The Wrong Bride

  Dedication

  I’d like to dedicate this book to the pets who enrich our lives and bring such joy. To my sweet dog, Apollo, for giving me your beseeching, soulful look whenever I think I’m too tired to walk, for pressing all seventy-five pounds of you against my side on cold winter evenings, and for great hikes in the woods where you run with blissful abandon. Watching you sleep with your paws straight up in the air always makes me laugh.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Letter to the Reader

  About the Author

  Praise

  By Gayle Callen

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  Great Britain, 1727

  Riona Duff was startled out of a deep sleep, groggy and uneasy. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. A single candle burned in its holder on the bed table, so she could see the wavering glow of light illuminate the canopied bed and part of the door.

  This wasn’t her room. Where was she?

  And then she remembered—she wasn’t in London anymore, the city where she’d spent the majority of her life. She’d gone north to York with her uncle’s family while her own parents and sister traveled to the south of France to improve her sister’s fragile health.

  Something creaked, and she froze, for it sounded like a door. The one beside her was firmly closed, so that meant—

  A large, male hand suddenly covered her mouth.

  Riona’s eyes went wide and she screamed, but the sound was muffled. She smelled horses and sweat and her own fear. Though she tried to buck and slide away, she was hampered by the bedclothes, and then the man’s other arm across her body, pinning her down. Her heart seemed to be dancing in her chest, racing with terror and making her light-headed.

  “I’ll not harm ye,” he said softly, gruffly.

  He spoke with the Scottish accent that still lingered in her father’s speech even after so many years in England.

  “Just do as I say,” he continued, “and I’ll free your mouth if ye promise not to scream.”

  Her eyes darted frantically about, and though she could see the outline of his shaggy head, the candle was behind him and his face was a mass of shadows. He loomed over her like a mountain, a stranger who’d dared breach her bedroom from the balcony. He could want—anything.

  He gave her a little shake that made her squeak with fright.

  “Do I have your word, lass?”

  Having no choice, she nodded. The hand slid away, but the arm across her body did not, a heavy, threatening weight that made her feel fragile.

  “What do you want?” she choked out, her voice trembling. “I’ve nothing of value. They’ll catch you if—”

  “Silence.” Though soft, his voice was deep and full of a threatening growl. “Ye’re coming with me.”

  He took her by the arm and pulled her upright, her arm like a twig in his massive fist.

  “But—where are you taking me?” she demanded, aghast.

  Drawing her closer, he gave her another shake. “I’ll answer all your questions later. But not another word from ye until we’re away.”

  He raised her to her feet, hands on both her arms, like she was a stuffed doll. And that made her realize how truly large he was, towering well above her, the width of his body an impenetrable blackness. She was trembling so badly she swayed. Her only hope now was that someone came to rescue her, but her attacker had made little sound, and she knew no one would be checking on her. She was only a niece, tolerated out of family duty and little else. Her cousin Cat would have cared, but she was away in the countryside with friends.

  “I’ve brought ye clothes,” he said, shoving a bundle against her stomach. “Put them on.”

  Her mouth sagged in horror, and then she closed it with a snap and tried to make herself sound braver than she felt. “I will not disrobe in front of you.”

  “Och, I’m not asking ye to. Keep your nightshift on then, and wear the gown over it. I even brought ye a petticoat, since I ken ladies need them.”

  “My own garments—”

  “—are too fine and will draw attention to us. Hurry, unless ye want my help.”

  She held her breath for a suspended moment, then let it out when he dropped his hands from her. Snatching the bundle from him, she turned away, dropping it on the bed. There were no stays, which would make her a very loose woman, but she could not bring herself to ask about their absence. She stepped into the rough linen petticoat and tied it above her hips. There were no hoops stitched in place, as she had inside her own petticoats. Her face felt hot at knowing this man, this stranger, stood behind her and watched such an intimate act. Her maid would have gently lowered the garments over her head. She wasn’t used to dressing alone.

  She had to hurry, or he might go through with his threat to help her.

  She could feel that the gown was made of plain wool with a square décolletage. No open front or stomacher to pin into place. His choice was practical. As she settled the gown over her petticoat, she was surprised to feel his hands tugging at the lacing at her back. Gritting her chattering teeth, she felt forced to allow this intimacy.

  When he was done, he put both hands on her shoulders and pushed her toward the French doors leading to the balcony. She took two steps, and suddenly images flashed in front of her eyes, of being kidnapped, assaulted, her body degraded—her body never found. Ransom might be asked from her uncle, who didn’t care about her, and her parents, too far away to respond. Did the man even have a weapon? She hadn’t seen one, and that knowledge made her suddenly bold.

  Riona flung herself sideways, startling him enough that he let go. She stepped on the edge of her skirt trying to straighten up and run for the door, only to have the man grab her around the waist and lift her off the ground, her back to his chest. She kicked backward with her legs, even as his other hand covered her mouth again.

  “That’s enough,” he said sternly into her ear.

