The Groom Wore Plaid

by Gayle Callen

  “Ye make yourself sound ancient,” she said dryly.

  “To a twenty-year-old, I am.”

  His plan had merit—and for herself, too. It would keep him busy while she tried to figure out the dream and prove herself a poor bride, but he didn’t need to know that. If he would contribute nothing to saving himself, then at least he needed to stay out of her way.

  He suddenly leaned too close. “And such competition will inspire my Highland bride to wish that our wedding night was not so far away.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, and Maggie knew she’d never see real admiration in his gaze. He wouldn’t admire her, not that real person she was deep inside, the one who was cursed with dreams of the future. Nay, that Maggie he disdained. But that didn’t affect his lust for her. And sadly, she still felt the same lust for him; a sin, any priest would tell her. Apparently, she wasn’t very discriminating where men were concerned.

  His gaze on her body was as physical as a caress, even here, in front of all his people, in front of his family. And the worst thing was that he seemed to sense her reciprocal desire. The quirk of his mouth said he was aware of her desperation to keep it at bay.

  Let him be amused, she thought furiously, forcing herself to stop looking at his lips. She knew what she had to do. Tonight she’d return to her dreams and see if she could bring forth the one she needed to see the most.

  Voices at a nearby table grew loud, and a woman shushed someone.

  “I don’t care what she thinks.”

  This voice belonged to an older man, bald head gleaming in the torchlight, whose broad shoulders still spoke of hard work.

  “I don’t care what Himself thinks either,” the man continued. “He should know what we all think.”

  “Da!” A young woman at his side glanced at the dais with mortification.

  “She’s a McCallum,” the old man sputtered. “She shouldn’t be here! Why are we standin’ for it?”

  Maggie felt a cold shiver of fear over the tenuousness of the peace between their clans, reminding her of how carefully she had to navigate this business of ending their betrothal. If people died because of renewed violence, she’d never be able to forgive herself.

  Owen rose to his feet. “Are you speaking of my betrothed, Martin Hepburn?” he demanded.

  The young woman gasped, as if she hadn’t thought Owen would know the name—as if she’d lived in fear over the trouble her father would bring their way.

  Martin rose slowly to his feet, and Maggie stared back at him impassively. Hatred narrowed the man’s eyes and put a sneer on his face.

  “Aye, my lord,” Martin said. “I never believed what the old chief tried to do—peace! With the McCallums!”

  The entire hall had gone silent now as the old man’s ringing voice echoed up to the cavernous beamed ceiling.

  Martin raised a fist. “None of ’em are worth lowerin’ ourselves. I bided me time, but I always thought ye’d see the truth and refuse this foolhardy plan. But here she is, a McCallum, and ye cannot take yer eyes from her, when there are plenty of good lasses from yer clan, like me own daughter.”

  “Da!” The woman practically screeched now, and took her father’s arm and began to pull. “I’m beggin’ your pardon, my lord,” she beseeched Owen. “He’s addled with drink. Let me get him home, please.”

  “Take him and go,” Owen ordered.

  He nodded at the guards near the door who strode forward, sword sheaths jingling against their belts. Martin looked briefly surprised at the escort, but he said nothing else, only shot a bitter glower over his shoulder at the dais, before his daughter pulled him down the side aisle.

  Whispers became conversation soon enough, as neighbors leaned toward each other to talk. Maggie remained still, chin raised in defiance against each curious glance from members of the clan.

  CHAPTER 5

  Owen stared hard as the doors closed behind Martin Hepburn, then turned an angry glare over the whole hall. Dozens of pairs of eyes focused on their own plates, and the conversation sounded closer to normal rather than salaciously whispered.

  He looked at Maggie, whose face was pale, though her eyes glared at him with defiance. He was surprised at the urge to pull her into his arms and promise to keep her safe. It was an emotional response, not a practical one. But he couldn’t promise such a thing, not when she was a McCallum on Duff lands. She wouldn’t want his help anyway. She was a woman who preferred to stand on her own, to defy the promise they’d just made for the benefit of their clans. She confused him and irritated him and enraged him—all emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

  But he never allowed emotions to interfere with his decisions, especially where his clan was concerned. Maggie changing her mind and now this act of arson occurring at the same time made him suspicious. His concern about her brother’s involvement only increased. He would send someone to Stirling to look into the McCallum finances and dealings, to see if they were more desperate than he knew.

