyone stopped what they were doing when they saw Hugh, Samuel, and Riona arrive. Their expressions ranged from wariness to outright skepticism as Hugh approached, but most changed those into impassive or pleasant nods. It had been ten years since Hugh had caused a scandal with Agnes, the girl who was long dead. It didn’t seem as if people had forgotten, but then this had been Agnes’s village, and Brendan came home here every night.
“There don’t seem to be any merchants in a village this size,” Riona said as they reached the green.
“Did ye expect a milliner?” Hugh asked lightly. “Even Edinburgh only has one.”
She inhaled on a faint gasp. “In truth?”
Hugh and Samuel exchanged an amused glance.
“In truth,” Hugh replied. “Tailors and cobblers wander from village to village for a week here and there until the work is done, and then they move on.”
“But we do manage to have an alehouse for the occasional traveler,” Samuel said with satisfaction.
“Or hardworking clansman,” Hugh said.
He slid from his horse and came to her side. To her surprise, he lifted her knee from the pommel of the sidesaddle, put his hands to her waist, and set her on the ground. She told herself he was putting on a show.
The alehouse had obviously been someone’s two-room cottage at one time, but now the front room had a bar, tables with benches, as well as a wooden settle before the fireplace for the occasional private conversations. Behind the bar was another room, probably for storage. Hugh dwarfed the small room. His head almost touched the rafters, and he’d had to duck several hanging cheeses.
A man dressed in shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and breeches emerged from the back room, an apron at his waist. He was thin, not much more than thirty, with a neat beard and mustache. “How can I help ye fine folks?”
And then he stopped, truly seeing Hugh for the first time.
“Hugh McCallum.” The man breathed the name as if in shock. “I’d heard ye were back, of course, but—God, ye look good.”
“Donald Ross,” Hugh said, a rare grin splitting his face.
The two men hugged hard, clapping each other’s backs. Riona watched in amazement, for no one had given Hugh this kind of welcome yet. Several men at another table watched the reunion, and she wondered if they would spread word that their chief was not a man to be wary of.
“Sit down, sit down,” Donald said, gesturing to a clean table where a lantern dispelled the gloom. “Let me bring ale for ye strapping men, and for the lady?”
“’Tis my betrothed, Lady Catriona Duff,” Hugh said. “She’ll take a goblet of your best wine.”
The pride in his voice was like a knife prick to her heart. He was proud, perhaps of her looks—which wasn’t truly her, deep down—but definitely most proud of the money she was supposed to bring to the clan. The money Cat was supposed to bring, she reminded herself. Her own dowry was much smaller and would disappoint many.
The ale keeper lifted her hand with the gesture of a courtier and kissed the back of it. “Lady Catriona, a pleasure to meet ye. I know your betrothed from when we took a degree in master of arts at university together in Edinburgh.”
Riona barely kept her mouth from sagging open. The ale keeper had studied at university—as had Hugh? She should no longer be surprised by anything she heard about Hugh’s past, but he just kept surprising her. And Donald—for a literate man, he seemed reduced to hard circumstances in this out-of-the-way village.
“We spent several years there after the Rising,” Hugh was saying, grinning at his friend.
“And the times we had,” Donald added, shaking his head. “The women—” He flushed and glanced at her, donning an apologetic expression. “Forgive me, my lady. Those might have been exciting years, but then your betrothed decided he could serve his county better in Parliament. And I went off to improve my fortune, and ended up losing it.”
Hugh’s smile faded. “Donald . . .”
“Nay, none of that. I invested unwisely. Your family gave me another chance here, Hugh, and I won’t forget it.” He clapped his hands together and looked from Hugh to Riona and Samuel. “My wife has a delicious soup heating in the back. I’ll bring ye some.”
He went to refill drinks at another table before going behind the bar. Riona kept staring at Hugh. Donald brought tankards of ale for Hugh and Samuel and set a surprisingly delicate glass goblet before her, brimming with rich red wine. He bowed again to her and disappeared into the back room.
“Ye look surprised, lass,” Hugh said in a low voice, forearms folded on the table. “Ye have questions?”
“So many, but . . . it must be difficult for your friend to have been so wealthy that he went to university, and now . . .” She looked around at the plain stone walls and thatched roof.
