by Gayle Callen
“Gregor is an angry man.”
“And how do you know that?” he asked. “Has Kathleen been confiding in you?’
She smoothed her skirt over her knees, before taking a deep breath. “I heard him tell others I drove away your mother and sister.”
He stiffened. Euphemia’s wrinkled eyes narrowed even further.
“Say nothing to him,” Maggie continued. “’Twill crush Kathleen, who’s having a difficult enough time settling in here after what they’ve been through.”
“I’ll remain silent—for now,” he warned. “I know he’s angry at the failures of his life. Did you think he’d take that out on me in a wrestling competition?”
Owen couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice. He was also surprised that once again Maggie showed that she cared about him. He’d thought her dream of his death was just a way out of the marriage, whether instigated by herself or her brother. But here she was, worried about a clansman hurting him. It made him feel confused about her true motives.
Maggie looked away, chin raised mutinously. “Gregor makes me uneasy.”
“And you wandering about, without telling me, makes me uneasy.”
It was hard to imagine that the competent blacksmith would use a fear of witchcraft against a helpless woman.
Owen glanced speculatively at Euphemia, but spoke again to Maggie. “Why did you come here?”
Euphemia was the one who answered. “And could she not have been explorin’ the village and come upon me? Perhaps we agree that wrestling is a foolish pursuit for young men.”
“You don’t think that,” he said. “I remember you cheering along with the rest when I was younger.”
Euphemia actually giggled. “A man’s bare chest glistenin’ in the sun—nothing wrong with that.”
Maggie glanced at her friend, her unusual eyes full of amusement.
Euphemia let out a sigh. “Ah, weel, ’tis not easy for me to walk to the castle anymore.”
Maggie bit her lip and looked away, her disbelief obvious. Owen didn’t believe the old woman either. But at least she’d been there for Maggie. Could Maggie’s capitulation be aided by a wise woman’s counsel? No, he knew he would be the one to accomplish that. And he’d been looking forward to it more and more.
He looked past the cottage and up to the top of the nearest mountain. “Have you been to the standing stones?”
Maggie glanced at Euphemia, and he knew the truth before she spoke it. He could be his own seer where Maggie’s expressive face was concerned. So much for the old woman having trouble walking.
“Then come up with me,” he said. “I haven’t been there in years.”
He put out a hand, and though Maggie ignored it, she rose.
“Euphemia, are ye certain ye don’t need my help?” Maggie asked.
Euphemia practically giggled. “Young lovers need time alone. Go on with ye.” And without waiting for them to depart, she stood slowly and went back inside.
Owen gestured for Maggie to precede him past the trees and up the sloping path. He watched her hips under the ugly gown, thought of sliding his hands beneath and finding the tiny waist she was trying to disguise. She was becoming like the gift he longed to explore, a present far superior to the wrapping.
When they reached the summit, Maggie hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, before going to touch the stones without the fear some might have shown.
He could see a low line of clouds heading east, the ones that had left his clothing damp with light rain during the competition. The wind picked up, bringing with it the scent of vegetation and earth—his earth.
“Takes one’s breath away, does it not?” he asked. “The view reminds me of all I’m now responsible for.”
“It cannot be a surprise to ye,” she said dryly.
“It’s not. I’ve been raised to assume this position my entire life. But it’s different than I imagined.”
She glanced at him, those unusual eyes inquisitive. “The knowledge that ye’re responsible for the welfare of hundreds of people is surely daunting.”
“If I make a poor decision, people will suffer. Were we not to marry, many others would suffer in both our clans.”
She stiffened the moment he mentioned their marriage, but instead of changing the subject, she said, “I’d like to read our marriage contract. I’ve been studying your law books and—”
“There’s no need.”
“I demand to see it!”
“There is nothing there to give you hope nor to trap you. Your brother surely read it—he would have told you if there was something vague. I know you intend to invite him to the festival, but that might not be possible if things are still unsettled between us.”
She stiffened. “Owen, no more threats. My brother has to come. I need to see my family.”
Coldly, he said, “Or you need to beg him to take you away from here.”
“I wouldn’t do that, and ye know it,” she insisted, her voice rising. “I will not give up on peace between our clans. I promise to find a way to settle things without the risk of marrying ye.”
“Risk?”
She quickly glanced away from him as if taking in the view. The wind briefly buffeted them both, just as life was doing to them.
He turned his frown on the stones. “Is that why Euphemia brought you here, to see if old stones had some mystic connection to you or these supposed dreams?”
He saw a tick in her jaw from clenching her teeth so hard, but she didn’t answer.
“You should not have brought up our private struggles with her, Maggie.”
“What choice did I have?” she demanded. “Ye won’t listen—ye’d rather risk your death in an attempt to prove I’m a fool.”
“You think I take pleasure in proving you wrong?”
“Victory, triumph, whatever ye want to call it. Ye’re used to being right and won’t accept that there are things ye don’t understand.”
He said nothing—he’d already said it all. He didn’t like being suspicious of her plans for her brother, but it reminded him that much as he was trying to seduce her, he could never trust her.
But there was her concern for his safety . . .
