Page 3 of The Wrong Bride
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 wasalready 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 upagainst 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.”
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 bargainwith 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.
“Ye may deny it all ye’d like, but ’twill not work with me.”
She flung her arms wide. “I am telling the truth.”
“Ye’re Catriona Duff.”
