Riona awoke and for a moment, didn’t know where she was. She was lying cramped across something hard, where she couldn’t stretch her legs. She wasn’t cold, for a rough wool blanket covered her, and another was pillowed beneath her head.
With a gasp, she sat up, remembering everything. Her kidnapping, her aborted escape, having to try to sleep with two large Highlanders snoring mere feet away from her.
But she was alone now, although the coach wasn’t moving. Light filtered in the slit of a window, and she tried the door handle with little hope. To her surprise it opened easily, and she distinguished muted voices outside. She ducked her head out, and they saw her at once. Both men were sitting on logs before the fire, dressed in only their shirtsleeves and breeches. Their stockings and coats were spread across other logs, steaming damply in the heat.
“Lady Riona,” McCallum said, coming to his feet. “Samuel has made porridge for breakfast.”
“I smell . . . ham,” she said with hesitation.
“I rode to a nearby farmer and bought more provisions. We have eggs, too.”
“Eggs,” Samuel repeated with satisfaction, looking at the griddle where several fried.
“Come out, Lady Riona,” McCallum said, “as long as ye promise not to run.”
“I promise not to run during breakfast,” she amended, stepping down from the coach.
He eyed her, and again, she thought his mouth quirked in a smile—or she could be imagining it. Hugh McCallum didn’t smile. He believed the weight of the world, or at least his clan, was upon his shoulders, and he would do anything he wanted in the name of that clan. If any of this entire story were even true. Maybe it was an elaborate scheme to get her dowry. She was too hungry to debate the notion for long.
Soon, they were on their way north again, and this time McCallum drove first, and Samuel sat across from her in the coach. Though the sun occasionally peeked out from behind clouds, the road was far worse after the rain, and occasionally the wheels caught in the mud, or McCallum was forced to drive along the rough edge of the road to avoid the holes. Riona often found herself holding on to the bench with whitened fingers to keep from being flung to the ground. Good thing she had a strong stomach, or she’d have lost her breakfast. But always, they continued the slow, steady progression, the coach climbing higher by slight degrees.
By late morning, she thought she’d go out of her mind with boredom, and was trying to think of irritating ways to annoy McCallum with requests, when the coach slowed down.
Samuel stiffened. “He said he’d drive until midday.”
“Stand and deliver!” cried a man’s unfamiliar voice.
Riona gasped. “Highwaymen!”
She pressed back into the seat as Samuel drew his pistol and cocked it. The man who’d seemed shy and malleable compared to McCallum now had the demeanor of a deadly soldier, eyes hard, mouth pressed into a grim line.
“Whatever happens, stay here,” he told her in a low voice, looking through the small opening in the window.
“If you go out there, that highwayman might shoot you!” she said with urgency. “He’s probably not working alone.”
“Odds are, they won’t hit Himself and me both,” he said, as if indifferent.
Riona began to wonder if this robbery attempt might be her salvation. Highwaymen were focused on coin and jewelry; surely she would be worth more coin than they could imagine, if they ransomed her to her family. It was a wild, dangerous idea, but wasn’t it better to risk that than to end up a Highlander’s wife forever?
To distract Samuel, she said, “Don’t you have a purse to give? My father carries two, his own and a small one for highwaymen.”
“Quiet,” he insisted, leaning toward the window to hear.
She did the same.
“Stay in the box,” the same highwayman ordered McCallum, then added, “Keep an eye on him,” as if to someone else.
“He has partners,” Riona whispered.
Samuel ignored her, head cocked as he listened intently.
They heard the crunch of boots approaching on gravel.
“Ho there, inside the coach. We have pistols on your driver and will use ’em if we have to.”
Riona let loose with a shriek, and Samuel gaped at her.
“I’ve been kidnapped! Free me and I’m worth a great ransom!”
Samuel dove to cover her mouth, and she had no choice but to let him. Then the carriage rocked, as if McCallum had jumped from it. A gunshot echoed.
“Ballocks,” Samuel muttered. He flung himself at the door and slammed it open, vaulting out.