Maggie let out an exaggerated sigh. “Surely there’s another woman you can marry, far more sophisticated than I, who would make the perfect wife for an earl. Ye had to negotiate with your father for the right to choose your bride. That meant much to ye. Surely ye had plans, lists of suitable women, perhaps. There must be a distant McCallum relative ye can marry in there somewhere.”
He caught her by the upper arms so he could look into her face.
“I am amused by your image of me with dozens of women on some sort of marriage list.” And then the truth came to him, and he said it without considering the consequences. “You know why none of those women interested me? They’re sheltered by their fathers; they care only about themselves or Society. And yes, some of them might do the occasional charity, but they don’t know what it really means. You’ve lived among your people, you’ve experienced harsh winters and bad crops and fevers. You were born to be the wife of a chief. And in eighteen days, you’ll be one.”
She flinched.
“You’re simply afraid of your destiny,” he continued, “afraid that you’re not in control.”
“I don’t care about control!” she cried. “And destiny—such a vague word. Can ye believe in destiny, Owen?” She advanced on him. “It sounds the same as believing in dreams.”
“Not the way I’m using it.”
She groaned. “And how was I any good for my people? My mother took me away, hid me from my father, kept me removed from my friends and others when they needed me the most.”
“Don’t make yourself guilty for another’s sins. Those London women didn’t make me think about marriage. Only when I saw you again did I know what I had to do.”
Her resistance was a wall she built higher and higher between them. He put his fists on his hips and
stared hard into her eyes, willing her to trust him. The wind picked up; his plaid flapped at his knees, her gown seemed to skim over the grass, and still their gazes did battle.
He wanted her trust, but he didn’t intend to grant his own. For the first time he truly considered this assumption. Was he just as guilty as any Duff clansmen of assuming that a McCallum trying to get out of a sworn marriage contract could never have a valid reason simply because of who she was? But how could he trust her when she wouldn’t let go of this notion of dreams that came true? It only served to remind him of the foolish mistakes of his youth, where he let his emotions for Maggie overrule his duty to Emily and his clan.
“So ye weren’t thinking of marriage in London,” she said, “but surely there were women.”
“Women?”
“Women ye spent time with.”
“You mean mistresses?”
“Ye had them. All men do.”
“Do they? I didn’t know it was a rule.”
“Ye’re avoiding the question.” She took a deep breath, and the wind whipped dark curls of hair about her head. “I don’t love ye, Owen, but it doesn’t mean I want ye to die. Maybe ye should find another woman who’d be more suitable, less deadly.”
She started back down the hillside, going too fast. And then she stumbled and fell, dropping out of sight. Owen raced after her.
CHAPTER 11
The gravel gave way before Maggie, and directly in her path were two small boulders that hadn’t been there before. Trying to avoid them, her feet slipped from beneath her. She cried out, desperately flinging both arms wide, but could find nothing to hold on to. She slid sideways down a rocky slope, rather than following the path that hugged the hilltop. She came to a halt hard against a boulder, and she felt her ankle twist with a sharp pain. But she didn’t let go.
As she panted and tried to see how far away the path was, she felt rocks and dirt raining down on her.
“Maggie!”
Owen’s voice from above her was urgent, but she wasn’t fool enough to think he cared about her except as a pawn between their clans. Then his arm smacked her hard on the back as he tried to catch himself on the same boulder. He came to a stop beside her, while gravel continued to fall all around them. With his arms he shielded her from the worst of it. Her ankle throbbed dully, but that faded compared to the worry that someone might have placed those rocks where she and Owen wouldn’t see them until it was too late.
But they were rocks on an incline, she scolded herself silently. They could have shifted because of their earlier passing. She was letting this unknown villain make her paranoid.
She remembered Martin had lingered at Euphemia’s cottage, and she shivered. But the man was old—surely they would have heard him attempting to climb the steep path?
When the last pebble had fallen and the silence was unbroken, she lifted her head to face Owen. His face was streaked with dirt, brow furrowed with what could be anger or concern.
“Are ye all right, lass?” he demanded.
She heard the brogue in his voice for the first time, and she didn’t like how it warmed her. She felt a cacophony of emotions, from unease to need to desperation to confusion.
“Maggie, answer me.”
The brogue was gone, but she knew she’d heard it. “I’m fine. I turned my ankle, but nothing serious.”
“You should not have rushed down the mountain like that,” he said sternly.
“Nay, I shouldn’t have.”
He opened his mouth as if to continue lecturing her, but she’d already given him the answer he wanted to hear. “Then come, let us see how your ankle is.”
He rose to his feet, and she allowed him to lift her by the hands. Gingerly, she set weight on her ankle, then tried to hide her wince. He started to put his arms around her, and she put a hand on his chest.
“Nay, ye won’t be carrying me or we’ll take a tumble. I’ve hurt myself worse. Just let me hold your arm.”
She could see his jaw clench, but he had no choice except to go along with her. They moved slowly through the gorse and bramble back to the main path, then she tried to keep as little weight on her foot as possible. The soreness eased a bit, and soon she was only limping by the time the path began to level out behind Euphemia’s cottage. The old woman was not in sight, which frustrated Maggie. Now Euphemia couldn’t say if she’d seen Martin go by.
