As he bathed and dressed in his plaid, Hugh knew he was doing the right thing—Riona had to leave her childish ways behind and accept the duties of a woman. She couldn’t change the agreement between their families, just as he hadn’t been able to change things when he was nineteen and desperately wanted a different bride.
He would treat her well and make her see that they could have a good marriage. Love was not something to be expected in an arranged marriage, but they could find respect and understanding with each other.
He would make that happen.
Was kissing her against her will the best way to do that? He didn’t know, but it had tested the limits of his control to be there when she was bathing—again. He should have realized what he’d be walking into as she prepared for the evening meal after a long journey. But he’d been so focused on anticipating his clan’s questions that he hadn’t thought of anything else. He’d burst in and found her once again naked, wet, and alluring. She’d been full of fire and insult, and he’d admired every bit of it, especially since she was all alone at Larig Castle, with no one she knew to look out for her.
But that kiss . . .
She was obviously an innocent, but she’d caught on quickly. Her lips had been so soft and moist, her taste exotic to him. He’d almost shaken with restraint when he’d desperately wanted to deepen the kiss, to explore her mouth, to discover and inflame her passion.
Maybe he needed to douse himself in the tub again, now that the water had turned cold.
Instead he fastened the brooch that held his plaid over his shoulder and headed toward the dressing room, to escort Riona and face the people he’d barely seen in ten years.
RIONA paced her bedroom, waiting for McCallum. She wasn’t about to come to him—he had to come to her, to bring her to his people. He planned to use her to strengthen his bond with the clan, but she knew that would never happen. Somehow she would make him see that—
A knock rattled the door that led to the dressing room. Part of her wanted to put a pillow over her head and make Hugh go down alone, humiliate him as she’d felt humiliated when Mrs. Wallace had talked about handfasting. But that wouldn’t incline him to eventually see her side of things, so she simply called for him to enter.
He stopped in the doorway and looked at her, as she looked at him. He wore the clan plaid pleated and belted around his waist. A long length of it crossed his chest and was pinned to his coat at the shoulder. He wore tartan stockings to his knees and leather shoes. There were some in England who thought the Highland dress ridiculous, but she was not one of them. His legs were fine and well made, and his pride in wearing his clan colors was evident. Instead of wearing a wig, he’d pulled his dark, unruly hair back in a queue, and she was no longer surprised that he forswore the custom. He was a man who did what he wanted—she of all people knew that.
He studied her, his expression full of pride, contentment—and yes, passion, passion for her. Feeling overwhelming and confused, she had to look away. He’d stolen her life—how dare he act as if it was so easily accepted, as if he felt something more for her when he was just using her.
An insidious voice whispered in her head, But what kind of life did you have?
That wasn’t the point—she wanted to make her own decisions. She’d made no decision for herself, unless it was what book to read to Bronwyn, what song to play for her on the spinet. Her parents had always told her she could be involved in choosing her husband . . . someday. And every year, “someday” had become the next year, and then the year after that. She’d felt that the best years of her life had been spent in a sickroom, where she’d alternated between feeling loving pity for her sister, and sadness and frustration that her own life was just as confined. True, she’d been allowed to accompany Cat to the occasional dinner or musicale, but she’d never been free to enjoy the entire evening, because her parents had insisted Bronwyn needed her help to fall asleep.
But Bronwyn had been well enough to travel to the Continent, and that had given Riona hope that when they returned it would be Riona’s turn for an elaborate Season in London. Her mother had promised it, confiding before she left that it was time for Riona to relax after all her years nursing Bronwyn. Riona had cynically suspected that her mother was growing jealous of the closeness between the sisters, and had deliberately denied Riona the chance to see Europe.
The kind of life her future self would have didn’t matter right now. At some point, McCallum would finally realize and accept that he truly had the wrong bride, and everything he’d planned would be ruined.
“So you wear the plaid,” she said.
He smirked. “Highland women don’t like being denied the sight of their men’s naked legs.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Ye’re a bonny lass, Riona.”
He’d taken to leaving off the honorific of “lady” when they were alone, and the intimacy unnerved her. He would not be “Hugh” to her. That would be playing into his hands.
She didn’t say anything as she set her hand on his forearm and allowed him to lead her into the corridor. He went first down the spiral stairs as if to catch her if she stumbled. He fancied himself a gentleman, did he?
As they descended, the noise from the great hall increased. Friendly discussion and laughter, the sound of pipes warming up, all of which made a cacophony of sound.