“Here in Scotland, no one thinks less of people in reduced circumstances,” Hugh said matter-of-factly, then added dryly, “Not so in England.”
“You are right about that. So much for Scotland being uncivilized.”
Hugh nudged Samuel. “Did ye hear that? We’ll bring her around yet.”
Ignoring their teasing, she sipped the wine. “This is very good.”
He slammed the tin tankard into Samuel’s as if in toast to each other. “’Tis glad I am that Donald was able to make a life here. Many young men fell on hard times after the Rising and had to leave, never to return. The American colonies are the recipients of too many of our good young clansmen.” He eyed her with amusement. “I’ll be able to help many people with your tocher, lass. Don’t be thinking I’ll spend it on myself.”
The wine suddenly tasted bitter in her mouth. She couldn’t let herself think of how these poor people might be waiting in anticipation for the tocher they’d never get, so she let barbed words distract her. “Your people don’t exactly seem to trust you. Will they trust you to spend such a sum wisely?”
“They have nominated me as their chief,” he said, full of confidence, “so that means they trust me.”
“Or they want the money,” she said in an overly sweet voice, “which is tied to you, not a random chief.”
Hugh’s smile didn’t lessen as he let her words bounce right off him. Donald returned then, along with a young woman, carrying bowls of soup and platters of fresh bread. He introduced her as his wife, Rachel, and she shyly retreated to the kitchen without saying a word.
“Are your parents still here in the village?” Hugh asked, when Donald sat down on the bench next to Samuel.
Donald’s smile faded. “My da died a few years back, and my mum is in frail health. Consumption.”
Riona looked up in surprise, and felt a surge of sympathy for the family.
“Sorry I am to hear that,” Hugh said.
She hesitated, then found herself saying, “My sister has consumption. I’ve nursed her for many years.”
“Ye’re a Duff, aren’t ye?” Donald asked, but with curiosity, not dismissal.
“I am, but I’ve spent my life in England, much of it in London. My sister saw many physicians there.”
Donald leaned toward her. “Maybe ye would visit my mother? See what ye think?”
“I—I’m not a healer myself,” she demurred, uneasy, though she didn’t know why.
“But ye know more about modern treatment than we do. In Stirling, all they wanted to do was bleed her, and that seemed to make her much worse.”
“Yes, it is the same with my sister,” Riona said. “Of course I will see your mother.”
Hugh had the glint of pride in his eyes again, and she deliberately looked away. She couldn’t cure the woman—there was no cure. But some people lived longer than others, and their lives could be extended with knowledgeable care.
She was rather surprised by her own eagerness to be of help. She’d spent much of her youth closeted in a sickroom with only Bronwyn’s gratitude, while her parents had acted as if anyone would give up their daily activities to nurse. They hadn’t, she remembered. And she also remembered Bronwyn’s guilt that Riona had been forced to spend so many hours with her. No one was forcing Riona now. She might not be able to help herself escape Hugh’s plans, but perhaps she could do something for another woman’s suffering rather than dwell on her own plight. It felt good to be able to make her own decision for once, because seldom in her life had she had such a chance.
For the next hour, they ate soup and oat bread, and she listened to stories Donald told about Hugh at university. She placed these stories in a timeline in her mind, occurring after he wanted to marry Agnes. It seemed to have taken Donald a long time to coerce Hugh into doing anything more than studying, but after a while, they’d enjoyed parties and drinking and probably women, as all young men did.
When Riona had eaten her fill, Rachel took her to the simple cottage just behind the alehouse, where an elderly woman sat within, watching over a little boy and girl rolling a ball to each other. Riona wasn’t surprised to see a handkerchief clutched in her hand for the occasional cough, and wondered if there would be blood upon it. The room itself, though clean and with a wooden floor, was closed in, the shutters drawn though it was summer, the heat almost unbearable. The first thing Riona did was throw back the shutters and talk about the healing qualities of fresh air and walking out-of-doors for exercise, along with wholesome food to help strengthen the body. She mentioned an infusion made of chamomile flowers to aid digestion.