  He sat down and glanced to each side of him, where his mother gave him an arched brow that silently said, You should have known this was going to happen. His sister’s glance was sympathetic, her eyes shining with tears she tried to blink away.

  Owen leaned toward Maggie and spoke quietly. “Ignore the old man. He grew up on hatred, whereas we grew up knowing that peace was at hand. We’re going to change things between our clans.”

  She spoke in a murmur. “We will, but not the way you think.”

  “Maggie,” he began irritably.

  “’Tis strange to be the object of someone’s hatred.”

  Her change of subject made him grit his teeth. “He has a stubborn need to cling to the past. Having someone to hate doesn’t have to be a reason to live.”

  Maggie eyed him and lowered her voice even more. “If he hates me, Owen, could he have started the fire?”

  Owen frowned. “I cannot believe he’d damage clan property in a fit of anger—he’s spent his life right here in the village. But I’ll look into it.”

  They were silent as they were served oysters in a butter sauce. Owen insisted on filling Maggie’s plate for her, and she didn’t object. He didn’t mistake her passivity for surrender.

  What he’d meant to portray, a celebration of his betrothal, now felt subdued and darkened by both Martin and Maggie’s new rebellion. Pipers and harpists played merry songs, and when the whisky flowed, people even danced. But Maggie kept surveying the crowd, as if wondering who harbored the same ugly feelings as Martin did.

  Later that evening, he walked at her side after forcing Fergus to go back to the hall.

  “’Twill be difficult to rid yourself of your shadow whenever ye want,” Maggie said.

  “Fergus and I will have to come to an understanding.”

  He steered Maggie past her own door.

  “Where are we going?” she asked warily.

  “I’d like you to see something—and it’s not in my room.”

  He led her up several levels by the circular staircase and eventually out on the walkway behind the battlements. Though a chill wind blew, she shrugged off his attempt to put his arm around her shoulder. Moonlight etched her creamy skin with shadows.

  They walked to the edge and looked down to the courtyard below. Torches rimmed the interior of the walls, and a line of lanterns showed where the last stragglers headed for the village. Across the courtyard, the barracks housing clansmen still had lights in many windows. Off in the west, the sky glowed with the faint gray above the mountains, the last bit of light before darkness shrouded them all.

  “It’s peaceful up here,” he said. “I come to stare out over the land that has been in our clan for centuries. I wanted to show you that I don’t take my place here for granted; I don’t take anything for granted. I made the choice to take you as my bride, and you will not be able to dissuade me. I choose to look upon this marriage as a destiny that began when we were young.”

  “Desti
ny?” she shot back. “Ye believe in something as untenable as fate, but ye won’t believe when I speak the truth.”

  Her fiery refusal to acquiesce both infuriated and drew him. She was upsetting all his plans, but she also presented a challenge. She was no meek maiden to do her duty blindly. Admiring her for it was ridiculous on his part. She was trying to have her own way, risking the peace that had only just begun to take hold over these last years since the original marriage contract.

  But then, with his face just above her hair, he could smell the faint hint of perfume or soap—lavender, floral and mysterious. An awareness of her now unfurled inside him, blotting out everything but the alluring warmth of her, the lavender scent of her, the knowledge that he would make her his forever. It was primal, this drive to take her, to bend her to his will, to force her to surrender.

  He touched her chin, lifted her face to his. Inside him passion heated and bubbled like within a cauldron, and it took infinite control not to crush her to him, but he still took her mouth hungrily. Whether she was surprised or overpowered, she let him part her lips with his tongue, but did nothing to either meet him or to push him away. She tasted of wine and warmth, but her unresponsive mouth finally bothered him. He lifted his head and frowned down at her, remembering the girl who’d once shared innocent kisses eagerly.

