by Gayle Callen
“I didn’t want you to be embarrassed, Maggie,” he said. “When you’re my wife, you won’t want others to remember your reluctance to trust me.”
She frowned, not knowing if he was being overly confident or simply considerate. And then he began to pull up his shirt—with difficulty at first—and at the sight of his bare thighs, she almost whirled to give him her back.
But she didn’t. It was exactly what he wanted, to intimidate her, to fluster her, to show some kind of superiority. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a man naked, after all.
But it was the first time she’d seen him naked, and that made all the difference. Every part of him was perfectly made, from the width of his muscled shoulders to the narrowness of his hips. And his manhood . . . it looked very large.
He asked in husky voice, “So you want to see what you’ll be marrying?”
“And now I’ve seen it,” she said in a bored voice, and walked past him. She could almost breathe again when she reached the door.
She heard quiet footsteps approach behind her.
Over her shoulder, she said, “Tonight when ye return, ye’ll show me the contract.”
He didn’t answer, and she made herself hesitate with her hand on the door handle.
“Owen?” Though she managed to use a warning tone, her voice had an uneven edge that made her wince.
“Yes?”
His breath actually touched her hair, and gooseflesh rippled across her skin. She could swear she felt the heat of his flesh even through all of her garments. Trembling, she realized if she opened the door, she’d back right into him.
“I wish you’d wear your hair down,” he murmured.
She shivered as his fingers touched her hair behind her ears, then slid along her neck beneath the bun of her heavy hair, leaving a fiery path. Why was she tolerating this? Oh, because she wanted his goodwill about the contract.
She was lying to herself.
He kissed the slope of her neck, right where it met her shoulder. With a sigh, she let her head fall forward, giving him more access. He nipped her and she shuddered. His hands spanned her waist and then moved up her torso to cup her breasts and pull her back against him. She could not feel his skin but the knowledge of it against her burned.
“Blasted stays,” he murmured against her ear.
She, too, was wishing them to perdition, but then lost her breath as his fingers trailed along the top, where her breasts rose above. When he dipped a finger down between them, she cried out. With his other hand, he turned her face so that they kissed across her shoulder. She arched to reach his hungry mouth with her own, and didn’t notice that he’d begun to pull up her skirts, until a draft of air from the open window blew across her thighs.
She broke the kiss. “Owen! I said no touching!” But her voice sounded unconvincing.
But then his rough palms were sliding up along her hips, and it felt wicked and sensual and so necessary to her very existence. Her skirts got in the way, but he pushed them up and forward relentlessly.
And then he pressed himself against her bare backside. She felt the heat of his erection, the length cradled between her cheeks. She groaned, knowing she should fight this but unable to. She was trembling and weak and overcome with a passion that seemed to burn in her blood. He held her hips hard against him and rubbed himself slowly.
His breath was hot and fast against her ear. “Maggie, lass.”
Her name was only a guttural whisper, but just the sound alone increased her need for him. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, and for a frustrating moment, actually wanted to touch herself.
As if she’d summoned him, she felt Owen slide one hand across her belly and then lower. She forgot to breathe again, anticipating yet fearing his touch. When he cupped between her thighs, the sensation was so exquisite that she moaned, dropping her head back against his shoulder. His hand began to move then, spreading his fingers, dipping between her folds, moving deeper. He stroked her, and the sensation flamed inside her, higher and higher. His other hand caressed the tops of her breasts, then he tucked his finger beneath her stays to slide roughly across her nipple, as if he strummed the strings of a harp.
When he gently bit her shoulder, she felt the eruption of pleasure overwhelm her, shuddering through her, sensitizing her even more to the movements of his hand. And then he became still, his erection still pressed against her backside, his breathing harsh. In that moment, she didn’t know what she was going to do if he wanted his own pleasure satisfied.
Instead, he removed his hands and stepped back. Her skirts fell all around her, hiding what should burn like her shame, but instead felt glorious.
“Go now, Maggie, before I make ye my bride in the ways of our ancestors.”
She stiffened, glared at him over her shoulder, then marched out of the room on shaky legs.
Only as she reached the door to her room did she remember what he was off to do, confront enemies of the Clan Duff. Could he die, and this moment of her own pleasure be all she ever shared with him?
Or did her dream ensure that he could not die this way? She felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in her throat as she pushed open her door. Her smile died when she saw Kathleen’s look of welcome fade into confusion at Maggie’s expression.
Maggie held up a hand. “Forgive me. I’m trying to find a way not to cry, but it seems I cannot force any other emotion, though I try.”
“Oh, mistress,” Kathleen murmured consolingly, reaching as if to pat her shoulder with a familiarity that gave the maid pause. “His lordship will be fine. I’ve heard of cattle reivin’. A bunch of grown men racin’ around the countryside chasin’ each other like a child’s game.” Kathleen hesitated. “And I don’t want ye to be thinkin’ about those ladies who stared down their haughty noses at ye. Ye have beautiful eyes, and I told ’em there’s nothin’ hauntin’ about ye at all.”