  He carried her to the glass door. All she could do was swing her legs at him, but his legs felt as unaffected as the trunk of a tree kicked by a bird. She reached behind to grab at his hair with her free hand. Though he swore, he didn’t stop his inexorable stride out into the cool summer air on the balcony. She was used to the sounds of London, carriages at all hours of the night, the calls of street vendors and their customers even before dawn. But away from the town center, York was as silent as the moors, as if they were the only people left in the world. She felt an ache of desperate loneliness.

  When her captor went right to the edge and leaned over it, she gasped as the half moon illuminated a steep drop into the shadows of the garden. Her head reeled with dizziness. He couldn’t possibly have forced her to dress only to push her to her death.

  And then she saw the flash of a lantern signaling them from below before being quickly shuttered, followed by the dark, boxy outline of a coach. Two black horses pulled it forward into the moonlight, away from the building, and then the well-trained animals went utterly still.

  “I’m going to lower ye to the coachman,” the man said in her ear. “If ye fight, ye might fall, and we don’t want that. Do ye underst
and?”

  She nodded, but when he removed his hand from her mouth, she spoke hoarsely, quickly. “Why are you doing this? I’m not worth anything to you. A ransom—”

  “I want no ransom. Quiet.”

  The first tears spilled down her cheeks as he pulled up a rope affixed to the stone balustrade. Had he climbed up that way? She couldn’t possibly do the same!

  “There’s a loop at the bottom. Ye’ll stand in it and I’ll lower ye. Now up on the balustrade.”

  She gasped when he put both large hands about her waist, then lifted her until she was forced to stand on the narrow stone or risk tumbling and breaking her neck. With a groan, she closed her eyes, swayed, and was actually grateful the man kept a firm hold of her hips.

  “None of that,” he ordered sternly. Then he sighed. “This won’t work, I see that now.”

  “Then let me go and I won’t tell anyone what happened here!”

  She opened her eyes, then reeled as the shadowy walled garden seemed to expand into darkness, and the wind picked up. She felt dazed with shock and disbelief.

  “I’m not letting ye go. Ye’re my future, lass.”

  His future? But she didn’t have time to even guess what he meant when he suddenly vaulted onto the balustrade beside her, his movements catlike for a big man.

  “I’ll just have to carry ye then. Now don’t move, or ye’ll kill us both.”

  Horrified, she began, “Carry me—”

  Then he tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and she landed with an “oomph” that surely bruised her stomach. She was hanging upside-down, the world spinning around her, the rough wool of his coat against her mouth, his arm across the back of her thighs as he bent to grip the rope.

  “Hold on, lass, or it’ll end badly for ye.”

  For the first time, he sounded truly menacing, as if he didn’t want her antics to send him hurtling down with her to an ugly death. She could feel the muscles of his chest and back tense with strain as he began to lower himself down the side of the balcony, using his feet to brace himself, and then only his arms as the rope swayed in mid-air.

  She closed her eyes and clutched his coat with both hands, too terrified to do anything other than pray. And then it was over, and she thanked God for solid ground. Not that she felt it with her own feet, because she was suddenly tossed into the interior of the coach, where she landed hard on a leather-covered bench. As she scrambled to sit upright, her captor looked through the doorway, his shoulders blocking the meager moonlight.

  “Be a good lass and keep quiet if ye don’t want company tonight,” he warned in a hard voice.

  Then he slammed the door shut. There was no lantern lit, and both windows had a curtain drawn down over them. She was in absolute blackness. Hands fumbling, she found the door handle, but somehow it was jammed from the outside. She shook it in frustration, then sank back and just hugged herself. The coach lurched into motion, the wheels clattering repetitively on the cobblestone street outside her uncle’s town house.

  She was too numb and disbelieving for tears now. She was the prisoner of two men, and didn’t have any idea what they might do to her. Unless someone had seen what had happened—and there was no sound of pursuit—she was alone against these strangers. She could sit here and wallow in fear—or she could find a way to free herself.

  The first thing she did was try the door again, but even the leather curtain had somehow been fastened shut. She explored by touch, finding blankets, cushions, and candles in the storage compartments beneath the benches, even a selection of garments, but no weapons or tinderbox. They must not want her setting the coach afire, she thought grimly.

  She found a corked bottle of cider, some cheese, and something like bread that she nibbled on. Did it have the taste of . . . oats? She suddenly remembered her father talking about the food that had comprised much of a clansman’s diet: oatcakes.

  Why had a Scotsman kidnapped her? She wanted to fling the food aside in her anger, but knew she needed nourishment to stay strong, because there were two of them, and only one of her. Her eyes stung again with alternating fury and helplessness. Just for good measure, she slammed herself against the door, as she’d seen a servant do when a door was stuck, but all she got for that was a sore shoulder. And she could have gone headfirst out into the road . . .

  For a while, she kept herself fully alert, ready to leap outside the moment the door opened. She stamped her feet, rubbed her arms, shook her head when her eyelids felt heavy. But the coach journeyed on and on, the roads getting bumpier. At last, her head drooped and bounced with the motion, and her eyes closed in a fitful doze.

