Riona was allowed to retreat to her room within the hour, claiming exhaustion. McCallum had shadows of his own beneath his eyes, but she knew he would stay with his clan as long as he felt necessary.
The little maid, Mary, was asleep in a chair by the fire, but she jumped to her feet when Riona entered, as if she thought herself derelict in her duties.
Riona smiled at her. “I did not mean to disturb you. I should have been more careful shutting the door.”
“Nay, my lady, I should never have fallen asleep.”
“Of course you could. It was a long evening. Think nothing of it.”
Color flooded back into her thin face, and although she didn’t smile, the worst of the tension seemed to leave her shoulders. “Thank ye, my lady. I’ve put your nightshift near the hearth to warm. Though ’tis summer, this old castle feels like winter year round.”
It was the most she’d yet spoken, and the tips of her ears went pink as if she thought she was babbling. Riona allowed the girl to help her out of her garments, and heaved a weary sigh when the stays were loosened and she could take a deep breath again. Mrs. Wallace had seemed to believe that if the garment was painful, it was doing its job.
The nightshift truly was warm. After Riona had wrapped herself in a dressing gown over it, she sent Mary to find her own bed, so that Riona could wait in peace. She knew that McCallum was coming. He’d put her in his own rooms for a reason, and now that she’d heard of this trial marriage arrangement, she wouldn’t put it past him. Her nerves began a little dance of worry that made her pace.
She tried to think of anything but what might happen tonight. She thought of serious McCallum as a carefree boy who ignored the rules—well, the “rules” part was still true. He’d had no problem kidnapping her and dragging her home. But the conversation between Dermot and him had truly been enlightening. Who could Agnes be, that Dermot would sound almost triumphant bringing her up, and McCallum would look as if it were a sin to mention a woman long dead?
Though Riona regretted using such a memory to drive a wedge between the two men, she’d do what she had to do to escape marriage to a stranger.
But there’d be no escape from McCallum tonight if he chose to confront her. Would she scream until help came? Hardly—what good would that do? She was at his mercy, because they all thought she was his betrothed, and of course, hadn’t she seemed all too willing today?
So . . . would she try to talk McCallum out of seducing her? The way he’d studied her when he’d first seen her in the gown made her wonder if he wouldn’t care about her protests. But she held tight to the memory of his promise not to force her to bed.
She didn’t know what she was going to do if he changed his mind, so she simply paced back and forth for what seemed like hours. He never came. At last, she made herself crawl into the box-bed and pull the curtains tight—as if they were any defense against the chief. She kept her dressing gown over her nightshift, holding it closed at her throat, listening to the wind outside the castle walls. But she heard no footsteps. At last, she sank into a troubled sleep.
WHEN a servant brought a breakfast tray at dawn, Hugh thanked him, then took it to Riona’s room, closing the door quietly behind him. He left the tray on a table and approached the box-bed. The curtains were drawn, but moved soundlessly when he slid them aside.
Riona, still wearing the dressing gown over her nightshift, lay on her side, her hands tucked beneath her chin. Her lashes feathered across her cheeks, and the golden strands of her braided hair almost glittered as the light from the window touched her.
He wanted to waken her with a kiss, but knew she might panic and give him a good bite. That would hardly start their day well. Instead, he leaned against the bed frame and remembered how she’d looked last night, her blond hair gleaming against the ruby red of her gown. He’d been proud to display her before the clan, and though she’d understood nothing of the language, she hadn’t worn a bored expression. Bewildered, maybe, and he knew there would be some who’d look down upon her for her ignorance of Gaelic.
And then Dermot had decided to relive the past. Hugh grimaced. It wasn’t as if Riona would never learn of his foolishness, and he certainly could have told her himself during their journey. But keeping a woman imprisoned, then talking idly about childhood memories, had just seemed wrong.
There was more he could tell her, but it could wait. Besides, only Dermot would be fool enough to bring up Agnes to his chief.
So . . . should he awaken Riona? He was debating the thought when she stretched like a cat and rolled slowly onto her back, arms above her head, torso arched. He got another brief view of her unbound breasts beneath the garment as the bedclothes slid down, but then she opened her eyes and gasped at the sight of him.