Maggie withheld a grimace and simply nodded to encourage the maid’s rambling speech, needing to talk about something, anything, except the ways Owen had touched her, the pleasure he’d given her without demanding his own.
Or was he saving that for later?
CHAPTER 12
Supper in the great hall was a subdued affair. Many of the families had already returned home, and those that stayed anxiously awaited word from their men who’d gone with Owen and Harold. At last people found beds, even if some rolled up with blankets near the hearth. Maggie went up to her bedroom, leaving orders that Owen must come to see her regardless of what time he returned.
She told herself she wasn’t going to let him out of showing her the contract, but honestly, she was worried about his safety, too.
She was wearing only her nightshift, combing out her hair, when the door suddenly opened and Owen stood there, bringing with him the odors of dampness and horse and sweat.
“You sent for me, mistress?” he asked dryly.
And then he looked down her body and froze, and the memories of the kisses they’d shared, how he’d pleasured her, were as sharp as if they’d just happened.
Owen slowly closed the door behind him, and Maggie used the moment to don her dressing gown as if it were armor. She cocked her head and eyed him with faint confusion.
“Owen, what are ye doing here?”
“You sent for me,” he repeated, enunciating the words.
“I did not. Clearly ye misunderstood.” But she hadn’t thought this through, and didn’t want a servant to suffer his anger because Maggie was trying to provoke him. She distracted him by saying, “What happened? Was anyone hurt?”
Shaking his head, he went to the wine decanter and poured himself a goblet, then took a long drink before answering. “No one was hurt, on either side.”
She let out her breath.
“It seems several Campbell youth thought they could impress their elders and reive some cattle.”
Maggie’s breath left her in a rush, and she realized that there’d been a part of her that feared some
stray McCallums had decided they were tired of the peace.
“They were easy to follow,” Owen continued, “and just coming down from their whisky-fueled bravery when we found them.”
“What did ye do to them?” She knew it was within Owen’s rights to have them killed.
“Used our swords to paddle their backsides and sent them home to their mothers.”
His grin was a white flash in the near darkness, stoking her desire for him as if the coals only slumbered, always ready.
To distract her wayward thoughts, she said, “Then the day was a success all around.”
“It was,” he mused, staring down into his goblet. “I’d anticipated that the tedious aspects of ruling the clan would take away from my enjoyment of my scholarly pursuits, but I find it’s almost just as rewarding to change people’s lives for the better.”
“Almost?” she echoed wryly. “It seems ye prefer your dusty books to people.”
“Sometimes. I mostly prefer discussing them with you.”
Then he was studying her again, his shadowed expression intent. And she was remembering him naked . . .
Quickly, she said, “Don’t be thinking your heroics or your flattery will make me forget the promises ye made today. Ye’re going to show me the contract.”
His half-lidded gaze slid slowly down her body, reminding her of the physical promises he’d made, too. She felt flushed, her skin overly sensitive to the soft linen of her nightshift against her unbound breasts.
“You have a quick mind, Maggie, not one to forget. I had my secretary find the document for you. Wait a moment.”
When he was gone, she let out her breath in a rush and wiped perspiration from her forehead. It was not hot in the drafty stone castle, but she was feeling that way. After the pleasure he’d given her that afternoon, she would never feel comfortable being alone with him again.
Or had he hoped that the physical experience would make her forget wanting to read the contract?
He returned with a sheaf of papers and handed them to her. “How is your ankle tonight?”
Before she could escape his nearness, he caressed her arm, from shoulder to elbow, and she stepped away before he could go any further.
“Better,” she said distractedly. “I barely limp.”
And then she lowered her head and began to read the contract, trying to ignore him but, as usual, finding it difficult. While drinking his wine, he watched her closely, and it was awkward enough reading such formal language without his unnerving stare. She was relieved that her work deciphering the law book helped her understand most of it.
But neither her name nor his was written there, and she pointed that out.
“The amended contract is with your brother,” Owen said.
“Ye don’t have our betrothal in writing?” she demanded. “Our actual names? Ye ken what that means.”
He frowned. “And what does that mean?”
“Ye don’t have to marry me,” she said. “You and Hugh can amend the contract any time ye like, apparently.”
“You have other sisters you want me to consider?” he asked with sarcasm.
“Nay, but I have several cousins who would be perfect for ye. I’ll send for them.” She should feel relieved, glad that at last she’d found a way to escape the marriage contract and Owen’s risk of death, while still keeping the peace between their clans. But the thought of watching him flirt with other women made her relief strangely hollow.
He studied her as if she was a specimen he was examining. “Maggie, is there something you need to tell me about your dowry?”
Puzzled, she said, “I don’t understand.”
“Is there a simpler reason you need to avoid marriage? Did you discover that your father didn’t leave you the promised dowry? Or did your people need it more than you felt you did?”
“This has nothing to do with my dowry!” she snapped. “I’ve been honest with ye, Owen, and I don’t appreciate ye trying to find different reasons to explain my resistance to marriage.”
