Free The Wrong Bride by Gayle Callen Page B

Several square towers rose higher than the walls.
    McCallum was watching her now, his expression one of amused condescension, as if he’d known the bleak cottage she’d been imagining. She lifted her chin and said nothing, but she was impressed nonetheless.
    All around them on the hillsides, black, shaggy cattle roamed, and below them in the distance, small farm fields clustered around another village in the glen. But the castle, which had been hidden from below by a curve in the hillside, dominated the skyline and rivaled the mountains themselves for grandeur.
    As they came closer to the gatehouse, guards dressed in black and red plaid, their legs bare, moved to take up a position to stop them. Surprised, Riona looked to McCallum, whose expression remained neutral even as he began to speak in Gaelic. She thought she heard him say his own name, which shocked her. Was he having to introduce himself to his own people? Or had he been lying to her about his identity all along?
    But Samuel only waited patiently, as if he had no concerns. And true enough, the guards seemed to come to attention, doffing their bonnets and looking abashed. One led their small party through the gatehouse, and Riona looked up at the sharply pointed portcullis that would drop through the ceiling and bar the entrance from invaders. She felt like an invader right along with McCallum, but she was truly a captive of war, the war that had been going on between McCallum and Duff for centuries.
    Within the courtyard, dozens of people moved with purpose from the grand towerhouse rising four stories, to the other halls and barracks built into the thick castle walls. Chickens and ducks seemed to have free rein, chased by children, who barely spared a glance for travel-stained visitors. She could see an arched opening that led into another courtyard.
    The guards must have passed the word to others about McCallum’s identity, because they gathered together now within the courtyard, waiting. Some came running from the other courtyard, still carrying claymores and shields, as if they’d been at training.
    She tried to ask Samuel what was going on, but he hushed her. Then a large wooden double door opened in the first floor of the towerhouse, and a man emerged, causing voices to drop to murmurs.
    â€œThe tanist, Dermot McCallum, Hugh’s cousin,” Samuel said in a low voice. “He was nominated as the man next of blood to the chief when Hugh wasselected, the one who will succeed him if Hugh dies without heirs. He’s been in charge since Hugh’s father died a few months ago.”
    The man came down the stairs, tall, thin, but Riona suspected his build was deceptive. Though she’d seen men wearing wigs in Scotland, his brown hair was bare and tied back. His plaid was belted meticulously about his waist and the end draped up over his shoulder, where a brooch gleamed. He approached McCallum, who still sat atop his horse, as if he ranked above all the clansmen gathered before him. And he did.
    Dermot patted the horse’s neck nonchalantly, eyeing McCallum, who said something else in Gaelic, then gestured toward Riona and switched into English.
    â€œI am home with my betrothed, come to stay and take up my rightful place within the clan. Ye’ve done well, Dermot, and I appreciate the care ye’ve given my people.”
    â€œ Our people,” Dermot said coolly. “We are all McCallums at heart, are we not?”
    Someone briefly cheered, but it died away when no one joined in. Riona’s spirits rose a bit. McCallum was not the invincible chief he’d portrayed to her. Dermot obviously disapproved of a laird who’d been gone for so long. But she wouldn’t make the mistake of screaming that she’d been kidnapped. There was a long history among the clans of healing feuds with the help of an unwilling bride. If she tried to win the support of the McCallums, she’d be doing nothing but ensuring that