  “Forgive me, I’ve been told I’m not very good at that,” she said.

  “And how many men have you kissed?”

  “Several.” But she didn’t quite meet his eyes.

  “You’ve kissed me, and I remember things differently.”

  “You have a poor memory,” she said, sounding cool and remote.

  “With so little practice, you’ve proven yourself a highly desirable, innocent bride, one I can mold to my own preferences.”

  “As if I’m a piece of clay?” she scoffed. “Your kisses won’t persuade me to marry ye; I’ve been shown a sign that it’s not meant to be.”

  “Your stubbornness isn’t helping.”

  “Neither is yours,” she countered. “But ye seem to think your kisses will. I’m not the same young girl ye fooled with false sincerity. Ye dallied with me, lied to me, then abandoned me.”

  “Abandoned—I was betrothed. Aye, I shouldn’t have let things go so far, but I’d never met Emily. She didn’t seem real to me.”

  “She was so unreal she wasn’t worth saving,” Maggie said bitterly.

  “Stop this attempt to make me think you were some kind of seer,” he shot back. “You were a girl I hurt, who lashed out and thought she was devising a way to hurt me back.”

  “Because everything revolves around ye,” she scoffed. “This contract between our clans is worth saving, aye, and to swell your head, I agree that even your life is worth saving. And I’ll find a way to do all of it, with or without ye.”

  Then she turned and marched back the way they’d come.

  MAGGIE’S emotions, held with such difficulty, now burst forth and she found herself shaking, both with anger at his refusal to believe in her, and at the way he thought he could use her foolish attraction to his benefit. She was so busy fuming that she briefly got lost on the way back. Every torchlit stone corridor looked the same. She silently cursed herself for not paying attention when Owen had guided her to the battlements. When at last she found her room, she closed the door hard behind her and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

  Kathleen arose from the window seat with a start. “Mistress McCallum, ye look flushed. I do hope that’s a good sign,” she added, smiling as if they shared a secret.

  Maggie gave her a lame smile in return.

  “Himself must have enjoyed looking at ye in that gown all night,” Kathleen continued, coming to help her unfasten it.

  He enjoyed it too much, Maggie thought.

  Kathleen seemed to study her closely. “I’ve . . . I’ve prepared ye a bath.”

  Maggie gave a pleased sigh as she glanced toward the hearth, where the bathing tub was resting on a towel. “Ye read my mind, Kathleen. Thank ye so much.”

  After Kathleen had helped her disrobe down to her chemise, Maggie said, “Go find your bed now. I’m used to helping myself. The tub can be removed in the morning—unless someone else needs it.”

  Kathleen shook her head. “Nay, mistress, enjoy it. A good night to ye.”

  Maggie followed the girl’s progress until she left the room, then sighed, relieved to be alone, without the need to put up a false face. She had work to do this night and should be using her bath to relax and ease her way into her dreams. But all she could think about was that damned kiss and how difficult it had been not to respond. From the moment she’d met Owen, he’d been able to appeal to her on a physical level, and even his lies and betrayal hadn’t changed her basic flaw: that he could manipulate her emotions and responses, that every touch, every kiss, threatened to sweep away her determination and indignation. Though it had been a struggle, she’d held her response back. Pretending not to respond to his kisses—or maybe to be a poor kisser—was a way to prove to him she’d make a terrible wife.

  But tonight she had to put aside those plans and focus on her dream. After the bath, she donned her nightshift, blew out the candles, and climbed into bed. Lying back, she could see nothing but varying shades of black as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A warm glow of embers from the smoldering peat seemed to pulse. With a sigh, Maggie closed her eyes and thought back to the dream of Owen lying near death. Though it disturbed her, made her nervous and uneasy, soon she was asleep, the bath having worked its magic.