Riona followed him to the door and held on to the frame. The same stone half walls and fields greeted her, but the land rose in long flat waves to the sides, and patches of forested land covered the hillside. Not a barn or cottage was in sight—perfectly remote for two fugitive Highlanders to take her, perfect for highwaymen to avoid exposure. She imagined that they weren’t used to their victims fighting back, but McCallum had obviously been more of a challenge.
One of those highwaymen was already struggling to mount his horse, his leg covered in blood and difficult to maneuver. Had the gunshot come from McCallum’s pistol? The clan chief was grappling with another man, and Samuel was charging at a third, sword and pistol drawn, as the retreating man ran for his horse. She was startled when Samuel let loose a bloodthirsty shout.
The last man fighting saw his men in retreat, and it was obvious that McCallum was toying with him at sword point. The man dodged a thrust, then ran for his own horse. Not bothering with a chase, McCallum stood triumphant, sword point resting in the ground, barely breathing hard.
“Cowards!” he shouted as the horses galloped away.
Riona’s plan had failed, and she wondered what her punishment would be. But for the moment, McCallum and Samuel seemed to have forgotten her scream and simply grinned at each other like boys who’d just won a horse race. She hadn’t seen McCallum smile before, and she was surprised at how it lightened the cragginess of his features, made him actually appear . . . handsome, in a rugged way.
But that smile died when he turned and focused his narrowed gray eyes on her. His hair had come loose from its queue, and the dark waves settled to his shoulders. He looked like a wild Highlander, and she’d just gone against him. She tensed in the doorway, knowing it was too late to flee.
“What did ye think of my plan?” Samuel called, as he slid his sword back into its sheath. “Lady Riona’s screaming, I mean.”
She stiffened and tried to mask her shock.
“That was a plan?” asked McCallum skeptically.
“I was certain they’d want the chance to ransom a highborn lady,” Samuel continued. “Their hesitation was all ye needed to attack. Ye got two of them with one jump. Impressive.”
She swallowed heavily, attempting to appear confident, while inside she was stunned that Samuel would defend her. She wasn’t certain why he’d do such a thing, and it made her feel both indebted and worried about his motives.
“You have my thanks, because it worked,” McCallum said. “That piercing scream distracted them like nothing else.” He glanced at Riona, then spoke with a trace of reluctance. “Well done.”
She nodded, surprised to feel vaguely guilty. Why should she feel that way when she was but their prisoner? “I don’t suppose you’ll be better prepared next time.”
One dark brow arched, but he seemed in too good a mood to respond in kind. “We’ll not have to fash about that in Scotland. The pickings are too poor for highwaymen.”
Samuel laughed but she didn’t see what was funny.
“I’ll drive until midday,” McCallum said. “Let’s put some distance between us and these brigands before they get their courage up again.”
Silently, Riona climbed into the coach and felt it dip behind her as Samuel followed. He seated himself across from her, and she simply stared at him in confusion. The coach jerked into motion, even as Samuel closed his eyes.
“Why did you lie for me?” she asked hesitantly.
He opened his eyes and regarded her with a sympathy that felt foreign to her.
“Ye’re a frightened, desperate lass. And I understand ye, so I helped ye this time. But he’s my chief—my friend. I won’t help ye again, so don’t make a foolish mistake.”
She swallowed but her words still sounded hoarse and full of pain, even to her own ears. “Is it foolish to want to go home?”
“’Tis foolish to wish to change what cannot be changed. This was decided long ago, my lady,” he said kindly.
“But not for me!” she whispered fiercely. “You’ve got the wrong woman.”
He shook his head and closed his eyes again, and Riona angrily wiped away a tear. Crying was useless and would get her nowhere with these men.
THEY crossed the River Sark and into Scotland two days later, and it was like a little part of Riona died, along with her hope of rescue. She could only depend on herself now.
They stopped to refresh themselves and the horses in the river, and it was as if McCallum and his coachman thought the water tasted better on this side of the border, they were so glad to be back. The water ran fast and high due to the rain that had plagued them the last day, and the bank was muddy and overgrown with weeds. Riona tried to wash her face and ended up sliding down the embankment and up to her thighs in icy water. McCallum reached her first and hauled her to safety, where she stumbled and landed on her backside, her skirts a sodden mess. She desperately wanted to cry, felt filthy and smelly, and now her gown was ruined. Shoulders slumped, she covered her face with her hands and took a deep, shuddering breath.