“Ye’re trembling,” he said as they reached the arched stone entrance on the first floor.
He covered her hand with his, and instead of soothing her, it made her feel powerless against his strength. She wanted to shake it off, but didn’t. “I’m fine.”
He eyed her narrowly, but nodded. When they stepped into the entrance, in full view of the people, Riona inhaled sharply. There had to be over one hundred people packed into the hall, which was lit by torches along the walls, their light reflecting off the silver platters displayed on several cupboards. A hush seemed to spread outward from them, and even the piper hit a sour note of surprise.
Every pair of eyes was focused on them, and the expressions ranged from curious to worried to skeptical to hopeful. A clan chief was the focus, and from him radiated prospects for the future. These people didn’t know if they could trust McCallum, absent so long from their lives, beginning when his mother hadn’t trusted his father. Did the clan worry he would be just another drunkard? Or would he be weak because he’d been raised by one for the formative years of his life?
And then Dermot rose to his feet on the dais, and lifted a goblet of wine toward his cousin. “The McCallum!”
A sudden roar of welcome made her start. Only when she felt the release of tension in McCallum’s arm did she realize how tense he’d truly been. He did not grin, for he wasn’t a man given to easy amusement, as she already knew. But his expression was proud and gratified, even as he led her to the dais and up the short staircase. She stood to his right and stared out at the curious crowd.
McCallum raised both hands and began to speak, and she realized she could understand none of it. Whatever he said to his people, they nodded or smiled or looked solemn. Many snuck glances at her, and she knew it must be easy to tell that she didn’t understand a word. Some would look down on her now as a Duff who wanted so little to do with their homeland that she hadn’t learned the language. Her father and uncle never spoke it in front of her, and her mother was English. It had never even been a consideration as she learned French and Latin. Now she felt guilty, as if she should have known, at eight years of age, to find a Scottish tutor.
And then she heard her name in the midst of the Gaelic words, and Hugh lifted her hand up as if presenting her. No one booed her as a Duff, but the applause was only scattered and dutiful. She looked speculatively at Dermot, but when her gaze met his, he glanced pointedly away. Hugh released her hand and went on speaking.
“Good evening, my lady,” whispered a man to her right.
She turned quickly, only to find herself relaxing with relief. “Oh, Samuel, you startled me.”
He bowed his head, even as she considered her reaction. He’d been complicit with his chief in capturing her, yet she almost felt him some kind of ally, which was ridiculous. He would never be the man she might beg to help her. She’d already tried that. He’d seen her terrified and afraid, and he’d done nothing to help her escape, simply hid her rebellion from McCallum after the highwaymen attacked. But at the moment, he was a sympathetic face, the only man who spoke to her in English.
Samuel held up a hand, as if he understood her confusion, and they both waited while McCallum finished speaking. When at last he sat down, voices rose again, the musicians started playing, and serving men and women appeared from a far corridor carrying wooden platters above their heads. A burly man came to stand behind Hugh, bristling with weapons, and giving everyone a menacing stare of warning that their chief would be well protected.
“Ye look well, Lady Catriona,” Samuel said.
“Thank you. It is good to feel clean again.”
He grinned. “Aye, I understand the feeling well.”
“What did your chief just say?”
“The right thing, I believe,” Samuel responded, looking out over the relaxed crowd. “How glad he was to have returned, and how he looked forward to proving himself as their chief.”
“Proving himself?”
“Aye, he hasn’t been inaugurated yet,” Samuel said, wearing a small grin. “Not that I’m worried about such formalities.”
She glanced at McCallum with interest, but he wasn’t looking at her.
The platters were brought to the dais first, and McCallum and Riona were presented with the choicest lamb, chicken, and trout. She was surprised by her wooden trencher, but it was finely crafted and rimmed with silver. Using a drinking bowl that Samuel called a cuach with handles covered in silver, McCallum drank a large mouthful, gave an appreciative nod, and passed it along to Dermot.
“’Tis our famous whisky,” Samuel told her, “the makings of which your family coveted for generations.”
“Which led to the infamous betrothal,” she said, keeping her expression neutral. “Are these people angry that your precious land has been shared with the Duffs these last twenty years?”
“Impatient, perhaps, for the day their generosity would pay off with the generosity of the earl and the tocher offered on your behalf.”
There was nothing she wanted to say to that. That contract was the reason she’d been stolen away and most likely ruined in the eyes of Society. Hugh had probably ensured that his people would never have the tocher they expected.
