Page 51 of The Wrong Bride
For the next hour, they ate soup and oat bread, and she listened to stories Donald told about Hugh at university. She placed these stories in a timeline in her mind, occurring after he wanted to marry Agnes. It seemed to have taken Donald a long time to coerce Hugh into doing anything more thanstudying, but after a while, they’d enjoyed parties and drinking and probably women, as all young men did.
When Riona had eaten her fill, Rachel took her to the simple cottage just behind the alehouse, where an elderly woman sat within, watching over a little boy and girl rolling a ball to each other. Riona wasn’t surprised to see a handkerchief clutched in her hand for the occasional cough, and wondered if there would be blood upon it. The room itself, though clean and with a wooden floor, was closed in, the shutters drawn though it was summer, the heat almost unbearable. The first thing Riona did was throw back the shutters and talk about the healing qualities of fresh air and walking out-of-doors for exercise, along with wholesome food to help strengthen the body. She mentioned an infusion made of chamomile flowers to aid digestion.
The elder Mrs. Ross looked upon Riona as if she were a ministering angel, which made her uncomfortable at first, but she well understood how an illness could make one dependent on the goodwill of another. She stayed for an hour, chatting with the women about news from the south, and life here in the village, and took her leave after promising to return again soon.
For a long moment, she stood outside the cottage, alone but for the distant sound of villagers near a neighboring cottage speaking in Gaelic, andthe lowing of cows on the hillside. The mountains rose up on either side of the glen, bare of trees at the crown, and she could see the glimmer of Loch Voil down the center to the west of them. She didn’t think about trying to run—what would be the point?
With a sigh, she returned to the alehouse. She felt warm from Donald’s ensuing praise and gratitude, the way Samuel smiled at her—and the pleasure and pride in Hugh’s eyes when he looked at her.
That evening in her bedroom, she awaited Hugh’s entrance, hoping he was too tired from the long day outdoors to bother her. Of course he was a fine physical specimen, and it was she who was tired, not him. But to her surprise, after he arrived, he sat in front of the fire and pulled her onto his lap. She stiffened warily, but except for absently playing with her fingers within his big, rough hand, he spent an hour telling her more about Donald and his family, and others like him, the people he’d wanted to help as an MP in London. The sound of his voice was soothing, and soon she found herself resting her head on his shoulder. She must have fallen asleep, because she awoke in the middle of the night, alone in her cold bed. She was mostly relieved, but part of her was . . . disappointed.
HUGHcame up to change after a morning spent on the training yard. He was meeting with his factorto discuss leases that had just been vacated, a dry topic, but necessary. He had his agricultural books, the ones he’d sent home over the years and no one had studied, at the ready to show his factor—and Dermot. These vacant leases were perfect to begin an experiment in improving the crop yield in their harsh growing climate.
To his surprise, he heard voices from within the dressing room, and opened the door to see Mrs. Wallace and Riona with lengths of fine cambric stretched out over a long table.
Though both women looked up at him, only Mrs. Wallace smiled. Riona just nodded and went back to her work. He tried to imagine Riona smiling with pleasure when he entered a room, but it was difficult. He’d realized that a kidnapping ensured a lengthy, slow courtship, but he was still surprised it was taking this long.
“Ye need some new shirts, Laird McCallum,” Mrs. Wallace said. “Yer future wife has asked to sew and embroider them for ye. Did ye know ye were wedding such a talented woman?”
“Aye, I knew,” he said.
Riona’s cheeks reddened, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
“She could be sewin’ her weddin’ clothes, but she insisted that the chief’s shirts were more important.”
“Did she now?” Or was she still playing at thefallacy that she didn’t need wedding clothes because she wouldn’t be here long?
He’d thought after their visit to the village yesterday, and her interest in helping the Rosses, that she might have mellowed, but apparently not. She wasn’t going to sew gowns for a future she didn’t want to have. He was still willing to be patient, but he’d been with her almost three weeks now, and she showed no signs of admitting to the truth. She was definitely a stubborn woman.
Lingering in the doorway, he unpinned his plaid at the shoulder and let the loose ends dangle from his belt. He thought of the hour by the fire last night, when he’d gradually felt her defenses come down the closer she got to sleep. She’d let him hold her, had even allowed him to touch her hand. To his surprise, once she’d fallen asleep he hadn’t felt the overwhelming urge to awaken her senses to pleasure. She’d looked so . . . innocent in his arms, shadows beneath her eyes as if it had been a long day. He’d watched her sleep some time before gently placing her in bed. He still wanted her, but . . . there was time.
When he did nothing but watch them work, the two women eyed him, then went back to discussing measurements and embroidery.
“Mrs. Wallace,” he said suddenly, “I forgot to ask if ye had any trouble preparing for the council of gentlemen tomorrow. If ye need me to contact someone on your behalf . . .”
He trailed off because he saw Riona’s surprised expression before she ducked her head back to her sewing. Mrs. Wallace eyed Riona with her own surprise, then sent a frown Hugh’s way.
“Ye did not tell yer own betrothed about a feast in the great hall?” Mrs. Wallace asked, speaking as freely as a mother would.
He brazened it out. “I spoke to ye directly, Mrs. Wallace. I did not think it fair to bother my betrothed when she’s not yet the mistress of the household.” That sounded as if he’d given it some thought.
Riona snuck an amused glance at him that said she wasn’t believing a word out of his mouth.
Mrs. Wallace harrumphed. “Very well, I see that, Laird McCallum. But such an undertaking . . .” She mumbled the last part under her breath.
“I know you have everything well in hand, Mrs. Wallace,” Riona said, a hint of smugness in her voice that Hugh knew was directed at him.
“Ladies,” he said with a nod, and retreated.
But once he’d arrived in his study and seen the skepticism of his factor and the unyielding face of Dermot when he lectured on how agriculture was changing, he almost wished he was back with the women.
The men might be resistant, but in the end, hisword was law, and it was time to try some new experiments on McCallum lands.
AFTERa morning spent with Mrs. Wallace, Riona was beginning to think Hugh had tried to save her by not informing her in advance of the council. Instead she was forced to follow Mrs. Wallace throughout the household so the housekeeper could show her how they prepared for all the guests and how the kitchens seemed to explode with extra servants, dozens upon dozens of plucked fowl, and enough pastry dough to line a path back to Stirling. When Riona was granted some relief, she hurried outdoors.
She slowed her pace upon receiving several curious stares. If this had been her household, she would have willingly done even more to prepare. But it seemed . . . cruel to have the staff, and especially Mrs. Wallace, become used to looking to her for guidance, only to learn the truth. They’d hate her soon enough for being the embodiment of monetary salvation, only to take it all away from them again.
But . . . she’d felt wanted, needed, and hadn’t been able to resist answering when asked her opinion. She had so little control over her own life that it felt good to make decisions, even small ones.