“We should stop at an inn tonight,” Samuel said. “We need fresh clothes.”
She kept her head bowed, knowing if she looked too hopeful, McCallum might deny the request.
“Aye, we’ll stop in Gretna Green,” McCallum said, “at a good Scottish inn.”
Where no one will help a Sassenach, Riona thought despondently. Of course, part of her was Scottish, but a lot of good that would do against a clan chief. Yet to be clean and dry seemed the height of luxury five days into their journey, so she’d hold off complaining until tomorrow.
Not that McCallum had seemed all that bothered when she’d tried to annoy him into abandoning his plan to marry her. He’d simply ridden in the coaching box with Samuel, leaving her all alone for hours on end. Samuel had slipped her a pack of cards the day before, and she sometimes occupied herself by making random patterns, because she knew no games to be played alone. But it was something to do with her hands.
Often, she stared out the slit in the leather curtain for hours, watching for the changes that would mark Scotland, but there was nothing very different about the Lowlands.
They reached the small village of Gretna Green, where several roads converged around a triangular green. There were a collection of thatched-roof, whitewashed cottages, a blacksmith shop, a church, and little else. If there was a “good Scottish inn” here, she was baffled. Frankly, she didn’t care where they stopped, if only she could be free of this coach for a night.
The “inn” ended up being two rooms above a tavern, only one of which was private. She was exceedingly grateful when McCallum led her up the cramped rear stairs from the stable yard, rather than through the front hall where she’d be gawked at. She knew he was probably trying to avoid curious stares, but she didn’t care.
The private room was small; only a bed, a table with two chairs, a washstand, and pegs on the wall for her clothing. Inns in England were luxurious compared to this. Or the ones her parents frequented were, she amended to herself.
“Please tell me you were able to ask for a hot bath,” she said, keeping her voice polite.
McCallum eyed her. “The innkeeper wasn’t happy, but he’ll oblige us.”
“Us?” she echoed, feeling a new stirring of unease.
“There’s a bed for Samuel in the dormitory, but of course, a man and his wife can share one.”
She stared at him in growing anger. “Y-you told him we were married?”
“Ye’ve not proven yourself trustworthy, Lady Riona. I cannot allow ye to be alone for a night, and I cannot name ye my mistress, can I?”
Her mouth moved, but nothing came out.
“If it helps, the innkeeper’s wife was very gracious about your river accident, and promised fresh clothing and will have yours cleaned.”
Fresh clothing—it sounded like heaven. Just days ago, she’d taken such things as baths and clothing for granted. No more. And hadn’t she slept in the coach with McCallum—how was this different?
But it was different, and she knew it. “We will not be sharing that bed,” she told him, hating how her voice trembled. Every choice was being taken away from her—she had to stand up for herself.
“We will,” he answered, as if he expected his word to be law. “And I will hold to our agreement that I will not take ye before we’re wed.”
Her face heated, even though her limbs still shivered with the wet and cold.
He eyed her. “I can’t have ye sick with the ague. Where is that bath?”
He went into the hall to call for a maidservant, and Riona tried not to panic. How was she supposed to bathe? If she were smart, she’d try to escape right now, but . . . who would help her in this tiny village against the chief of the McCallums? Where would she go?
She was just as trapped here as she’d been in the coach. Her feelings of hope and perseverance were slowly draining away. Nothing she’d said had convinced this man he was wrong. She would keep trying, of course, along with denying him her consent to marriage. She wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but she could see no easy choices.
McCallum opened the door and held it open for two male servants carrying a bathing tub between them. Soon buckets of hot water were carried in a slow procession, until the heat steamed from the tub. The towels were rough, but clean, and the soft soap in a pot didn’t smell terrible.
The innkeeper’s plump wife tsked when she saw Riona. “How dare yer man lose yer trunk,” she said, shaking her head.