She glowered at her food, but forced herself to eat. Someone began to speak as if to entertain, and she recognized the lilting tone of a poet or bard, which Samuel confirmed for her.
“He speaks of the ancient deeds of our people,” McCallum added from her left.
She turned to face her captor. “Perhaps much of it in battle against my people?”
His faint smile contained real amusement and his silver gray eyes glittered. “Some, yes, but there’s always a Campbell to be angry with in every generation.”
He and Samuel looked at each other with understanding, and she barely resisted rolling her eyes. Men and their feuds and their battles. If women ruled the world, things would be different. Of course, Queen Anne had ruled Great Britain until just over ten years ago, and nothing much had changed. In fact, most in Scotland would deem her rule, during which Scotland had become united with England, as a detriment to them all.
To change the subject, she asked Samuel, “Do all of these people live within the castle?”
“Some of these men are chieftains with their own lands who owe fealty to the McCallum. They traveled to Larig upon hearing that Hugh was approaching.”
She hadn’t even known McCallum had sent word ahead, but of course, he’d often been apart from her in Stirling.
“Many of the young men live here,” Samuel continued. “They’re the chief’s gentlemen, chosen from the finest youth from our best families. They’re well trained in battle, but they’re also tacksmen, who act as the administrators for all the land and people.”
Riona eyed McCallum, who was listening to Samuel talk. She asked, “So Dermot chose all these men?”
“As did my father, of course,” McCallum answered. “I am confident they chose well. I look forward to becoming reacquainted with them all again.”
It sounded to her like divided loyalties were a problem waiting to happen, but that could only help her cause. If McCallum was distracted, he wouldn’t notice her focus on Dermot. Hugh took another deep sip of the whisky being passed in the cuach. He’d mentioned his father’s reliance on strong drink, and wondered if that made him careful about it for himself.
When the meal was over, McCallum came out from behind the dais and talked to many people. She simply watched him, glad he didn’t ask her to join him since she wouldn’t have a clue what they were discussing. No one came to talk to her except Samuel, and when he was drawn away, she stood alone beside her chair, feeling lost and alienated.
And then she saw Dermot momentarily alone as he turned to take another swig of the whisky being passed. Inhaling a fortifying breath, she approached him, wearing a forced smile.
If Dermot was surprised, he didn’t show it.
“Lady Catriona, glad I am to finally meet ye,” he said, bowing over her hand.
“Glad or relieved, sir?” she asked.
He smiled, and it was an easier thing on him than it was upon his cousin, although there was a resemblance in the strong bones of the forehead. “A chief is only happiest when he has a good wife at his side, my lady. With you, Hugh has found luck and favor.”
Riona tilted her head. “High praise, sir, but you have yet to truly know me.”
“We can all learn about each other.”
“Then tell me of yourself. As the McCallum’s cousin, were you raised within the castle?”
“Nay, I am the son of a chieftain from lands to the east of Loch Voil.”
“How does one become the tanist?”
“I was selected at the great gathering that followed the old McCallum’s death, just as Hugh was. Hugh could have attended, of course, but he felt it important to bring home his bride.”
The disapproval was obvious in his voice, and she was surprised he didn’t hide it from her. It gave her hope that focusing on getting to know him was the right course.
“Laird McCallum was selected as the tanist for his father?” she asked.
“When he reached adulthood, aye, the summer after Sheriffmuir. He was well admired for his bravery during the Rising.”
There was an edge to his voice that intrigued her. “Were you there, too?”
“I brought him home after fighting at his side,” Dermot said, his gaze now on McCallum as he talked with several young men. “I can attest to the bravery of all the men of our clan.”
“Yourself included,” she murmured.
His gaze sharpened on her, even as he gave a small smile. “Surely I cannot be expected to speak of that, my lady.”
She chuckled, and it felt rusty, for she hadn’t had a reason to laugh in a long time. But she was playing a part now, and it made it easier to hold back her fear.
“Do you have a wife to perform brave deeds for, Dermot?”
He shook his head, then spoke dryly. “Not yet. I’ve been busy these last months with the McCallum lands, including helping my father. There doesn’t seem to be enough time to court a young woman.”
If Riona decided to come to him for help, at least he wouldn’t have a woman distracting him.
“Did you know Laird McCallum growing up?”
“Of course, Lady Riona. We often ran the hills together.”
“I understand he was something of a scamp.”
Dermot’s dark eyebrows rose. “A scamp? Are not all little lads?”
“So he was like other boys?”