He gestured toward the table. “Good morning. Breakfast is served.”
She caught the counterpane to her chin again, and he found himself repressing a smile at her version of battle armor. He knew she wouldn’t appreciate the humor. So he went and sat down, glad for the hot oatmeal porridge, warm bannocks, boiled eggs, and fried herring after days traveling.
“Will ye join me, lass?” he asked.
She pushed back the bedclothes and slid her dainty feet into mules before approaching almost cautiously to sit down opposite him.
He began to eat hungrily, while she just watched him. Finally, he asked, “What ails ye, Riona?”
“I thought . . . I was worried . . .” She took a deep breath and met his eyes solemnly. “I thought you would come to me last night and demand . . . a handfasting.”
Surprised, he set down his knife. “I promised that I have yet to force myself on an unwilling woman, and I make no exception for my betrothed.”
She let out a long breath and sagged back in the chair.
“I’ll try not to take offense,” he said dryly.
“I care not if you take offense,” she retorted. “I am your prisoner and I never know what you might have planned for me.”
“So ye remember what handfasting is, do ye?”
She said nothing, just picked at the cuff of her dressing gown.
“My people will believe what they want, of course,” he continued.
“Well, I don’t want them believing that!”
He broke off a piece of bannock and put it on her plate. “Eat something. Ye look as blanched as a clean sheep.”
She coated the bread in butter and took a bite, then shuddered at the proffered ale. “I usually have chocolate to drink at breakfast.”
“No chocolate here. But we can find ye some tea. And of course, there’s buttermilk.” He took a deep draught of his and smacked his lips.
They ate in silence for a few minutes until she raised her gaze to study him.
“So what do you have planned for me?” she asked. “What am I supposed to do with myself all day?”
“First, I’ll be having your word that ye won’t try to escape.”
She stiffened. “I cannot give you that. I’m a prisoner! You would try to escape being held against your will.”
“I’ve already told ye,” he said with a long-suffering sigh, “that I long ago accepted my duty to my clan. Ye’ll come to accept your duty, too. Until then, if ye cannot promise me to stay put, then ye’re confined to the castle with a bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard?” she repeated blankly.
“I’ll not make it so obvious, for I don’t want to embarrass ye.”
“You mean you don’t want to embarrass yourself by showing the clan that your bride is unwilling.”
“Again, ye forget that everyone kens ye’re a Duff. They might assume ye to be not so willing. Ye’ll have free run of the castle grounds, but beyond that, ye cannot be going. Not without me.”
As usual, her very expressive face revealed her emotions: dismay, frustration, stubbornness. When at last she seemed calm, he thought that now it would be time to worry.
She swallowed a bit of egg and eyed him with curiosity. “My conversation with Dermot was interesting.”
He eyed her right back, boldly. “Dermot’s memories aren’t always to be trusted.”
“So you’re saying his mental acuity can’t be trusted? Amazing that your clan elected him your tanist.”
“Oh, he’s a canny man, as ye can well see.”
“But you don’t trust him.”
She was too eager for all his secrets. “He’s my cousin. A bond like that goes deeper than trust. He’ll do what’s right for the clan.”
“Ah, but will that be what you think is right for the clan?”
He leaned toward her. “What I think is right is all that matters, lass.”
She scowled at him and he resisted a chuckle. It wouldn’t do for her to know how amusing he found her. She might think she was more special to him than just part of an arranged marriage.
“Who was Agnes?” she asked.
To his surprise, he had to swallow heavily at the onslaught of memories, but he met her gaze. “A village maid who died long ago.”
“So I understood from you last night. But who was she?”
“She’s in the past, and cannot be hurt anymore, can she.”
Riona blinked at him, then opened her mouth as if to say more, but he interrupted first.
“I’ll be out and about all day, and will plan to see ye at supper tonight.”
“Perhaps I don’t wish that,” she said stubbornly.
“How else will ye get to know your bridegroom? We’ll not have a good marriage otherwise. And I’m determined that we’ll have a good marriage.”
