The Wrong Bride by Gayle Callen Page B

first floor.
    He covered her hand with his, and instead of soothing her, it made her feel powerless against his strength. She wanted to shake it off, but didn’t. “I’m fine.”
    He eyed her narrowly, but nodded. When they stepped into the entrance, in full view of the people, Riona inhaled sharply. There had to be over one hundred people packed into the hall, which was lit by torches along the walls, their light reflecting offthe silver platters displayed on several cupboards. A hush seemed to spread outward from them, and even the piper hit a sour note of surprise.
    Every pair of eyes was focused on them, and the expressions ranged from curious to worried to skeptical to hopeful. A clan chief was the focus, and from him radiated prospects for the future. These people didn’t know if they could trust McCallum, absent so long from their lives, beginning when his mother hadn’t trusted his father. Did the clan worry he would be just another drunkard? Or would he be weak because he’d been raised by one for the formative years of his life?
    And then Dermot rose to his feet on the dais, and lifted a goblet of wine toward his cousin. “The McCallum!”
    A sudden roar of welcome made her start. Only when she felt the release of tension in McCallum’s arm did she realize how tense he’d truly been. He did not grin, for he wasn’t a man given to easy amusement, as she already knew. But his expression was proud and gratified, even as he led her to the dais and up the short staircase. She stood to his right and stared out at the curious crowd.
    McCallum raised both hands and began to speak, and she realized she could understand none of it. Whatever he said to his people, they nodded or smiled or looked solemn. Many snuck glances at her, and she knew it must be easy to tell that shedidn’t understand a word. Some would look down on her now as a Duff who wanted so little to do with their homeland that she hadn’t learned the language. Her father and uncle never spoke it in front of her, and her mother was English. It had never even been a consideration as she learned French and Latin. Now she felt guilty, as if she should have known, at eight years of age, to find a Scottish tutor.
    And then she heard her name in the midst of the Gaelic words, and Hugh lifted her hand up as if presenting her. No one booed her as a Duff, but the applause was only scattered and dutiful. She looked speculatively at Dermot, but when her gaze met his, he glanced pointedly away. Hugh released her hand and went on speaking.
    â€œGood evening, my lady,” whispered a man to her right.
    She turned quickly, only to find herself relaxing with relief. “Oh, Samuel, you startled me.”
    He bowed his head, even as she considered her reaction. He’d been complicit with his chief in capturing her, yet she almost felt him some kind of ally, which was ridiculous. He would never be the man she might beg to help her. She’d already tried that. He’d seen her terrified and afraid, and he’d done nothing to help her escape, simply hid her rebellion from McCallum after the highwaymen attacked. But at the moment, he was a sympathetic face, the only man who spoke to her in English.
    Samuel held up a hand, as if he understood her confusion, and they both waited while McCallum finished speaking. When at last he sat down, voices rose again, the musicians started playing, and serving men and women appeared from a far corridor carrying wooden platters above their heads. A burly man came to stand behind Hugh, bristling with weapons, and giving everyone a menacing stare of warning that their chief would be well protected.
    â€œYe look well, Lady Catriona,” Samuel said.
    â€œThank you. It is good to feel clean again.”
    He grinned. “Aye, I understand the feeling well.”
    â€œWhat did your chief just say?”
    â€œThe right thing, I believe,” Samuel responded, looking out