The Groom Wore Plaid

by Gayle Callen

  He didn’t believe that; the attraction between them surely had her rattled. He wanted her to feel off balance; he wanted clues as to how to deal with her; he wanted to remind her of pleasure. “Does the telescope in the library bring back memories of nights beneath the stars?”

  Frustrated nights, when he’d thought of kissing her, but had known he wasn’t free to offer more. Then came the day he could restrain himself no longer. He’d regretted his impatience, and had striven hard to control his emotions ever since.

  Those unusual eyes narrowed, and she silently studied him, as if looking for a trap. “The telescope is of little interest to me,” she said.

  That was a direct rebuff, and he reluctantly admired her for it.

  “But the books are another matter,” she continued, then asked stiffly, “Might I read through them?”

  As if it was difficult to ask him for anything. She was a proud woman.

  “As my wife, you’re welcome to anything I have.”

  It was her turn to arch a brow. “But I’m not yet your wife. Blackmail, is it? Will ye withhold books from me until the deed is done?”

  Her wariness made him irritable. She actually thought he’d keep knowledge of the world from her? “I’d not withhold anything from you, Maggie. The books are yours to read as you wish.”

  She nodded and went back to her meal. Winning her would not be as easy as simply offering to wed her. Perhaps he’d been more swayed by his father’s bragging about the sanctity of their title than he’d imagined. It obviously didn’t impress Maggie. Regardless, he knew what to do to win a woman’s favor. He’d done it once with Maggie—he could do it again, using very slow, passionate methods. He was looking forward to it. Not that he was going to make her fall in love with him; then she would only be hurt when he didn’t return those feelings. He wasn’t going to love her; he wasn’t going to give a McCallum—or any woman—that much power over him.

  “I wrote a letter this morning to my brothers,” Maggie suddenly said. “Who should I ask to post it for me?”

  “I’ll send a man to deliver it, and bring back any reply.”

  “Thank you.”

  He suddenly frowned. “You said ‘brothers.’”

  “Aye, Hugh and I have a half brother. He’s only ten years old. I guess ye didn’t meet him during the wedding.” She bit into a forkful of mutton and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Are you going to leave me with so little of the story?”

  She took a deep breath, and he thought she would refuse.

  Instead she lowered her voice. “Brendan is my father’s child by a village girl. She died giving birth to him. Many people thought he was Hugh’s, but he’s not.”

  Pain darkened her eyes, and Owen knew there was far more to the story than she was saying. “Why did people think Hugh was the father?”

  “Because he’d offered to marry the girl, Agnes, to protect her after what our father had done. But Father refused to permit the marriage, since Hugh was already betrothed to your sister.”

  What their father had done. There was an ugliness behind those simple words. He’d known her father was a drunkard, and pitied her for it, but if he’d hurt young women, too . . . Those thoughts took him to a darker place.

  “Did your mother take you away from Larig Castle because of your father’s behavior?” he demanded. “Did he hurt you?”

  She set her jaw stubbornly. “I was not hurt. But this is none of your concern, Owen.”

  “Not my concern? You’re to be my wife.”

  She opened her mouth, and he realized she was going to counter him, but then didn’t. What was she thinking? They were betrothed, and denying that would catapult their clans back into the distrust no one wanted. He’d thought she was simply upset that she hadn’t had the romantic courting other women did, that he’d lied to her when he’d been young and foolish. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  The double doors at the far end of the great hall were suddenly thrown open by the guards, and in walked his mother, Edith Duff, Countess of Aberfoyle, and his sister, Cat. They were dressed in bonnets and shawls, which along with their gowns, were dyed black in mourning for his father. Each carried a basket on her arm, which reminded him they’d walked to the village that morn. It was Cat who’d asked if she could invite Maggie, and though Owen had appreciated the gesture, he’d thought it best to let Maggie sleep as long as she needed.

