The Wrong Bride by Gayle Callen Page A

him—he had to come to her, to bring her to his people. He planned to use her to strengthen his bond with the clan, but she knew that would never happen. Somehow she would make him see that—
    A knock rattled the door that led to the dressing room. Part of her wanted to put a pillow overher head and make Hugh go down alone, humiliate him as she’d felt humiliated when Mrs. Wallace had talked about handfasting. But that wouldn’t incline him to eventually see her side of things, so she simply called for him to enter.
    He stopped in the doorway and looked at her, as she looked at him. He wore the clan plaid pleated and belted around his waist. A long length of it crossed his chest and was pinned to his coat at the shoulder. He wore tartan stockings to his knees and leather shoes. There were some in England who thought the Highland dress ridiculous, but she was not one of them. His legs were fine and well made, and his pride in wearing his clan colors was evident. Instead of wearing a wig, he’d pulled his dark, unruly hair back in a queue, and she was no longer surprised that he forswore the custom. He was a man who did what he wanted—she of all people knew that.
    He studied her, his expression full of pride, contentment—and yes, passion, passion for her. Feeling overwhelming and confused, she had to look away. He’d stolen her life—how dare he act as if it was so easily accepted, as if he felt something more for her when he was just using her.
    An insidious voice whispered in her head, But what kind of life did you have?
    That wasn’t the point—she wanted to make her own decisions. She’d made no decision for herself,unless it was what book to read to Bronwyn, what song to play for her on the spinet. Her parents had always told her she could be involved in choosing her husband . . . someday. And every year, “someday” had become the next year, and then the year after that. She’d felt that the best years of her life had been spent in a sickroom, where she’d alternated between feeling loving pity for her sister, and sadness and frustration that her own life was just as confined. True, she’d been allowed to accompany Cat to the occasional dinner or musicale, but she’d never been free to enjoy the entire evening, because her parents had insisted Bronwyn needed her help to fall asleep.
    But Bronwyn had been well enough to travel to the Continent, and that had given Riona hope that when they returned it would be Riona’s turn for an elaborate Season in London. Her mother had promised it, confiding before she left that it was time for Riona to relax after all her years nursing Bronwyn. Riona had cynically suspected that her mother was growing jealous of the closeness between the sisters, and had deliberately denied Riona the chance to see Europe.
    The kind of life her future self would have didn’t matter right now. At some point, McCallum would finally realize and accept that he truly had the wrong bride, and everything he’d planned would be ruined.
    â€œSo you wear the plaid,” she said.
    He smirked. “Highland women don’t like being denied the sight of their men’s naked legs.”
    She rolled her eyes.
    â€œYe’re a bonny lass, Riona.”
    He’d taken to leaving off the honorific of “lady” when they were alone, and the intimacy unnerved her. He would not be “Hugh” to her. That would be playing into his hands.
    She didn’t say anything as she set her hand on his forearm and allowed him to lead her into the corridor. He went first down the spiral stairs as if to catch her if she stumbled. He fancied himself a gentleman, did he?
    As they descended, the noise from the great hall increased. Friendly discussion and laughter, the sound of pipes warming up, all of which made a cacophony of sound.
    â€œYe’re trembling,” he said as they reached the arched stone entrance on the