Riona knew not to expose the lie, or McCallum would take her back to the cold, wet coach. He eyed her with confidence, as if he knew just what she was thinking.
The woman laid out a chemise, petticoats, an open gown laced at the bodice, a nightshift, a man’s breeches and shirt, and stockings for them both. “He paid me handsomely for these,” she said with satisfaction. “I’ll be back to collect yer own garments,” she added, eyeing them with both distaste and sympathy. “How ever did ye fall into the Sark?”
“The bank was muddy and I slipped,” Riona said absently, eyeing the tub with longing.
“Och, listen to me blather. Shall I empty the tub later and refill for ye, Laird McCallum?” She seemed weary but resigned to the necessity.
McCallum faced the woman, looking like an immovable mountain dwarfing the furniture—and absorbing all the heat of the fire, Riona thought crossly.
“Nay, I’ll use the tub when my wife is done,” he said. “No need to make more work for ye, mistress.”
She gave him a grateful smile. “Then I’ll leave and let ye use it before the heat is gone.”
The woman bustled out, and the room was suddenly as silent as a church funeral service, but for the flickering flames of the peat fire. Pungent smoke hung heavily in the air, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
McCallum pointedly bolted the door.
“You need to wait in the corridor,” Riona insisted, relieved that at least her voice didn’t tremble.
He only rolled his eyes then headed for the hearth, removing his coat to lay it across the back of a chair before the fire. His waistcoat came next and he pulled his shirt out of his breeches before unbuttoning those.
“What are you doing?” she demanded sharply.
“Drying my garments. The shirt is long enough for your modesty, have no fear.”
And then he pulled his stockings, breeches, and drawers off and laid them out, too. His shirt came down to his mid-thighs, and she hastily looked away even as he sat down before the fire with a deep, satisfied sigh. He was naked but for that shirt. The sight of his bare, muscular, hairy legs felt permanently imbedded in her mind.
How was she supposed to bathe like this, right beneath his knowing gaze?
As if reading her mind, he said, “I’ll keep my back turned, but do be quick about it, my lady. I’d like my bath to be middling warm.”
She was too dazed for words—and then she realized she could not unlace her gown alone. “I need to call a maidservant,” she said, heading for the door.
For a big man, he moved with speed. He reached the door before she could.
“None of that,” he said.
“But—”
He turned her about like she was a child’s doll and started unlacing. It seemed to take too long, and soon he began to grumble.
“Damned wet laces.”
She bit her lip, saying nothing, feeling every tug as if he stroked her skin. She’d never felt like this before, so aware of someone so close to her. No man ever had been. She knew she was not ugly, but Cat was vivacious and cast a long shadow that hid other women when she was about. And then there was Riona’s constant care of Bronwyn, nights when her cousin attended a soiree alone since Riona had to attend her sister.
But now . . . this Highlander thought he would marry her. He thought he had the right to put his hands on her, to undress her. Everything inside her wanted to rebel, but it was useless, and tears burned her eyes. The moment her laces loosened, she fled across the room, holding the bodice in place.
He watched her, hair loose about his shoulders, eyes as smoldering as the peat fire. Bare legs, big strong feet, and callused hands meant for war. He could do anything he wanted to do to her—would she really make things easy by disrobing in front of him?
For a long moment their gazes held, and something hot seemed to uncurl down in the pit of her belly. She couldn’t breathe deeply, couldn’t blink, and only when he turned away did she take a deep breath.
He went to the hearth and sank down in a chair, and without turning his head, said, “Aye, we’ll have a good marriage, my lady. I can already feel what’s between us.”
“Between us,” she echoed with disdain. “You are mistaken. There is hatred and anger inside me, nothing else.”
His head turned now, and she caught his profile, the heavy brows, the strong nose, the firm mouth.
“Your anger lights your eyes with a green fire that I find enthralling. I can mold that fire, my lady, see if I don’t.”
And he turned away again.
She wanted to scream at him, to deny everything he said, but he wanted that kind of emotion from her, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Keeping her gaze on his every move, she pulled off her gown and left it in a heap, followed by her petticoats and then her chemise. By now she was trembling, although the room was warm enough. Practically tripping in her haste, she stepped over the edge and sat in the tub, cursing that the water barely covered her breasts, no matter how deeply she sank.