The elder Mrs. Ross looked upon Riona as if she were a ministering angel, which made her uncomfortable at first, but she well understood how an illness could make one dependent on the goodwill of another. She stayed for an hour, chatting with the women about news from the south, and life here in the village, and took her leave after promising to return again soon.
For a long moment, she stood outside the cottage, alone but for the distant sound of villagers near a neighboring cottage speaking in Gaelic, and the lowing of cows on the hillside. The mountains rose up on either side of the glen, bare of trees at the crown, and she could see the glimmer of Loch Voil down the center to the west of them. She didn’t think about trying to run—what would be the point?
With a sigh, she returned to the alehouse. She felt warm from Donald’s ensuing praise and gratitude, the way Samuel smiled at her—and the pleasure and pride in Hugh’s eyes when he looked at her.
That evening in her bedroom, she awaited Hugh’s entrance, hoping he was too tired from the long day outdoors to bother her. Of course he was a fine physical specimen, and it was she who was tired, not him. But to her surprise, after he arrived, he sat in front of the fire and pulled her onto his lap. She stiffened warily, but except for absently playing with her fingers within his big, rough hand, he spent an hour telling her more about Donald and his family, and others like him, the people he’d wanted to help as an MP in London. The sound of his voice was soothing, and soon she found herself resting her head on his shoulder. She must have fallen asleep, because she awoke in the middle of the night, alone in her cold bed. She was mostly relieved, but part of her was . . . disappointed.
HUGH came up to change after a morning spent on the training yard. He was meeting with his factor to discuss leases that had just been vacated, a dry topic, but necessary. He had his agricultural books, the ones he’d sent home over the years and no one had studied, at the ready to show his factor—and Dermot. These vacant leases were perfect to begin an experiment in improving the crop yield in their harsh growing climate.
To his surprise, he heard voices from within the dressing room, and opened the door to see Mrs. Wallace and Riona with lengths of fine cambric stretched out over a long table.
Though both women looked up at him, only Mrs. Wallace smiled. Riona just nodded and went back to her work. He tried to imagine Riona smiling with pleasure when he entered a room, but it was difficult. He’d realized that a kidnapping ensured a lengthy, slow courtship, but he was still surprised it was taking this long.
“Ye need some new shirts, Laird McCallum,” Mrs. Wallace said. “Yer future wife has asked to sew and embroider them for ye. Did ye know ye were wedding such a talented woman?”
“Aye, I knew,” he said.
Riona’s cheeks reddened, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
“She could be sewin’ her weddin’ clothes, but she insisted that the chief’s shirts were more important.”
“Did she now?” Or was she still playing at the fallacy that she didn’t need wedding clothes because she wouldn’t be here long?
He’d thought after their visit to the village yesterday, and her interest in helping the Rosses, that she might have mellowed, but apparently not. She wasn’t going to sew gowns for a future she didn’t want to have. He was still willing to be patient, but he’d been with her almost three weeks now, and she showed no signs of admitting to the truth. She was definitely a stubborn woman.
Lingering in the doorway, he unpinned his plaid at the shoulder and let the loose ends dangle from his belt. He thought of the hour by the fire last night, when he’d gradually felt her defenses come down the closer she got to sleep. She’d let him hold her, had even allowed him to touch her hand. To his surprise, once she’d fallen asleep he hadn’t felt the overwhelming urge to awaken her senses to pleasure. She’d looked so . . . innocent in his arms, shadows beneath her eyes as if it had been a long day. He’d watched her sleep some time before gently placing her in bed. He still wanted her, but . . . there was time.
When he did nothing but watch them work, the two women eyed him, then went back to discussing measurements and embroidery.
“Mrs. Wallace,” he said suddenly, “I forgot to ask if ye had any trouble preparing for the council of gentlemen tomorrow. If ye need me to contact someone on your behalf . . .”
He trailed off because he saw Riona’s surprised expression before she ducked her head back to her sewing. Mrs. Wallace eyed Riona with her own surprise, then sent a frown Hugh’s way.
“Ye did not tell yer own betrothed about a feast in the great hall?” Mrs. Wallace asked, speaking as freely as a mother would.
He brazened it out. “I spoke to ye directly, Mrs. Wallace. I did not think it fair to bother my betrothed when she’s not yet the mistress of the household.” That sounded as if he’d given it some thought.
