Page 1 of The Wrong Bride
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 beingkidnapped, 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.