She was naked in the same room with a man who was nearly so, a man who intended to force her into marriage. She grabbed a facecloth, lathered a poor amount of strange-smelling soap, and began to rub her skin. The feel of being warm and clean was glorious—if only she could revel in it. But she felt like a rabbit tiptoeing past a wolf, desperate to finish before she was noticed.
Not caring that she’d already made the water foul with just her skin, she dipped her head back to wet her hair, then began to soap it as well. If given a choice, she’d wash it over and over, but she had no time. Luckily, the maidservants had left one pail of clean water, and she used that to sluice through her hair. When water splashed on the floor, McCallum turned his head, not quite looking her way.
“Waste not the water, lass,” he ordered. “I do plan to use it.”
She winced and could only be grateful he’d allowed her to go first.
At last she felt as clean as possible. At home, her lady’s maid would be standing there with warm, thick towels to wrap her in. It never occurred to her that she’d have to fetch them herself. The towels were on the table, and she’d have to cross the floor, dripping water, to reach them. She huddled in the tub, feeling like the worst kind of fool, frozen with indecision.
His head turned again when she made no more sloshing sounds, and she saw when he focused on the table—and the towels.
“Why didn’t ye say ye needed help,” he grumbled, rising to his feet.
The soap left some bubbles floating on the surface, but not enough to hide her. She drew her knees to her chest, a meager protection, hoping he’d bring her the towels with his eyes averted, like a gentleman.
But he wasn’t a gentleman. He stood above her, towels in hand, and stared down at her. His gray eyes, normally so cold and impassive, seemed to glitter by candlelight.
“I’ve known about ye for a long time, lass,” he said, his voice low and husky. “I did some foolish things in rebellion against our shared fate. There were times I railed against my father for fixing my future without my consent. I was never free to give more of myself to a woman. But now that I’ve met ye . . . I am satisfied with the bargain between our families. More than satisfied. Ye have spirit and intelligence, Lady Riona, things I value highly in a bride. I look forward to our wedding and our future, but right now”—his voice became even deeper, rough—“I most look forward to our wedding night.”
Riona hugged her knees even tighter, feeling a strange mixture of emotion churning inside her, frustration, worry, and a new one, flattery. That last one—how could she feel flattered by the praise and attentions of the man who’d kidnapped her and dragged her north against her will?
But he thought she was his bride, and he was pleased by that. She felt foolish, knowing her confusion was because she’d been allowed so little experience with men. A little flattery, and her insides softened.
“I will not marry you, McCallum,” she insisted, trying to forget she was naked. “I keep telling you, you’ve got the wrong bride, and at some point, you’ll accept the truth.”
For a long moment, he continued staring at her, his expression unreadable, until at last one side of his mouth tilted up. “I should have said ye’re stubborn, too.”
He put the towels on a stool beside her and turned away. Shivering, she wrapped one around her hair, then stood up. She dried her upper body in haste, hopped out, and finished, sliding on the nightshift so quickly it clung to the damp spots she’d missed. But at least she had something to cover her nakedness. If only she had a dressing gown, too.
“I’m finished,” she said, approaching the fire.
He rose up, and she was reminded once again how small and defenseless she was next to him. She wanted to scurry away like a frightened mouse, but didn’t. He’d promised not to force himself upon her until marriage—and she was going to try her best to make sure that never happened. He brushed past her, and she took his place at the fire, taking down her wet hair and beginning to comb it out with her fingers. She didn’t look behind her as she heard the splash of water, and then his groan of satisfaction. That sound made her shiver, but it wasn’t from fear. It was as if her body reacted to him in ways she had no control over, and no understanding either.
He said nothing for a long time, and she found herself almost dozing as the warmth and fresh clothing worked their magic. And then her stomach growled loudly, making her wince.
“Supper will be sent up,” McCallum said.
She nodded.
“Looks like ’tis my turn to forget a towel,” he added.