  She came awake with a start when the coach lurched to a stop, then perched near the door, ready to jump out and run. The faint light of dawn was a gray line around the leather window curtain. The fertile Yorkshire valley would be full of farms; surely she could reach one. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to concentrate on the present and not the terrifying fear that made her heart pound and her breath come fast.

  The door opened; she launched herself out, then rammed hard into a broad male chest. He caught her arms before she could tumble to the ground.

  “Whoa!” said her captor, sounding more tolerant than angry. “Ye’re a she-devil. I like that in my women.”

  “I am not your woman!” she cried, struggling to free herself. “Help!” she screamed.

  Her voice practically disappeared into the vast countryside. The sun had just crept over the horizon, illuminating broad swaths of rolling hills enclosed with half walls of stone in a checked pattern as far as the eye could see. The occasional stone barn stood solitarily in the middle of a green field, but the only living creatures in sight were sheep and cattle enclosed within their broad pastures. Green grains swayed in the early morning breeze, ripening their way toward the autumn harvest.

  She sagged with dismay in her captor’s hold and he gave her another little shake, the kind she was already growing tired of. She struggled, but he didn’t release her, and she felt each of his fingers against her flesh.

  “I’ll let ye go if ye promise to stand still. If I have to chase ye before breakfast . . .” He let the words trail off.

  Mutely, she raised her gaze to his—and stared at her first view of the man who held her prisoner. His hair was black as the inside of the coach, thick with waves that would have reached his shoulders, if he hadn’t pulled it back in a queue. His face was arresting, not pretty in the manner of some of the men in London with their face powder and beauty patches, but rugged and masculine, with heavy brows above gray eyes that in a trick of the light seemed to shine silver. His cheekbones could have been carved like stone on a windswept moor; his mouth was a thin line that looked incapable of smiling.

  Blinking, she stiffened and asked herself why she would ever care if he smiled. She focused on the scar cut into his chin like a cleft, proof that he was a scoundrel. For more proof, she stared at the pistol in the waistband of his breeches, and the sword belt slung over one shoulder and across his chest.

  He was studying her just as intently.

  From behind, another man spoke, his tone polite. “Ye want her to stand still? Ye keep asking the lass to promise things she doesn’t want to give.”

  Riona took a step back, though it brought her up against the coach, the better to keep both men in sight. The second man, the coachman, regarded her with interested brown eyes in a plain face. The hair beneath his cap made him unique, bright red curls that looked barely tamed by his queue.

  Her captor eyed the coachman. “If she doesn’t promise, I’ll be forced to tie her up.”

  “I won’t stand for such treatment,” she said, though her voice sounded hollow. “I demand to know why you have abducted me, and what nefarious deeds you have planned!”

  His dark brow arched, but otherwise his expression remained impassive. “Lady Catriona, I am chief of the Clan McCallum. Our fathers betrothed us in marriage many years ago. I’ve come to take ye to wife.”
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  CHAPTER 2

  Hugh McCallum stared at his betrothed in the early morning light, and her beauty . . . glowed. Her hair had come out of the simple braid she’d worn, and now the many-hued golden strands looked as unkempt as if she’d just gotten out of his bed. Her green eyes were full of sparks, as if she wanted to set him afire. Her face betrayed her every emotion, from full lips that trembled, to the spots of color high on her creamy cheekbones, to her wide eyes that betrayed stunned shock. The gown, chosen to give her the appearance of a plain farmwife, only served to emphasize how elegant she truly was, with a woman’s slim yet alluring curves. By candlelight just a few hours before, he’d glimpsed those curves poorly hidden within her fine linen nightshirt, and he’d been stunned.

  She was a bonny lass—and she would be his.

  He was surprised that his father’s cold bargain with their enemy, the chief of the Duffs and also styled the Earl of Aberfoyle, made long ago when Catriona was a baby, had granted Hugh such a beautiful bride.

  Her mouth formed breathless words. “Wh-what d-did you say?”

  “We are betrothed. Ye did not know?”

  Samuel made an abortive cough, but Hugh only eyed his bodyguard with unspoken warning. Samuel raised both hands, then left to tend the horses.

  “You are lying,” she finally said, in a voice that was regaining its strength.

  At least she wasn’t about to swoon at his feet. He liked to see the strength in her, even when she was fighting against him. He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke patiently. “I do not lie.”

  “My father would have told me,” she insisted, small fists on her hips.

  The gesture only made his gaze focus there for a brief moment. He stirred himself to resume their discussion. “You are Catriona Duff. I visited your home this afternoon to speak with your father and he behaved dishonorably.”

  Her complexion suddenly flushed. “I’m not the only one who is confused. You have got the wrong bride!”

  He hadn’t expected anything else from her. She was desperate to escape the truth, and it was obvious that her parents had hid that from her. Hugh couldn’t be surprised that they would have tried to break the contract and refuse to pay the tocher after they’d won twenty-two years of shared rights to the finest McCallum land just by signing.