Page 41 of The Wrong Bride
“That man who seemed to take such delight in fighting you?”
Hugh harrumphed. “Aye, him. He’s younger than a chief usually appoints, but his father was war chief many years ago, and Alasdair knows these mountains as well as anyone.”
“And warfare? Does he know that?”
“He was with Dermot and myself at Sheriffmuir. We all know the folly of bad choices. I can never forget our retreat from Perth, when some of the soldiers, under orders from the bumbling Earl of Mar, burned three of our own villages to slow the advance of the Duke of Argyll. Homes and livelihoods wasted because Mar was ineffectual and lost the initiative.”
The sadness in his voice made her look at him at last. His brows were lowered in a frown, muscles in his jaw working as if he clenched his teeth.
“Alasdair may have the background you require,” she said hesitantly, “but does he have the temperament? He seemed like he rather enjoyed taunting you in front of your own men.”
He glanced down at her, the storm clouds leaving his eyes. “Are ye upset on my behalf, like a true wife?”
“Of course not,” she said hastily. “You can certainly take care of yourself.” Changing back to a safer subject, she said, “Wasn’t there another Jacobite battle after the Rising? Was he there with you as well?”
“We didn’t send men because Scotland and its problems were only being used by Spain to harass the British government. Spain promised a fleet of soldiers would land in southern England, and a small fleet would meet with the Jacobites in Scotland. But just like the last Spanish armada of the sixteenth century, storms caused this fleet to founder and turn back. Only two Spanish ships came to the Outer Hebrides, and their force and the small contingent of Jacobites were no match for the redcoats and the royal ships that sailed into Loch Alsh. They fought briefly at Glen Shiel and then went into full retreat, without any Scottish deaths. A farce, the whole thing.”
She nodded, knowing this was the history of her people as well—and her mother’s people on the opposite side. Who was she to be loyal to? Or could she just stay separate and hope the conflicts never touched her? That seemed cowardly, and she shied away from the thoughts.
“As for Alasdair,” Hugh went on when she remained silent, “he was a friend to me when I didn’t have many.”
Unable to stop herself, she said, “You were the son of the chief—how could you not have friends?”
“Remember who my father was. An unpredictable drunkard with the power of life and death over his clan. They all feared him, and feared provoking him. ’Twas easier to keep their children away from me and my sister—and Maggie didn’t make it easy for anyone to approach her.”
This Maggie was more and more intriguing, but she didn’t ask questions.
“But Alasdair’s father asked if he could foster me, like the other boys were able to do. Even my own father was shocked at the suggestion, but he willingly got me out of the castle. It was the best year of my life. Alasdair was a true brother to me, and when I found out about the contract at thirteen and did what I could to rebel, ’twas Alasdair who tempered my wild plans. I would have done more than steal muskets from redcoats were it not for him.”
“And then he was whipped in your place,” she said sympathetically.
She glanced at his profile again, and rather than ferocious, his expression was pensive.
“We were never quite the same after that,” Hugh admitted. “And then my mother sent us away. And though she meant to protect us, it alienated us. Going to battle with my clan cemented some of the bond but then . . .”
Agnes.She thought the word, but didn’t speak it. She didn’t want to know how Agnes died or if Brendan was the son she bore Hugh. But if it was true, what kind of man let his son become a stable groom to survive?
She stopped those thoughts, reminding herself that Brendan could be another cousin. There seemed to be hundreds and hundreds of them.
And then she had a terrible thought: Was Agnes the girl Hugh wanted to marry but couldn’t because of the contract?
She felt a slash of guilt she had no business feeling. She wasn’t the coveted bride, this wasn’t her life, and she was determined to leave it. She’d warned Hugh that he was making a mistake and he’d chosen not to believe her, had forced his will upon her. The consequences would be his to accept.
And his clan’s. If Hugh couldn’t make it right for them . . . She thought about the hidden land in the mountains, where they seemed to believe mysticalfaeries made the best water, grew the best peat and barley, as if their whisky was some kind of talisman for the clan. Hugh had already made himself untrustworthy in their eyes, with his youthful immaturity and whatever had happened to Agnes. And perhaps they all even knew the truth about the boy.
But if they lost the land, they might never forgive Hugh.
CHAPTER 11
Lying wide awake beside Riona, Hugh found his thoughts lingering on Alasdair, and how the bond they’d shared had frayed and weakened. The only way to make it better was to show his foster brother that he was there to stay, that the clan meant everything to him.
He didn’t actually like talking about it, but knew women appreciated that sort of thing. If Riona was ever to accept her life, to trust him, she wanted to know about him. All he wanted to do was move forward, to prove himself.
He had to prove himself to Riona, too. She wasn’t like other women, content to accept that men made the rules. He’d been exasperated by her need to fight her fate, but he was learning that such spirit made her interesting and appealing. He would find a way to make her understand that submitting could bepleasurable, that being his wife would make her happy.
He rolled onto his side, braced his head on his hand, and looked down at her. He couldn’t miss how she tensed, how beneath her nightshift and dressing gown, her legs tightened futilely against the restraints.
He put a hand on her thigh, and she startled. “Settle down, lass. Fighting the ropes will only chafe your delicate skin. And then I’ll be forced to nurse ye, to rub salve into your flesh . . .”