They spoke little as they made their slow way back through the village. People were returning from the castle now, standing in their doorways, chatting with neighbors or feeding chickens. More than once, Owen had to explain that she was fine, a mere ankle twist, and she felt more and more like a clumsy fool.
But she never saw Martin.
As they left the village behind and the castle walls rose up above them, Owen asked, “Did Mrs. Robertson tell ye about the clan assembly being held tomorrow?”
She hid a wince, knowing Mrs. Robertson had done no such thing—quite deliberately, Maggie was certain. Maggie had asked for such treatment, after all.
“We did not discuss it,” she said. “’Tis not my place to become involved—I am not her mistress.”
She waited for him to insist she was wrong. She wanted an argument over this, another reason to prove herself an unsuitable wife.
But he only spoke mildly. “You’re right, of course. You don’t have the experience yet to host such an event.”
“But I—” and then she stopped herself. She’d been about to say that of course she had the experience; she’d been in the Larig Castle for several assemblies, helping the housekeeper and the staff. But she couldn’t allow pride to get in the way of proving herself incompetent to Owen.
She waited for him to display that little smirk that irritated her beyond measure, one that said he knew what she was up to. But he only looked concerned.
“The housekeeper will have everything in hand,” he said, “so no need to bother with the details. And you’ll need to rest your ankle, of course.”
Of course.
But she was too curious. “Will ye be passing judgment for your people,” she asked as the castle seemed to rise ever higher above the trees, “or will this all be about the business of the clan?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Considering my father was seldom here to handle the justice himself, and passed the duty off to lesser chieftains, I imagine many personal concerns have built up within the clan.”
“Have ye ever done this for the clan before?”
His pause was so slight she almost missed it.
“Of course not. I was not the chief. But I have been there when my father handled it. Much of it is common sense and only takes a laird to enforce.”
She’d heard many a conflict brought before her own father that were not so easy to settle hard feelings. But she didn’t point that out. Owen was overly confident; perhaps she could use that to her advantage.
They passed beneath the gatehouse and the secret rooms above, where once warriors would use their advantage over invaders below. Out in the misty, muddy courtyard again, she glanced at Owen, whose expression was set. She didn’t say anything more. Let him believe he’d won. She’d be like their ancestors and descend on him when he least expected it.
OWEN saw that his uncle Harold was waiting for him in the great hall, but he wouldn’t allow Maggie to hobble upstairs alone. He raised a hand to Harold, silently asking him to wait, and the grizzled old man nodded and eyed Maggie’s limping gait.
Owen studied her face, saw the pallor of her attempts to show that she wasn’t in pain. Many women of his past acquaintance would have been using their distress to garner sympathy, and instead, she was trying to pretend she was fine. Her pride might damage her ankle even further.
He picked her up, one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees. She gasped and reared her head back, as if she didn’t want to be too close. Other men might have taken offense, but he thought of her behavior as part of the challenge—he seduced, she resisted. He intended t
o win.
The whalebone hoops sewn into her petticoat caused it to lift her skirts high, and she quickly pressed it down.
He spotted a passing servant and called, “Send Kathleen with ice from the ice pit. The lady has an injured ankle.”
Maggie gasped. “Do not waste precious ice on my ankle.”
“Nonsense. If we were at our estate in York, we’d have a large supply of ice from the icehouse.”
“A house—devoted to ice?”
She sounded reluctant to be so curious.
“Yes, many of the larger estates are building them with double thickness of walls, sometimes half buried in the ground.”
As he went up the circular stone stairs, he was careful to keep her head and feet from knocking the walls, a tricky feat with the hoops fighting to expand her skirt, and in a narrow space meant to defend from warriors trying to battle their way to the upper floors.
But Maggie had put her arms about his shoulders as if to make herself smaller, a satisfactory result. At her bedchamber, he shouldered open the door to find the room deserted.
“Kathleen will be along soon,” he said, gently placing her in a comfortable chair near the hearth.
And then he pushed her skirts up to her knees and lifted her foot in his hands. “Hold all your skirts back.”
“Owen! ’Tis indecent! I will not be touched so familiarly by a man—ever.”
He eyed her with hidden amusement. That was a claim he could quickly prove false, but it dawned on him how . . . amusing he found her. He actually admired the way she held to her plan to prove herself the most improper wife, against whatever he tried. It was sure to be a losing effort, of course, but she wasn’t ready to concede.
“You’re being very brave,” he said, giving her his most sincere and understanding tone. “What a perfect quality in a wife.”
She started to push the skirts down, and he counteracted her by placing his other hand on her knee.
“Maggie, stop.”
She did, but her tension vibrated down her leg. She wanted to win, just like he did.
He could feel the slight swelling of her ankle, and that reminded him of how he’d felt when he’d seen her disappear down the mountainside: the shock, the urgency, the fear. It had been surprisingly potent, had driven away his self-possession, his belief that he was always successful holding himself to proper dispassion. He would not care for her like that, as if she was more important than anything else. She would play a part in his life, his lady wife, but only one part.