His expression clouded with the memories, and they didn’t all seem to be good ones.
“As many lads are wont to do,” he said, “Hugh played the occasional prank on the farmers, leading astray cattle so that it looked like we’d been raided. No true harm was done.”
But she sensed the disapproval that even youthful Dermot had felt. She got the impression that he and McCallum had never gotten along well, and that could prove to her advantage. He might be eager to help her convince McCallum that he’d made a mistake kidnapping her.
“Often he’d disappear into the hills for a day or two, upsetting his mother, but not his—” Dermot broke off.
“But not his father?” she finished for him.
McCallum was suddenly beside them, a frown darkening his brow. “My father little cared what I did, Lady Catriona. Did Dermot mention that?” He eyed his cousin coldly.
“I was simply asking what you were like as a boy,” Riona said, knowing she’d made a mistake being so curious where he could overhear.
Dermot crossed his arms over his chest and said nothing. The brooch pinning his plaid matched McCallum’s, and she couldn’t help wondering if clan loyalty was all they’d ever had in common. For although they seemed like two serious men now, she sensed their youths had been vastly different.
“If we’re exposing past sins,” McCallum continued, his voice practical but cool, “did ye tell Lady Catriona about our encounter with the redcoats?”
Dermot’s eyes were now like ice as he stared at his cousin. “I did not.”
McCallum’s expression was pleasant, as if he were about to relate an amusing story, but there was nothing amusing about the tension that crackled between the two men.
“We were bold that day, the three of us, weren’t we, Dermot?”
When Dermot said nothing, Riona asked, “Who was the third?”
“My foster brother, Alasdair,” McCallum said. “For a year or so we were raised in each other’s houses, a tradition among our people. But when we were all twelve or thirteen, we spied a party of redcoats across the hills, and for a lark, we followed them.” He glanced at his cousin. “Dermot was against it, of course, because being elder by a year, he’d decided it was his duty to look out for us.”
“Someone had to,” Dermot said impassively.
And now Dermot had been looking after the clan for McCallum, Riona thought, echoing a time in their lives when the boys had obviously been at odds.
“What happened next?” she asked, more intrigued than she wanted to admit.
“We followed them for a day,” McCallum continued, “and when they made camp, we lured away their guard, slipped in, and stole their muskets.”
Riona gasped. “You weren’t caught?”
She glanced at Dermot, who spoke without emotion. “Nay, they were not. I remained as lookout, and did not go into the camp myself.”
“Which helped him in the end. Being the son of the chief helped me,” McCallum added, bitterness beginning to thread through his voice.
“I don’t understand,” she admitted.
“When my father found out what we’d done—”
Dermot interrupted, “Ye couldn’t help bragging to the other boys.”
“Aye, I didn’t always think things through in those days. Word got back to my father. Many ghillies—”
“Ghillies?” she interrupted.
“Regular clansmen,” McCallum clarified for her. “Well, they boasted to each other how mere boys had outwitted British soldiers, and of course, someone finally congratulated Himself on our daring. My father claimed—rightly so—that we could have led the redcoats right back to Larig Castle and caused major problems between the clan and Fort William to the north. He ordered a whipping to teach us a lesson.”
She winced. “A harsh punishment.”
“Not for Dermot or me. Dermot hadn’t stolen the rifles and was excused. And I was the McCallum’s heir.”
She blinked in confusion. “Then who suffered—your friend Alasdair?”
“He had to take the whipping for all of us,” McCallum said.
Though he kept his voice neutral, as if it was long in the past, she recognized that it must have been terrible to have his foster brother punished in his place.
McCallum shook his head. “Though but thirteen, he was incredibly brave. Any blame he could have attached to me for my father’s cruelty, he put aside.”
“Which meant they continued to court trouble,” Dermot said dryly.
Something passed between them, an escalation of tension, as if both were remembering other deeds from the past.
“More stories you’d like to share?” Riona asked.
“Nay, I think I’ve lowered your opinion of me enough for tonight, Lady Catriona,” McCallum said.
“So ye haven’t told her about Agnes?” Dermot asked silkily.
McCallum’s eyes narrowed, and the gray roiled like storm clouds. “’Tis unworthy of ye, cousin. The poor lass is long dead.”
He took Riona’s arm, his grip harder than he perhaps realized.
“Come, Lady Catriona, allow me to introduce ye to some of the wives of my chieftains.”
Riona couldn’t help glancing at Dermot as they left, but his expression revealed nothing.