Hugh returned by mid afternoon to find preparations already being made to leave at dawn to take back their cattle. Riona awaited him in the great hall, looking concerned. Then her expression altered with determination when she saw the men following him, wearing haphazard bandages.
“Mrs. Wallace,” she called, “I need your help!”
Hugh watched in surprise as Riona, Maggie, and Mrs. Wallace tended to the mild injuries sustained by his men—a gash from a dirk through a man’s hand, a sprained ankle, and a musket ball through an arm when another man had wandered in the way of a hunter’s shot.
Riona worked with a kind efficiency that surprised him. He was so used to her reluctance and wariness that he sometimes forgot she hadn’t always needed to be that way. She knew people’s names now, and he could have sworn he heard her use a word or two of hesitant Gaelic. She seemed like the mistress of the household—like his wife.
It was some time before he realized his mother wasn’t with the other women, and then only as an afterthought. It had been ten years since she’d betrayed him, ten years of her condemning silence. He’d grown used to putting her out of his mind, and it was still very easy to do.
Dermot came to let him and Alasdair know what had happened, that the Buchanans had used the absence of the hunting men for their raid. Dermot’s tone grew cooler as he said, “I could have handled this, of course, for there were enough men for a chase, but Lady Riona alerted ye without consulting me.”
“She was simply concerned for our property and people,” Hugh said mildly. “’Tis better if we give them a show of force since I’m the new chief. I’ll lead the party myself.”
Now it was Alasdair who frowned. “As your war chief—”
“I ken, ye’d normally go on my behalf. But as I said, I’m the new McCallum, and I need to project strength. Ye’ll accompany me, of course.”
“As will I,” Dermot said.
Hugh debated keeping his tanist at home, but the odds of death were not great. “Very well. And when we return, Alasdair, give me details on the state of our security. But for now, let us assemble the men in an hour at the training yard and see to preparations.”
Both Alasdair and Dermot turned away stiffly, silently, and Hugh held back a sigh. But then Riona came to him, drying her hands upon a cloth, lifting the gloom that had surrounded him. Dermot didn’t bother to hide the frown he bestowed on her as he left.
Riona looked over her shoulder at Dermot, then turned to Hugh. “He’s upset with me.”
“Ye played the part of my wife too well,” Hugh said lightly. “Ye ruffled Dermot’s feathers by sending for me without consulting him.”
He glimpsed a flicker of worry in her green eyes. “You know I did not mean to overstep my bounds.”
“Ye cared about McCallum cattle—that’s not overstepping your bounds.”
But she continued to stare with concern at the door through which Dermot had disappeared.
To distract her, he asked, “Everyone will live?”
She gave a small smile. “They will, even the ones I cared for myself.” Her smile faded again. “I heard Dermot and Alasdair talking with you. You’re not very popular right now, either, are you?”
He snorted.
“Come, eat some food before you must rush outside.”
She cut meat from the platters of mutton and hares herself, dished him cabbage and kale, nettles and garlic, and as she was pouring him a goblet of wine, noticed that he was staring at her.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, turning around as if to look behind her.
“Nay, nothing. Ye’re simply so . . . agreeable.”
Maggie overheard them, and he saw Riona blush.
“Agreeable?” Maggie echoed. “Ye should have seen her in the village this morn. Mrs. Ross is feeling much better after Riona’s advice and care—”
“Maggie,” Riona said with exasperation.
Like they were already close friends, Hugh thought in wonderment and a growing feeling of hope.
“And then she started singing for the children,” Maggie continued. “Singing! I knew she played the spinet beautifully, but her voice—”
“Ye play the spinet?” Hugh asked Riona.
She shrugged. “Remember how my parents liked me to entertain.”
He studied her as if he couldn’t get enough. And for these three nights away, it had seemed like it. During the days he’d been busy, but at night under the stars he’d thought of nothing but Riona, her smile, her kisses, the hope that she’d at last want to marry him and have children together.
Alasdair came bounding in the wide open double doors. “Hugh! We’re waiting. Ye said ye needed to be out here with the men.”
Hugh rose to his feet. “I’m coming.” To his sister and Riona, he said, “Thank ye both for your help and for thinking to alert me when the raid happened.” His eyes lingered on Riona even as he said, “Until the evening then.”
And Riona blushed as if he’d said he’d meet her in bed.
RIONA paced in her room that night, knowing Hugh would not remain in the great hall for long, since they were leaving before dawn to take back their cattle.
She wasn’t used to thinking of men she knew in this sort of danger. Oh, there were always footpads in London, or a hunter’s mistake at a country estate, but this . . . Not that “this” was open battle, but it could be. Hugh had fought British soldiers not that long ago and barely survived.