She could have sworn she heard a smirk of laughter in his voice, but when she turned around, his expression was as impassive as always. She was tempted to throw the towel at him, but he’d done her too many favors this night for her to risk rousing his wrath. She took the last towel off the table and brought it to him, keeping her eyes averted as much as possible. But unless she was going to trip over the tub and land on him, she was forced to see something of his big body crowded into the little tub. His chest and arms boasted the muscles of an active man, and more than one scar to match the one on his chin. He didn’t keep his knees to his chest as she had, but thank goodness soap bubbles obscured what was beneath the surface. She might be ignorant, but something inside her seemed to respond pleasurably to his form—and she didn’t like feeling that she had no control over parts of herself that should be private.
He took the towel. “My thanks, lass. I might need ye to dry my back.”
She didn’t dignify that with a response, only went back to the fire to continue drying her hair amid his damp clothing. When there was a knock at the door, she cringed when he answered it wearing only the long, clean shirt. Dismissing the servant, he brought a tray of food to the table, and she watched the steaming mutton chops with appreciation.
Spinning her chair around, she found herself across a table from McCallum, as if they were two normal people. Was she supposed to serve him, as so many men of her acquaintance would expect from their women? But he gave them each a plateful of turnips and carrots with the mutton chop, and to her surprise, waited politely until she’d had her first taste.
When he continued watching her closely, she frowned and asked, “Is something wrong?”
“’Tis fine mutton. Do ye like it?”
“It’s tolerable.” Although to be honest, it tasted heavenly after five days eating cold food or something scorched over a fire.
“Ye’ll see the difference when you have what Mrs. Wallace prepares. She was the cook at Larig, but now I believe she might be the housekeeper.”
Riona said nothing—she didn’t plan to be at Larig for long. McCallum had to believe the truth eventually. For several minutes, they ate in silence, and she simply absorbed the heat of the fire and of feeling clean. And then she thought of having him alone, where she could learn something that might help her sway him. But it was difficult to be civil, to be accommodating, after everything he’d done to her.
“You said,” she began slowly, “that you’ve known about the marriage contract for much of your life. You didn’t fight it?”
He swallowed another bite of his food and regarded her. “I had only reached the age of thirteen when Father told me what my future would be. I did not take it gracefully.”
“What did you do?”
“Everything I could to make my family miserable.” He turned and stared into the fire, where shadows made his eyes hooded beneath his brows. “I acted out, I was defiant, I did the opposite of what my father wanted me to do. And since half the time he was drunk as a tosspot, it didn’t affect him as much as it did the reputation of my mother and sister.”
“You have a sister?”
“Maggie.” Though he didn’t smile, his tone softened. “She’s suffered more than I ever did, but that is her story to tell.”
“Your mother didn’t suffer, being married to a drunkard?”
His cold gaze returned to her. “I didn’t say that. What happened behind closed doors she never said. But she was a coward where my father was concerned, and her children suffered for it.”
Riona stiffened. “I do not know your family, but from what you’ve said about your father, a powerful chief who could make life or death decisions for his clan, what was your mother supposed to do against him?”
“Do not mistake me. She finally did do one thing, and that was to take Maggie and me away from Larig when I had fifteen years, to live with her family in Edinburgh. Saved me from making a bigger fool of myself than I already had.”
“Sounds to me like she saved you from a drunken father.”
“She could have saved much more than my youth—but it no longer matters.”
“It sounds like it still does, to you. You hold a grudge.”
He said nothing, only continued to eat as if he was unaffected. But Riona saw a weakness about him now, a man affected by emotions toward his family, a man with some guilt about the behavior of his youth. Not that she had any idea how to use these things against him.
“How long did you remain with your mother’s family?”
“Three years. Until the Rising made me stand on my own feet as a man.”
She inhaled in dismay. “You were with the Jacobites during the rebellion?”
“Rebellion?” he scoffed. “Now ye truly sound like a Sassenach using that word.”
That made her hot with embarrassment, but she said nothing.
“But I ken ye’ve been living in England, and ye cannot be blamed for what your father made ye do. England must accept that we won’t forget our true and rightful king. The King Over the Water deserves our support.”
“He will never be king of Great Britain, McCallum—or so my father says.”