  He remembered Lady Aberfoyle’s unspoken disapproval of Cat’s invitation, a reminder that he would be smoothing the way between his mother and Maggie for a long while yet. Lady Aberfoyle had been shocked and distressed this morning upon hearing that he’d offered to marry a “poverty-stricken McCallum”—her words. He’d explained that Maggie had a dowry, and his mother had countered that it was nothing compared to what an English bride would have brought to the family. He’d asked if she wanted another war with the McCallums and the loss of even more innocent lives. She’d had nothing to say to that, but he could see now that she still wasn’t going to welcome Maggie into the family with ease. The whole conversation had felt . . . off to him. They didn’t need a large dowry, and to focus on that seemed disingenuous.

  After Lady Aberfoyle walked down the center aisle between the tables, nodding to the clansmen who bowed in her direction, she came to a stop when she spied Maggie, as if she’d forgotten her. Owen watched the two women eye each other.

  Owen rose. “Mother, allow me to introduce my future wife, Margaret.”

  “Maggie McCallum,” Maggie said pointedly, rising to curtsy from behind the table. “Good day, Lady Aberfoyle, Lady Catriona.”

  Lady Aberfoyle bowed regally, almost imperceptibly, but said nothing.

  Lest his mother think this a temporary situation she could alter, he added, “Please congratulate us. We shall be married four weeks from yesterday.”

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

  “That is far too soon for an earl to marry!” Lady Aberfoyle said indignantly. “You should be married in Edinburgh, or perhaps London as befits your—”

  “We will be married in the chapel here,” Owen interrupted, “in the ancient stronghold of our clan. It will also enable Maggie’s family to easily attend.”

  He thought he was proving his concern to Maggie, instead, it made his mother glare at her, as if the marriage was all her fault.

  Owen ignored it and turned to include his sister. “Will you ladies be joining us for dinner?”

  Cat’s furrowed brow smoothed out as she smiled at Maggie. “We’d love to. I have so many questions about your brother, now married to my favorite cousin.”

  Cat removed her bonnet and came around the table to sit beside Maggie, leaving their mother to sit on Owen’s left. As the servants brought trays of meat and vegetables for the ladies to choose from, Owen forced himself to attend to his mother, while listening to Maggie and Cat.

  Maggie was surprised at her own hearty appetite after such an awkward introduction. Luckily, Lady Aberfoyle was on Owen’s other side and perhaps she wouldn’t have to speak with her. Maggie had no respect for the countess, who hadn’t protected Riona from the old earl’s manipulations and now sulked that she couldn’t control her son.

  Of course, if there was no wedding at all, maybe Lady Aberfoyle would thank her, Maggie thought wryly.

  Lady Catriona was far easier to deal with. Maggie was grateful for the woman’s kindness toward Hugh.

  “You must call me Cat, and I’ll call you Maggie,” Cat said.

  Like her brother’s, her Scottish burr seemed subdued after she’d spent most of every year in England. Maggie wondered if either of them even spoke Gaelic.

  “We’re practically related already,” Cat continued, “with my cousin marrying your brother. And soon we shall be sisters.”

  Sisters. That probably wouldn’t happen, not if Maggie could help it. But she made herself smile politely. “Riona has spoken so much about ye, as if ye’re her own sister, too.”

  “We practical
ly are. We spent much of our childhood together, and then as adults, we attended the same Society events.” She hesitated, then lowered her voice. “I hope you do not feel awkward around me. I didn’t want to marry your brother—and it wasn’t because he was a McCallum,” she hastened to add. “He was simply . . . a stranger. I’d hoped to choose my own husband, and . . .” Her voice trailed off and she covered her mouth with her hand. Faintly, she said, “Oh, forgive me. That was terribly insensitive. You volunteered to marry a stranger and I’m going on about my luck escaping the same fate.”

  “Nay, do not worry. And your brother wasn’t a stranger. Surely he told ye about our encounter ten years ago.” Maggie couldn’t resist taunting Owen, knowing he was listening.

  Cat’s gaze searched hers. “No, he never did.”

  “That is because it’s none of her concern,” Owen interrupted.

  Cat leaned forward, the better to see her brother. “How like a man to think the details don’t matter.”