Riona snuck an amused glance at him that said she wasn’t believing a word out of his mouth.
Mrs. Wallace harrumphed. “Very well, I see that, Laird McCallum. But such an undertaking . . .” She mumbled the last part under her breath.
“I know you have everything well in hand, Mrs. Wallace,” Riona said, a hint of smugness in her voice that Hugh knew was directed at him.
“Ladies,” he said with a nod, and retreated.
But once he’d arrived in his study and seen the skepticism of his factor and the unyielding face of Dermot when he lectured on how agriculture was changing, he almost wished he was back with the women.
The men might be resistant, but in the end, his word was law, and it was time to try some new experiments on McCallum lands.
AFTER a morning spent with Mrs. Wallace, Riona was beginning to think Hugh had tried to save her by not informing her in advance of the council. Instead she was forced to follow Mrs. Wallace throughout the household so the housekeeper could show her how they prepared for all the guests and how the kitchens seemed to explode with extra servants, dozens upon dozens of plucked fowl, and enough pastry dough to line a path back to Stirling. When Riona was granted some relief, she hurried outdoors.
She slowed her pace upon receiving several curious stares. If this had been her household, she would have willingly done even more to prepare. But it seemed . . . cruel to have the staff, and especially Mrs. Wallace, become used to looking to her for guidance, only to learn the truth. They’d hate her soon enough for being the embodiment of monetary salvation, only to take it all away from them again.
But . . . she’d felt wanted, needed, and hadn’t been able to resist answering when asked her opinion. She had so little control over her own life that it felt good to make decisions, even small ones.
When she saw little Hamish tied up next to the stables, tongue lolling out beneath the flop of hair on top of his head, she felt her heart lighten just a bit. He barked when he saw her, but she simply sat down on an overturned pail beside him and gave him a frown.
“You aren’t in charge, little Hamish,” she said sternly. “I won’t let you chase me away.”
The barking stopped, and he tilted his head as if listening.
“Now if we’re going to be friends, you have to learn not to bark when you see me.”
She put out her hand again, and he did the same wary sniffing. When he looked away as if disinterested, she briefly ruffled the fur on his head.
She thought of the little dog’s owner, and how she’d been questioning Mrs. Wallace about him. It was good that Hugh hadn’t overheard that part of their conversation. Not that the old woman had been forthcoming. She didn’t have much to say except that Brendan’s grandmother was her particular friend, and that they had a much nicer cottage on a larger piece of land just past the village. This made Riona feel better, that even if Hugh didn’t acknowledge the boy, at least Brendan was being taken care of. But . . . was this how it should be handled, especially when all the residents of the castle watched disapprovingly every meeting between Brendan and Hugh?
Brendan stuck his head out of the wide stable doors, but the tension left his face when he saw her. “Afternoon, my lady.”
She smiled. “Hello, Brendan. I think Hamish is starting to like me.” She attempted to pet the dog again, but he ducked away. Ruefully, she added, “It looks like I have to take things slow.”
Wearing a crooked grin, Brendan wiped his forearm across his sweaty brow.
“Working hard?” she asked.
He nodded and spoke softly. “The marshal took the words of Himself seriously. Never have the stables been so clean.” He looked around as if making sure no one overheard them. “I’m little, but even I knew it was bein’ done wrong, but what could I say?”
“Of course,” she said solemnly, trying not to smile at how seriously he took his work.
“There’s another groom being trained,” Brendan said, his face reddening. “He’s younger than me, so when he didn’t do things the new way, our master got real mad at the thought of Himself seeing it. Well . . . I couldn’t let that happen. So I said it was my fault, thinking Himself might go easier on me than someone else.”
Riona’s eyes widened at those words. The boy was young and innocent, but . . . did he suspect the truth? He couldn’t be ignorant of how people looked at Hugh and him.
Brendan slowly grinned. “Seems I was wrong, and got punished just the same. I was fine with that.”
Did being treated like everyone else make him think his suspicions were wrong, and he wasn’t Hugh’s son? As she started to pet Hamish, who seemed to accept reluctantly, she realized that she could no longer live with this feeling of suspicion. She was going to have to discover the truth, and that was a decision that could have unpredictable results.