Free The Wrong Bride by Gayle Callen

turn, ’twas refreshing.”
    â€œI bet that went well.”
    â€œâ€™Twas . . . enlightening.”
    G ETTING back into the coach was as dreadful as Riona knew it would be. Her bruises from the rough ride seemed magnified, and would only get worse, because the roads certainly were, even here in the Lowlands. The innkeeper had kindly given her a frame, cloth, and thread for needlework, but it was often too bumpy for her to sew. McCallum had opened her window more, so at least she could see the countryside. For several days, they followed a river valley and on either side, hills rolled in the distance, some of them brown and bare of trees along the summit. At night the men slept on bedrolls by a fire, and she slept within the coach, uncomfortable, but dry.
    Coaches were few and far between now; they often had to pull aside for a string of laden packhorses being led south toward the markets in England, and once a herd of shaggy black cattle meandered on the path, reluctant to move.
    When McCallum rode inside the coach with her, he tried to arouse her interest about the countryside, telling her of the heated, healing waters at Moffat, or the Roman ruins at Abington. And though part of her was interested in learning about her own country, she concentrated hard on seeming indifferent. She was still so appalled at how she’d relaxed in her sleep, cozied right up against McCallum as if he wasn’t her kidnapper. Her body had betrayed her, and she was so afraid it would happen again that she didn’t even ask to find an inn, though it rained on and off, and the men took turns getting damp as they drove her ever northward.
    She found herself so bored that she kept flashing back to memories of that intimate night together, his bare legs against hers, how safe she’d felt in his arms when she’d first awoken and couldn’t remember everything. Safe? Someone was supposed to be keeping her safe from the likes of him. But no one was rescuing her—she’d given up hope for that. She could only rely on herself now, and her powers of persuasion. Somehow she would make him believe the truth.
    They reached Glasgow, a port burgh that McCallum reminded her proudly had had a university as far back at the fifteenth century. It was now a hub of trade with the American colonies and the rest of Europe. There were more people here—foreignersand Sassenachs—but McCallum was no fool, and did not allow her to spend a night there.
    â€œYe’d have worked your wiles on those poor men,” McCallum told her as she stared out the window sadly at the dwindling buildings behind them.
    At least they’d stopped for provisions, although he would not allow the time for clothes to be laundered. She could see he was growing more and more alert as he looked to the north, toward home.
    It should be her home, too. Their clan lands bordered each other. But her parents had made sure it was not home, and she couldn’t overcome that feeling of . . . intruder, outlander, Sassenach.
    They took a drovers’ road northeast of Glasgow toward Stirling, where the land seemed bare yet captivating, miles of rolling farmlands giving way to higher bare ground of moors and bogs, bleak and brown, but full of a strange beauty that intrigued Riona. This was the land of her people, and she’d always been told how wild and savage it was—wild, yes, but magnificent in its own way. McCallum once again talked of the history, of the second wall built nearby by the Romans, just like the one on the English border, only this was to keep the men of the Highlands out. More than once she saw the ruin of a castle on distant hills. The poor horses strained to pull the coach ever higher, and the goingwas slow until they reached the low summit, with the valley spread out below toward Stirling. And then she was forced to listen to McCallum’s pride in the burgh.
    â€œArmies of old aimed to hold Stirling if they wanted to