The Wrong Bride by Gayle Callen Read Free Book Online Page B

out.
    â€œIf it helps, the innkeeper’s wife was very gracious about your river accident, and promised fresh clothing and will have yours cleaned.”
    Fresh clothing—it sounded like heaven. Just days ago, she’d taken such things as baths and clothing for granted. No more. And hadn’t she slept in the coach with McCallum—how was this different?
    But it was different, and she knew it. “We will not be sharing that bed,” she told him, hating how her voice trembled. Every choice was being taken away from her—she had to stand up for herself.
    â€œWe will,” he answered, as if he expected his word to be law. “And I will hold to our agreement that I will not take ye before we’re wed.”
    Her face heated, even though her limbs still shivered with the wet and cold.
    He eyed her. “I can’t have ye sick with the ague. Where is that bath?”
    He went into the hall to call for a maidservant, and Riona tried not to panic. How was she supposed to bathe? If she were smart, she’d try to escape right now, but . . . who would help her in this tiny village against the chief of the McCallums? Where would she go?
    She was just as trapped here as she’d been in the coach. Her feelings of hope and perseverance were slowly draining away. Nothing she’d said had convinced this man he was wrong. She would keep trying, of course, along with denying him herconsent to marriage. She wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but she could see no easy choices.
    McCallum opened the door and held it open for two male servants carrying a bathing tub between them. Soon buckets of hot water were carried in a slow procession, until the heat steamed from the tub. The towels were rough, but clean, and the soft soap in a pot didn’t smell terrible.
    The innkeeper’s plump wife tsked when she saw Riona. “How dare yer man lose yer trunk,” she said, shaking her head.
    Riona knew not to expose the lie, or McCallum would take her back to the cold, wet coach. He eyed her with confidence, as if he knew just what she was thinking.
    The woman laid out a chemise, petticoats, an open gown laced at the bodice, a nightshift, a man’s breeches and shirt, and stockings for them both. “He paid me handsomely for these,” she said with satisfaction. “I’ll be back to collect yer own garments,” she added, eyeing them with both distaste and sympathy. “How ever did ye fall into the Sark?”
    â€œThe bank was muddy and I slipped,” Riona said absently, eyeing the tub with longing.
    â€œOch, listen to me blather. Shall I empty the tub later and refill for ye, Laird McCallum?” She seemed weary but resigned to the necessity.
    McCallum faced the woman, looking like an immovable mountain dwarfing the furniture—and absorbing all the heat of the fire, Riona thought crossly.
    â€œNay, I’ll use the tub when my wife is done,” he said. “No need to make more work for ye, mistress.”
    She gave him a grateful smile. “Then I’ll leave and let ye use it before the heat is gone.”
    The woman bustled out, and the room was suddenly as silent as a church funeral service, but for the flickering flames of the peat fire. Pungent smoke hung heavily in the air, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
    McCallum pointedly bolted the door.
    â€œYou need to wait in the corridor,” Riona insisted, relieved that at least her voice didn’t tremble.
    He only rolled his eyes then headed for the hearth, removing his coat to lay it across the back of a chair before the fire. His waistcoat came next and he pulled his shirt out of his breeches before unbuttoning those.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she demanded sharply.
    â€œDrying my garments. The shirt is long enough for your modesty, have no fear.”
    And then he pulled his stockings, breeches, and drawers off and laid them out, too. His shirt came down to his mid-thighs,