“Let me be honest with you. I don’t care about your dowry, whatever it is. You are enough for me to have in this marriage.”
She opened her mouth, but for a moment, could find nothing to say. It would be the dream of every young woman for her husband to want her just for herself. But he didn’t. “Let’s not forget our whisky land, Owen. Your clan has already begun to make a name for itself with our precious resources.”
He leaned closer. “And let’s not forget that your brother’s forfeiture of marriage to my sister would have taken that land away from the McCallums permanently. I didn’t need to marry you at all.”
“And now I’m supposed to be grateful for your pity?”
“It wasn’t pity!” he said with obvious frustration.
“Good. I prefer a practical decision taking into consideration the future of both our clans. Which is why Dorothy or Helen will do just as well for your wife.”
He set down his wine goblet with deliberation. “Go on dreaming, Maggie. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She flinched at his choice of words. “That’s ugly of ye, Owen. After all, I’m trying to save your life, regardless of how ungrateful ye are.”
Without a word, he closed the door behind him, and she was left fuming at his need to find another reason she was resistant to the marriage. Because of course, it couldn’t be the simple truth that she’d been telling him from the beginning, she thought sarcastically. She sat down at her writing desk and began a letter to her brother, pushing aside her anger to cheerfully praise the upcoming festival, and asking him to bring two of her cousins to enjoy the event, though she didn’t explain why . . .
FOR the next few days, Maggie had a bit of reprieve from Owen’s attentions as he concentrated on the paperwork generated by his decisions at the assembly. Although once she was in the library struggling through a book on natural philosophy, and Owen took time from his schedule to discuss the many branches of the science. During their discussion, she occasionally found herself studying his face, the sober, intent way he explained everything to her, yet with an element of excited wonder he tried to hide, as if “wonder” was a childish emotion. He would never be the kind of man to think his life had to be the same routine, day in and day out, not when simply studying the world gave him such pleasure. He saw endless possibilities stretched out before him, the promise of new discoveries. Quantitative discoveries, of course, she reminded herself angrily, not discoveries as vague as dreams or visions. Nothing to do with deeper emotions. Maybe she was focusing on educating herself for some of the same reasons. Because she didn’t have to look at the woman she’d become, one who held back from life, who couldn’t take the risk of anyone knowing her truest self. She’d offered that to Owen not once, but twice, and felt humiliated and disregarded when he’d branded her a liar.
But she could not change Owen, and she had to focus on the fact that he expected the discoveries of science to help mankind, to help his people. He would never be a man who kept himself apart. He wanted to be familiar to them, to know them in return. To that end, they had another manly competition, target shooting. The men of the nearby villages and the castle barracks met up in the field on the far side of the moat and took turns impressing each other with their marksmanship.
More than once she’d caught Gregor glaring at her, as if he was thinking of the McCallums he’d like to be shooting. It made her uncomfortable, casting a dark cloud over the event of the day.
This was the first competition that Owen won outright, and afterward, she saw Gregor monopolize him for several long minutes, and she could only wonder what the smithy was saying.
She told herself it wasn’t important if she herself was accepted by the Duff clan—her replacement would be arriving soon. Maggie hoped that in some small way, her presence here had already begun the healing, easing the way for Owen’s McCallum wife. She had beautiful cousins, and she knew Owen would be just as attracted to them as to her. He’d done not
hing to show her he had any deeper regard for her than as a woman to warm his bed and stop a feud. They had the occasional discussions, but he could have those with anyone. And if it made her feel a deep sorrow, it was the price she’d have to pay for keeping him safe.
Suddenly, she heard a child cry out from the midst of a pack of children gathered to watch the competition. Owen strode within their midst, and soon he emerged leading a young boy, whose dirty face was streaked with tears—and blood was dripping from his hand.
Maggie rushed toward them. “What happened?” she demanded, taking a handkerchief from within her sleeve and wrapping it about the boy’s bleeding palm.
“It seems James here thought a dirk-throwing competition should be next, and decided to show his friends what he could do.”
The boy, who could not be more than ten, sniffed back his tears and said nothing.
“Could you help him, Maggie?” Owen asked.
“Take him to the great hall and send for hot water. I’ll fetch my sewing.”
When they met again, she was surprised that Owen was still with James, and in fact, was bathing the boy’s hand over a basin of now pink water. Mrs. Robertson stood back and watched fondly, and Maggie couldn’t help thinking that such a display of compassion did Owen well before his people. But that was cynical of her.
She set to work, cleaning the wound with soap, even as the boy cried silent tears without resisting her. After warning James to remain as still as possible, Maggie carefully sewed the wound closed with a few stitches. His face paled and he twitched, but he was a good patient. At last she covered the wound with a salve Mrs. Robertson supplied, bandaged it, then let the boy go, with the admonishment to keep it clean and have his mother apply fresh bandages each day. James ran from the hall as if she’d tortured him. Maggie watched ruefully.