He left her stuttering and fuming. He needed a solid marriage and heirs, so he would have to come up with a better plan to woo her.
RIONA was still fuming after she dressed and sent Mary to find Mrs. Wallace. But there was nothing she could do about McCallum or his infuriating arrogance. All she could do was focus on her own plan to avoid this marriage. She might not be able to leave the castle, but it was important for her to know every inch of it, just in case.
Mrs. Wallace was thrilled and proud to show her Larig Castle. Everywhere they went, people broke off their Gaelic conversations and either bowed or curtsied to her. She wasn’t used to being so noticed, so catered to. She could see the curiosity, and even the occasional skepticism—because she was a Duff, no doubt.
But as for the castle itself, away from the main public rooms, there was more of an air of neglect, sparse furnishings, shutters instead of glass casement windows that could swing open for fresh air. The landscapes that graced the chief’s rooms were absent on plain stone walls. Even the wainscoting in other rooms held only the occasional dour portrait.
“Not much of a living to be made as a painter in Scotland,” Mrs. Wallace said lightly.
When they came to a withdrawing room meant for the chief’s family, Riona was surprised to find a spinet beneath the windows.
Mrs. Wallace chuckled at her look of surprise. “The chief’s mother had it brought here. She needed something to do when Himself . . . well, I’ll not be spreadin’ stories.”
“The McCallum has told me his father wasn’t a good-tempered man.”
“Nay, he was not, and poor wee Hugh and Maggie suffered for it.”
“When did their mother die?”
Mrs. Wallace’s eyes widened. “She’s not dead, lass, but living in Edinburgh near her family. Did Himself not tell ye this?”
Riona flushed. “We’ve only . . . just met. We haven’t had time to discuss much of anything, really.”
“Ah, no wonder he plans to have supper at yer side every night. Ye have a lifetime of learnin’ ahead of ye.”
Not a lifetime—not if she could help it. “Do you have a library?” Riona asked to change the subject.
Mrs. Wallace’s look was uncomprehending. “Any books are in the McCallum’s solar. Who else would need to read them?”
“Other members of the household?” Riona ventured. “Ladies?”
“Sadly, ye’ll not find many women here with much use for reading, except on the Sabbath.”
“Oh.” She was used to reading as much as she wished, and discussing the latest books with her partners at dinners. Did the McCallums care nothing for education?
They left the main towerhouse and explored the other buildings constructed into the curtain wall, many for the servants, like the brew house, the dairy, or the woman house, where village women spun and wove cloth. The kitchens were on the ground floor beneath the great hall, and next to them was a half-walled vegetable garden, and more gardens beyond the curtain walls themselves, Mrs. Wallace told her. Always they were watched by men patrolling the battlements along the curtain wall, as if they thought the British intended to attack at any moment.
Or the Duffs, she reminded herself. Or the Campbells, or any of the clans, for they were a warfaring people, or so her father always told her with disdain. And there had just been a series of battles with the English a little over ten years before. Of course all of the McCallums would be prepared.
They stood in the arched entrance to the lower courtyard, out of the way of the men who came and went. Except for the stone barracks, wooden buildings surrounded this courtyard, where the clansmen trained for war. There were large muck piles from dealing with animals, many of whom roamed freely in both courtyards, chickens, dogs, and even pigs. There were stables and shops for craftsmen, like the smithy and the carpenter.
She studied the clansmen as they battled each other with swords, holding shields called targes to deflect blows from their opponent.
To her surprise, she saw McCallum in their midst, fighting against an opponent. And if this was simply training, their battle looked far too real, provoking an occasional wince out of her. A rare summer sun beat down on the training yard, and most of the men had shed their coats, and some even their shirts—like the McCallum. His plaid was still buckled around his waist, but the loose ends hung over the belt without being attached to his garments by brooch. Many of the men had gathered around to watch, and she couldn’t blame them. He’d been elected their chief because he was the heir and a hero at Sheriffmuir, but they hadn’t seen him for ten years.