  Maggie’s gaze clashed with Owen’s. She could tell his sister he’d nearly betrayed his first betrothed, but . . . that would be revenge, rather than honest anger. “He simply asked if I liked to look at the stars. We struck up a friendship that only lasted a few weeks before he had to leave.”

  “That does not exactly capture the imagination,” Cat teased.

  “Which is why it was so forgettable,” Maggie said brightly.

  Owen narrowed his eyes

  Cat sighed. “But . . . it is only through luck that you knew each other at all before you both agreed to do such a brave thing.”

  Brave? Maggie thought. Nay, it was with a desperation born of having no other choices. Owen seemed contemplative as he continued to eat. She knew he didn’t think she was brave—he thought she was being ridiculous holding on to her anger. If only he knew how brave she was trying to be right now, holding herself together when it looked as if her uncertain future was even more complicated than he knew.

  Not that he’d think anything to do with her dreams was brave, only foolish or childish. With that attitude, how was she possibly going to make him believe her?

  But Cat was still speaking. “What is hardest for me to understand about this whole”—she waved a hand to encompass them both—“dilemma is that my own father tried to break the contract he’d agreed to. It was such a dishonorable thing to do. He—he didn’t care that Riona might be kidnapped, that our clans could end up at war again. I think . . . I think the strain of his actions led to his death.”

  “You give him too much credit,” Owen scoffed. “He chose to behave dishonorably, and I’m not all that certain it weighed on his conscience.”

  Cat looked past Maggie at her brother. “Owen, you didn’t have the kind of relationship where you saw a softer side to him. I, on the other hand—”

  “—was his favorite.”

  Though Owen seemed to speak without amusement, he must be teasing, for as Maggie looked from one to the other, Cat smiled. Then the woman’s eyes took on a sheen. However mixed Cat’s feelings were in regards to the earl, he’d still been her father, and he’d died of a fever less than a month before.

  “So tell me about Hugh,” Cat said, obviously rallying herself to appear happy. “He’s married to my cousin now, so I want to know everything about him.”

  “I don’t exactly know what to say. He’s my older brother, and has spent his life taking care of me. He’s a loyal man, even went off at eighteen to fight the British and the Scottish Hanoverians during the Fifteen.”

  Cat suddenly shot a concerned gaze at her brother. Owen continued to eat at a measured pace, but Maggie sensed a new tension between them. Though she wasn’t going to ask, unwelcome curiosity kept her brain calculating. Owen had been only sixteen during the Jacobite uprising of 1715, hardly of age to fight. Maggie already knew the Duffs weren’t Royalists like the Campbells and other clans, so they must have sent men into battle on the same side as the McCallums. She imagined a sixteen-year-old boy would be upset to be left behind. Nay, she wasn’t going to ask.

  For several minutes, they all ate in silence. Cat wanted to be her sister, and liking the woman only made Maggie’s muddled thoughts even more confused. How appalled would Cat be if Maggie didn’t prevent Owen’s death when she had the chance?

  As if she’d ever been able to prevent any of her dreams from coming true, Maggie thought. But she reminded herself that this sort of dream was different, that she hadn’t married Owen yet—if only she could make him believe the truth.

  Time to change the subject. How better than to address the countess head-on, force her to acknowledge Maggie and see what her husband’s manipulations had wrought? Maggie said, “Lady Aberfoyle, thank ye for assigning a maid to me. Kathleen is very cheerful and efficient.”

  “Kathleen?” Lady Aberfoyle narrowed her eyes.

  “You might not remember Kathleen Duff and her brother Gregor,” Owen said. “They’re distant cousins whose parents took them to live in the colonies over twenty years ago. Times were hard there for them, and they’ve returned home to start over. Gregor is working in the smithy.”

  “Kathleen and Gregor,” Lady Aberfoyle mused, as if concentrating on the names. “I do not remember their story. But then after all, seldom did members of our clan have to escape poverty for a dangerous journey to the colonies.”

  Maggie barely held on to a pleasant expression when the woman was proving that nobility did not mean civility or manners. Maggie could have said she’d never heard of any of her clan departing for the colonies, but she’d only be rising to the countess’s bait. Owen gave his mother a warning frown on Maggie’s behalf.