And she thought of what she’d overheard, that Dermot was unhappy she’d notified Hugh about the raid without consulting him. She realized she’d made that decision without dwelling on it, letting her instincts take over. More and more she was trusting herself, taking for granted that her decisions would be accepted. She couldn’t control much about her situation, but she was learning to appreciate what control she had. And when her decisions were met with acceptance and respect? It was a heady feeling.
But the decision to bypass Dermot might have cost her her chance to have him listen to her story objectively. Why would he want to go to Hugh at her side, privately, when he could embarrass both of them by revealing the truth to the entire clan?
When the door opened and Hugh walked in, freshly washed and shaved after days in the mountains with his men, even seeing the scar on his chin gave her a soft feeling of tenderness. God, keeping herself distant was going badly.
And then he smiled at her, crooked and endearing, and her reaction was a deep pleasure that was also a pain, right in her heart. Talking, she had to keep talking, or she would run to him to be swept up into his arms. She would forget the future and the risks. How could she have fallen for the man who’d kidnapped her? The man who could never be her husband?
He cocked his head. “Ye’re giving me a strange look.”
“Am I?” she asked, forcing a lightness to her voice as she went to pour him a goblet of wine. But of course that meant approaching him, but she did so, full of trepidation and yearning. When he took the wine and saluted her with it before taking a sip, she asked, “I know the hunt was successful as far as the meat was concerned, but did it go well in . . . other ways?”
“Other ways?”
“You and your clansmen, you and Alasdair . . .”
“Are ye asking if we were good little laddies and started no fights?” he asked with faint sarcasm.
She sighed. Why was she asking about this? Or was she simply delaying? “I’m being silly, I know. We women think more about everyone having no conflict.”
“Ye’re not silly,” he said softly.
He cupped her face with one palm, and a shiver moved through her. It had been a long time since it was a shiver of fear. She stepped away, forcing a smile, and poured herself some of the wine.
Hugh stared for a moment into the fire as he sipped his wine, before saying, “Alasdair and I will return to our old ways someday. He is still having difficulty with me ‘usurping his role,’ or whatever he believes I’ve done. As if I shouldn’t lead our men in their search for justice. But he’s been here all these years and knows the men—as he points out to me. And I agree. I’ve promised to take that into consideration more.”
“It’s a start.”
“Now tell me how things went while I was gone. Did I hear you speaking Gaelic?”
He sat down in the cushioned chair before the fire, which eased her trepidation. She took the chair opposite him.
“‘Speaking’ is not how I’d term my use of Gaelic,” she answered wryly. “Maggie is helping me learn a few words.”
“We’ll have ye feeling more like a Highlander in no time.”
She nodded, knowing it would be far too easy. “My parents denied me a part of my heritage, and it does feel good to learn what it’s like to be Scottish. I like the stories the old men tell at night, and the superstitions Mrs. Wallace swears by. I was a little put off by how distant all the shops I take for granted are now—it seemed like my way of life was gone. But it was very thoughtful of you to send a tailor.” She spread her skirts wide. “My new gowns are lovely.” The only way she’d been able to tolerate their making was knowing someone else would have use of them someday.
His eyes shone as they studied her. “Ye look bonny. That deep green matches your eyes. I’d told him to look for that.”
“You did not.”
“I did,” he said, hand over his heart.
“I appreciate you thinking about my comfort. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a poet.”
Good Lord, she was teasing and flirting now. It was so easy with him. The pain of it was sharp, bringing on a grief she hadn’t anticipated. She could fall truly in love with him, and was sliding down the slope toward it.
He smiled. “I’m not a poet. I simply appreciate fine eyes.”
She could get lost in his. To stop herself, she asked, “What do you know about Maggie and Owen?”
He frowned. “My sister and the heir to Aberfoyle? Why do ye even link their names together?”
“Because she asked me about him, if he’d married.”
His frown intensified. “I ken little except that my mother and Maggie used to attempt an acquaintanceship with your family. It was awkward and eventually abandoned.”
“What about when you were at university? Maggie was maturing into a young woman then. I get the feeling that something else happened.”
“She didn’t tell me. If he tried to harm her—”
“You mean kidnap or seduce her?” Riona interrupted, irony lacing her words. “What should a brother do when that happens?”
Hugh sat back in his chair, the goblet dangling from his hand as he studied her. “Ye still think to make me embarrassed by what I’ve done—and I’m not. A contract was entered into in good faith.”
She waved a hand. “I know I can’t change your mind, and I didn’t mean to start in on it, not when you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Ye don’t want to send me away with an argument?” he teased.
“No, but . . . maybe you’ll still want to argue when I tell you what else happened while you were gone.” She watched him intently.
“Go ahead,” he said, taking a fortifying swig of the wine.
“I was walking with your mother and Maggie when we met up with Brendan.”
She paused, studying his face. Instead of displaying anger, his expression smoothed out into something neutral and impassive.
“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.