“Your father, the one who can be trusted to keep a contract?” he sneered.
“That is my uncle, as I’ve told you over and over again.”
He snorted.
“My father is his younger brother. But regardless, they speak often of the futility of going against the Crown. James Stuart can never be king—he’s Catholic. He won’t be accepted now that his cousin George is on the throne.”
“That means nothing. It’s been obvious since the Act of Union that England only meant to keep us subservient to them. Scottish noblemen were denied a place in the House of Lords, though they’d been promised it. Our taxes went up, our privy council was abolished—we were betrayed.”
“But you cannot raise a large enough army—didn’t Sheriffmuir and the failed march into northern England make you see that?”
“The Earl of Mar was a poor leader. We were twelve thousand strong in Perth, ready to march south, and instead he delayed. And delayed. Men deserted over the lack of discipline. We had superior numbers at Sheriffmuir when we met the Duke of Argyll and his supporters. And we were victorious.”
“Didn’t Argyll claim victory, too? I heard there were many casualties on both sides, and nothing was decided.” He opened his mouth angrily, but she rushed on, “You were so young—were you hurt?”
He ignored that. “I may have been young, but I knew our victory could have been conclusive if Mar would have risked the whole army, but he wouldn’t, and victory was hollow when nothing came of it. I couldn’t march into England for the battle at Preston that ended in surrender. Even when our true king came to our shores, it was too late to matter.”
“I heard the man was ill and left within the month.”
McCallum said nothing, just tore a piece of bread apart like he was taking apart the enemy.
“If you didn’t march into England, were you wounded? If so, you were lucky. You might have been captured.”
“Not so lucky. I had to spend the spring recovering at Larig. I thought I could alter my relationship with my father, but everything became worse.”
He stared into the fire, and the shadows flickering over his face looked harsh and menacing, as if his memories of that summer were terrible. She could not press her luck, not this night.
“So you only stayed with your father the first half of the year after the Rising? What did you do then?”
Those gray eyes focused sharply on her again. “For someone trying to convince me ye’re not involved in my plans for the clan, ye ask many questions.”
The food seemed to settle hard in her stomach, and she sat back in her chair, no longer hungry. “I am only curious and trying to pass the time. Would you rather I sit here silently?”
“At least then I would ken your purpose.” He pushed his plate away. “Enough of this. We have to get an early start in the morn. Let us retire to bed.”
She’d known this was coming—perhaps part of her desperation to learn something about him was just to put off the inevitable. She glanced at the bed, trying to hide her fear. Fear only showed her vulnerability.
“I already made ye a vow that I would never force ye into what ye’re not ready for,” McCallum said coldly. “I don’t break my vows.”
She had no answer to that. His vow had led him to take her captive—she didn’t trust the strength of his supposed vows. But she couldn’t tell him that. “I will sleep in front of the fire.”
“Ye’ll not. Ye need a good night’s sleep as much as I do. Get into that bed.”
She stood up to face him, gritting her teeth. She wanted to refuse, to fight, but he only had to toss her onto the bed and hold her down and maybe . . . no, she couldn’t let that happen. So she whirled and marched to the bed, climbed in and pulled the counterpane up to her chin. She wished she could protest that there was no room for him, that his big body would crowd her out.
He went to the fire, laid another piece of peat across it, and rearranged his drying garments once again. After blowing out the candle on the table, he came to her, a vast shadow against the light of the fire. Riona’s heart was pounding so loudly that surely he could hear it. She wondered if she should have insisted that Samuel share the room with them. She needed a buffer, but there was no one. If she screamed, Samuel would hear her, but . . . would he go against his chief?
McCallum sat on the edge of the bed, and it dipped toward him. She braced herself with a hand, even as he lay down on his side, facing away from her. She hovered there, waiting, looking at the width of his shoulders, and the counterpane he only caught beneath his arm.
“Are ye going to lie down,” McCallum asked with obvious exasperation, “or sit up all night?”
Very slowly, she lay back on her pillow, tense, as if she needed to spring up at a moment’s notice. But nothing happened except that his breathing deepened. Would he really leave her alone?