  He seemed protective of Maggie, but what did that matter? The proof would be how he handled her confession.

  CHAPTER 3

  After dinner, Maggie slipped away from the great hall, and then the towerhouse. She just needed to clear her head and breathe fresh air and not have any expectations. She would wait until the evening to have a private conversation with Owen.

  She wandered from workshops to stables to barracks, and everywhere she went, strangers stared at her. Everyone knew she was a McCallum, and certainly, they would be curious about her. Only a few crossed themselves if they thought she wasn’t looking, frightened by her eyes. Though she was here to stop a feud, two centuries’ worth of bitterness weren’t going to end immediately.

  As she walked past the smithy, she could feel the heat of the fire the blacksmiths worked over all day long. She paused near the wide entrance and watched as a burly, aproned man, his face red and perspiring, used tongs to hold a glowing piece of metal in the fire.

  “Eh, you, what are ye doin’?”

  Startled, Maggie turned to find another man bearing down on her. He, too, wore an apron over his barrel chest, and his curly hair was almost as red as his perspiring face.

  “I’m simply watching,” she said, taking a step away from the door.

  “Ye could get hurt lingerin’ here,” he said. He came to a stop and eyed her suspiciously. “I’ve not seen ye before.”

  “I’m Maggie McCallum,” she said, using her surname deliberately. She wasn’t going to hide who she was.

  His brows lowered. “McCallum. Ye’re to marry Himself.”

  He brazenly looked down her body with skepticism.

  “Ye’re being very rude,” she said.

  “And ye’re a McCallum.”

  As if the two things equated.

  “My sister told me about ye,” he continued.

  “Your—” She broke off, suddenly seeing the resemblance to another in his short stature and red hair. “Ah, your sister Kathleen,” she said with surprise. Kathleen had been so polite and sunny, as opposite her brother as possible. “Ye must be Gregor. Ye’re practically as new here as I am.”

  He took a step toward her, fists on his hips, and spoke with angry defensiveness. “My family’s blood is in this very soil. I was born here.”

  “Ye’re right, of course,” she said. Start
ing her own mini-feud wasn’t going to help. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “Ye’ve offended just by bein’ here,” he grumbled.

  “Then I won’t bother ye again.”

  She turned away and began to walk, feeling his angry stare as if it were a dirk piercing the middle of her back. And suddenly, she couldn’t stay in the courtyard, where escaping the dozens of censorious looks would prove impossible. How could one marriage possibly undo centuries’ worth of hatred?

  She passed a training yard where men fought with swords. She’d seen no firearms and she knew why—the British government had passed a Disarming Act after the uprising, and continued to pass more, attempting to remove all firearms from the Highlands. But many clans had imported rusty old weapons from the Continent and turned those in for the money, while hiding their own in case they had to defend their land against the British. Certainly they weren’t going to display their weapons in front of a McCallum.

  And with that thought, she headed through the gatehouse under the watchful, skeptical eyes of the guards, wrapped in their Duff plaid and their Duff righteousness. She felt like she could breathe again away from the high walls of the courtyard that had seemed to trap the air. The water near the arched bridge was still, covered in large oval leaves that floated around white lilies, as befitted a moat that seemed more like a pond. The sky was overcast, but didn’t threaten rain as she left the bridge for the dirt-packed road.

  She started across a grassy field that sloped up the side of a mountain in the distance. Heather grew in abundance, scattered between boulders and through the fields, and in just a few more weeks it would decorate these meadows in purple blossoms. Maggie felt some of the tension ease away as she took one deep breath after another.

  But she couldn’t avoid thinking about her problems for long. As if she’d conjured the scene, she could suddenly see herself screaming, her beautiful gown spattered with blood, and Owen lying on the floor, barely breathing, his face waxen, his eyelids fluttering.

  Her breath came in pants and she collapsed onto a boulder, light-headed. She forced her mind to stay in the scene, examining it, looking for evidence of what happened next. She tried to push herself forward in the dream until her head ached, but nothing else happened beyond Owen lying wounded, near death.