  Dreams came eventually, but nothing with that vivid quality. They never took her back to the one she needed to see. She surfaced to consciousness more than once, trying to force herself back into that blood-spattered gown, but all she ended up doing was tossing and turning. She saw Owen in her dreams, but he was Owen the suitor, not Owen the bridegroom. He was kissing her, and she gave herself up to the pleasure, losing herself in him the way she refused to do when she was awake.

  At dawn, she finally gave up, lying with her head turned toward the sunrise as it slowly brightened her room. She’d never been able to force a dream before, and apparently she still didn’t have the talent. But she wasn’t going to give up.

  She was already dressed by the time Kathleen arrived with breakfast on a tray.

  Startled, the maid slowly smiled. “Ye’re makin’ things easy on me, mistress. I’ll have little to do.”

  After setting down her tray, Kathleen glanced at the writing desk, where Maggie had scattered letters in various stages to her family and even a few Edinburgh friends. It was a bit of a mess.

  “Never mind, I can see ye’ll always keep me busy,” Kathleen added, shaking her head even as she smiled.

  Maggie glanced at her desk. “Nay, ye can leave the desk to me, Kathleen. I may be messy, but I have my own organization.”

  Kathleen bowed her head in understanding, but Maggie was left wondering whether she’d hurt the girl unintentionally. Having a maid was an intimate, confusing thing.

  Maggie planned to explore the library that morning, hoping to find some legal books on contracts. She only got to the next floor when she realized she’d forgotten her shawl. She well knew how thick stone walls held in the cold.

  She returned to open her door—then stopped in surprise. Kathleen was bent over Maggie’s breakfast tray, eating the scraps she’d left behind.

  Kathleen’s eyes became stricken, her complexion paled, and she swallowed. “Oh, mistress,” she said faintly.

  Maggie closed the door behind her. “Kathleen, don’t be alarmed.”

  The maid couldn’t meet her eyes, just stared at the floor while her fingers twisted together over and over.

  “I was finished,” Maggie continued. “I don’t mind but . . . are ye not getting plenty to eat here in the castle?”

  Kathleen nodded her head. “I am, mistress, I am, it’s just . . . we never had so much food in our house in the colonies. I feel like . . . I’m hungr
y all the time.”

  Maggie wished she could give the poor woman a hug, but knew Kathleen didn’t want her pity.

  “I didn’t know things had been so bad,” Maggie said cautiously. “Ye can tell me about it, ye know.”

  “There’s nothin’ to tell,” Kathleen said.

  Her voice was so quiet and full of long suffering that Maggie’s heart twisted in sympathy for her.

  And then words rushed forth as Kathleen said, “Gregor’s blacksmith shop failed, and he finally listened to me, that it was time to come home. We had nothin’ there.”

  “Ye’ve both got positions in the castle. Things will get better.” Now Maggie understood why the maid was plump—she must have been starving in the colonies, and some part of her still feared she’d be without food again.

  Kathleen shrugged, still staring as if the carpet design fascinated her. “Gregor is unhappy, mistress. He owned his own smithy, but he cannot afford to here. I tell him ’twill take time.”

  “I think ye’re advising him well,” Maggie said with encouragement, even as she wondered what had happened in America.

  “Thank ye, mistress. I promise, I’ll never . . .” Her voice faded away, and she quickly took the tray and departed.

  Maggie wanted to follow her, to comfort her, but she stopped herself, knowing Kathleen would only be embarrassed further. It was true that things would eventually be better for the siblings. They’d returned to the Duff lands, ruled by an earl far wealthier than most chiefs in the Highlands. Her own clan had been desperate enough for stability for its people that her father had brokered this alliance by marriage with the Duffs. Nay, Kathleen and her brother would realize and accept that they’d made the right choice.

  Picking up her shawl, Maggie made her way to the library, nodding to the occasional servant passing by. If she received a smile, it was a forced one, and by the time she closed the library door behind her, she was glad to be alone.

  Two walls of the room had bookshelves to the ceiling, and Maggie felt a shiver of happiness work through her gloom. She might have an unwanted marriage looming over her, and the fear of a terrible dream, but the knowledge available in these books brought her a moment of clarity and appreciation. Where would she even start?