Page 9 of The Wrong Bride
HUGHsimply wanted to sleep late in the afternoon. The storm was moving closer, and who knew what the night would bring. But he entered the coach warily, not sure about Riona’s mood. After he’d recaptured her, she’d been strangely quiet, and he hoped that meant she’d surrendered to her destiny, and would make the journey easier on all of them. As he opened the door, he bitterly wondered why she would make it easier.
As he sank onto the uncomfortable bench, and the coach began to rumble forward, he eyed her. She was staring out the small crack in the window, which only showed endless farm fields and sheep pastures, the occasional thatched-roof cottage far in the distance. But they’d be going through a village soon, and he wondered if she’d try another escape. He suspected she was not yet thoroughly cowed. She probably planned to annoy him, but he’d slept on mountainsides and through storms. He closed his eyes, content.
“McCallum, I cannot continue to wear this same dirty gown every single day.”
He didn’t open his eyes. “If ye hadn’t tried to run, it wouldn’t be dirty.”
“But it is. And I need to wash . . . items.”
Opening one eye to look at her, he remembered the sight of her in her thin nightshift, the silkiness of the garment rubbing along her arms when he’d held her still. The candle had made her skin glow, and he’d felt momentarily relieved at his good fortune and intrigued to see more. Though he had her clothe herself in plain garments, thinking to hide her beauty, nothing could hide her regal bearing and the golden fall of her hair. She would make a fine wife to a clan chief.
She was still wearing that nightshift, he mused.
“McCallum?”
She said his name again as if he were daft.
With obvious exasperation, she said, “You could answer me instead of just staring like I’m speaking gibberish.”
“The English tongue is rather harsh compared to the Gaelic, but gibberish? Nay.” He closed his eye again, knowing it was best not to think of her nightshift.
“I need clothing,” she insisted. “And hot water for washing. I feel unclean.”
“When it’s safe, I’ll consider it.”
“Safe? You can’t mean to make me wait until we’re in Scotland! Didn’t you say that wasdaysaway?”
“Your behavior could influence my decision, of course.”
“You mean if I remain meek and cowed and subservient.”
“Your words, not mine. I’d take respectful.”
She gasped, and he withheld a smile.
“Why you—you—savage!”
Though he knew she was just repeating words others had used, her slur stung. In London, he’d been looked down upon for the land of his birth, his words often discounted. Everywhere people assumed he was an uneducated crofter. The months each year he’d had to reside there were full of frustration and regret for the outrageous money he’d had to spend to support himself, all for so little benefit.
“If I am a savage, my lady, then so are you, as we’re both Highlanders.” He folded his arms and kept his eyes closed, although his jaw was clenched.
“You’re even more a savage if you keep a lady imprisoned with nothing to distract her. I need a book or needlework—something. Surely there’s a grocer or bookshop in the next village—”
“I can think of ways to distract ye,” he said in a low voice, then opened his eyes and stared hard at her.
She swallowed and thrust out her chin in a defiant gesture, although he saw the way she clasped her hands to hide their trembling.
“You said you would not force yourself on me.”
She sounded so prim he wished he could laugh. “I won’t need force. One touch, one kiss, and ye’ll fall under my spell.”
To his surprise, she didn’t look away.
“I consider that as using force. I don’t wish those things from you. I keep telling you, I’m not your betrothed.”
“And I keep telling ye that lying will not help your plight.”
They stared at each other for a long silent moment, and he rather enjoyed the contest of wills. Rain began to fall softly on the coach roof.
