Page 31 of The Wrong Bride
“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 eachother 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 everyother 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 ofthatconversation.”
“It was certainly uncomfortable,” Riona admitted.
Mrs. Wallace eyed her, then looked past her atMcCallum 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.
