by Gayle Callen
He didn’t say anything, just put his hands on his hips and waited her out.
“He was barely a man then,” she said reflectively, “just eighteen to my sixteen.”
He frowned so deeply she thought his eyebrows would hit his nose.
“And?” he urged.
“Mother was trying to make peace with the Duffs, since ye were engaged to Lady Catriona—Cat. I met Owen once at a dinner when we were children, and I made no impression on him,” said dryly. “But years later, Mother deliberately chose to live in the same tenement, and we became friends for a few weeks.”
“Friends,” he echoed, his voice full of doubt.
“That’s all we were.” To Owen.
“Did he lead ye on?”
“We flirted, Hugh, that was all.” Did Hugh not remember that Owen’s first betrothed had died? That made this even easier. She’d never told Hugh about the dream she’d had in connection to Owen, humiliated that Owen had believed her a liar—and worried that Hugh would challenge him over her honor. She couldn’t let Hugh know she’d had another dream, the first in many years. “He had a telescope even then, and I was fascinated to look at the stars.”
“It only took a telescope to lure ye to him?” Hugh said.
She gave his arm a push, a smile easing its way onto her face. “He didn’t lure me. We were friends. And then I discovered he was betrothed, and I knew our friendship was inappropriate, so I ended it.”
He searched her eyes as if he was trying to read her soul. She met his gaze with her best attempt at earnestness. It was all true. Sort of. Oh, this balancing on the edge of truth and falsehood was far more difficult with her brother than with Owen.
Hugh sighed. “But things are still awkward between ye—at least on your side. He just kissed ye.”
“Ye sound accusatory, like I shouldn’t be kissing my betrothed, when before ye were married, you and Riona—”
He put a finger to her lips, and she grinned at him.
“At that time, I considered her my wife in the ways of Scotsmen for centuries,” he said quietly.
Her smile faltered. Owen had said he would do almost that same thing. Men.
Hugh lowered his voice. “Does he know about ye, lass? Truly know ye?”
She knew that he was referring to her dreams. She shivered. “He knows. I’ve tried not to dream for many a long year, Hugh. I’m hoping it never happens again.”
“How did he take it?”
She shrugged. “As well as can be expected for a man of science.”
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said gently. “But it’s best to start a marriage with truth. I can tell ye that from painful experience.”
“We will make things work, have no doubt, Hugh.”
“Truly? Then why did ye specifically send for Dorothy and Helen?”
Hugh was being far too logical and protective. “I wanted them to be exposed to a wider world.”
That was true, too. When Hugh found out what she was doing, he’d be furious. She could only hope that by that time, he would understand the reason why.
OWEN was standing with his uncle when Hugh approached them. Owen offered the cuach of whisky, and Hugh held the handles and took a long swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Aye, I can tell where that was made,” Hugh said.
“You cannot,” Owen chided. “You know we share the land, so you’re simply assuming.” But Maggie had known, too. He pictured her that first day, full of bravado in the castle of her ancient enemy, beautiful and brave. He imagined what it must be like to spend the rest of his life away from his family and people. It wouldn’t be easy, and yet she’d agreed to give up her freedom for peace.
And he’d felt sorry for himself for being unable to choose his own bride, he thought with disgust. At least he could choose where to live, how to spend his money and time.
“Are your tastes not as refined as mine, Aberfoyle?” Hugh said lightly. “From just a sip I can tell what was first in the casks that aged the whisky, whether it be bourbon or sherry or another spirit.”
“Aye, I’ve been told that the best have such rare gifts,” Harold mused. “Ye’re a lucky man. As is your sister—a lucky woman, that is. She claimed the same sensitivity.” After another swig, he handed the cuach back to Owen before he left them.
An awkward silence stretched between the two men.
“We do have something in common besides Maggie,” Owen said at last.
Hugh eyed him. “And what would that be?”
“We’ve both newly been elected chiefs of our clans.”
“An election, ye say? In my case, aye, but in yours—ye would inherit the earldom regardless. I imagine the chiefdom is a given.”
Owen shrugged. “There is truth to that. But what surprises me is that the chiefdom is different than I thought it would be.”
“Different? Did ye not watch your father all those years?”