His body gleamed with sweat, and she was able to see a scar or two slicing across firm muscle. His abdomen had actual ridges. Staring at him made her feel hot and uncomfortable, so very aware of him as a man, and not just as her captor. The memory of his kiss suddenly seared her, and she felt the heat of a blush. She didn’t want to be drawn to him, had been fighting this betrayal of her body all along, but her resistance didn’t seem to matter.
“Ye’ll be noticin’ the scars,” Mrs. Wallace said, not bothering to hide her amusement.
“Oh . . . of course. Sheriffmuir?”
“Och, and as a lad. Broke a bone at least every other year, it seemed. I’m still amazed he turned out whole.” She sighed with contentment. “He is a fine lad, and the worryin’ of some was for naught.”
“He hasn’t been here these last ten years, I know. What was he doing?”
“Another thing ye can ask him when ye don’t ken what to say at supper.”
How was she to discover anything if people didn’t want to talk? “Who is that he’s training with?”
“Ah, that’s Alasdair Lennox.”
“I’ve heard that name,” she said, relieved to concentrate on something other than McCallum’s superior physical condition. “He and the McCallum were friends as boys.”
Mrs. Wallace nodded, eyes narrowed as she studied the two who’d grown into men. “Aye, foster brothers who took turns bein’ raised in each other’s households. Friends sometimes, opponents others, and I can see that might not have changed.”
“It’s been a long time since Alasdair took the whipping that McCallum deserved.”
The housekeeper’s gaze flashed to her in surprise. “Ye be knowin’ about that already?”
“Dermot and Himself told me.”
“I wouldn’t have wanted to be a part of that conversation.”
“It was certainly uncomfortable,” Riona admitted.
Mrs. Wallace eyed her, then looked past her at McCallum and shook her head. “I’ll be leavin’ ye then to learn yer way about. Dinner will be at one by the mantel clock in the great hall. Until then!”
And the cheerful woman bustled away, leaving Riona alone. Truly alone, for as she stood in the archway, more than once she saw people who hadn’t been in the great hall, and didn’t know who she was, give her strange looks. She received the occasional nod or curtsy, but everyone seemed too intimidated to talk to her. She was used to feeling inconspicuous, and had often wished someone, anyone would notice her as she cared for the ill Bronwyn.
Now she had all the notice—the notoriety—as the McCallum’s Duff bride brought to end the feud.
She stood for a while longer, watching the training, especially watching McCallum. She’d felt his strength when he’d tossed her over his shoulder and carried her off her balcony; she’d felt the smooth, warm firmness of his muscles when she’d pressed against him in her sleep. But seeing him half naked in front of so many people—it seemed sinful.
She leaned against the ancient stone, pretending she was out of the way, and tried to understand him. He spoke to his men with conviction, as if he’d been born to rule. He was forceful and aggressive in his mannerisms, then demonstrating a technique with patience, even when one of the men was slow to learn.
What did his people see when they looked at him? Where had he been for ten years, hiding away from his father?
Then the man who’d first been his opponent clapped McCallum on the shoulder and suddenly pointed at her. She stiffened when McCallum looked up at her, and though they were separated by half a courtyard, she felt the pull of him, the awareness of what he wanted of her, of how he wanted her to submit. It was as if he kissed her even now, and everyone could see.
The men shared a laugh, and though McCallum raised a hand to her, he did not leave his training. She turned away and had to force herself not to run back to the safety of her bedroom—but really, it was his, wasn’t it? Everything she had, everything she did, was only because of him. She was as under his control as she’d been under parents’ control, like trading one prison for another. But then, she hadn’t exactly known it was a prison—she’d simply been a daughter without the means to set up her own household unless at her father’s whim.
Now? Now McCallum wanted to make her his wife, to give her her own household—her own castle! But it was all against her will, against the very contract he thought he was upholding. It was a terrible mess. When these people who now looked at her with confusion or skepticism discovered the truth, and perhaps lost the precious land they counted on for the whisky they sold—their expression would turn to betrayal and disgust.
She shuddered and hurried back toward the laird’s towerhouse.