“Your father was here in the Highlands, ruling his clan. Mine did so from a distance, more through intermediaries.”
“’Twas not as if I wanted to model myself after my father’s idea of being chief,” Hugh said with sarcasm.
“Aye, I know. Maggie told me about him.” He gave Hugh a sober look. “She told me what he did to the serving girls.”
Hugh’s eyes went flat, and he took another draught of the whisky.
“I’m not sure she gave me the full truth,” Owen continued. “Did he hurt her as he hurt them?”
Hugh spoke forcefully. “He did not. I made sure of that.”
“As did your mother, by taking you both away.”
Hugh nodded.
Owen leaned back against the table, relief relaxing the tension in his shoulders. “I hadn’t realized how much I feared that there was an uglier truth until just now. Not that it would have mattered to me in terms of wedding her,” he added.
“’Tis good to know.” Hugh perched beside him on the table. “Does that mean ye’ve grown to love my sister already?”
“Love?” Owen barely kept from scoffing, not wishing to offend a happy newlywed. “It would be impractical to need such emotion when dealing with a negotiated marriage.”
“Impractical? Ye’re a little cold-blooded, aren’t ye?” Hugh shook his head and took another drink.
Owen snatched the cup away and took his own. “I’m hardly cold-blooded.” Ask your sister. “I’m being practical. Unrealistic expectations set a bad precedent.”
“Ye’re a walking university, aren’t ye? No wonder my sister isn’t happy.”
Owen didn’t take offense. “Then you see it, too.”
Hugh released his breath and gave a nod.
“Any idea what I can do about it? I’m already showing her I’m not cold-blooded,” he added wryly.
Hugh grimaced. “I don’t want to hear about that. Maggie . . . she’s always been a little withdrawn, a little different. Maybe it does come from having a father like ours. Maybe it comes from the dreams she used to have. If ye’re patient, and show her ye can be trusted, things might change.”
Owen glanced at Hugh, who was watching the dancers, but in an unfocused, sober way. Did Hugh actually believe in those dreams? Hugh had been an MP in London, had seen more of the world than the ghillies who lived in their timeworn cottages. Yet did he cling to the old ways and believe in seers and dreams? If the McCallums took such things seriously and raised their children that way, no wonder Maggie believed.
Owen looked down at the whisky that no longer appealed to him. “She told me once that she helped save a little boy everyone believed had drowned.”
Hugh nodded. “I wasn’t there, but I heard what happened.”
Owen released a frustrated breath. So Hugh only had secondhand stories to back up Maggie’s claims.
“They gave up searching the loch for him after a long day,” Hugh said. “That night, Maggie dreamed he was alive, and she led his parents right to him, where he huddled beneath a rocky ledge beside the loch.
They were still talking about how she’d saved the boy days later when I arrived.”
Owen frowned, but said nothing.
Hugh arched a brow. “She says ye’re a man of science, and I guess that means ye’ve had a hard time believing her.”
Owen nodded.
Quietly, Hugh said, “She was only fourteen when she dreamed about a girl in her death clothes. She didn’t understand what she was seeing—she was so young—and the girl was a stranger. They found her hanged the next morning. Maggie blamed herself, as if she’d put the rope around the girl’s neck. Instead, it was our father abusing her that caused her death.”
Owen had thought his father cruel, but compared to the torment inflicted by Maggie’s father . . .
Hugh’s words had cast a melancholy spell, and the two of them remained silent for a long moment.
Hugh gave a great sigh. “I can’t tell ye what to believe, but my sister has always been trustworthy.”
If only I could trust that you were telling me the truth, Owen thought.
Owen looked out to his people and saw that the musicians and dancers were beginning to tire. The torches had slowly begun to fade, making the mood of the great hall grow more somber and reflective. It was time. He found the healer Euphemia by the hearth. Her eyes twinkled as if she’d been waiting for him. He led her forth by the hand, and everyone hushed on cue.
And then Euphemia began to speak. He remembered this part of the Lughnasadh festival well, because as a young child, he’d been a little bit afraid of her. She’d seemed ancient even then, but didn’t seem all that different twenty years later.
In a mesmerizing voice that all quieted to hear, Euphemia spoke of the festival that celebrated the beginning of harvest, where the grains were almost ripe enough, and the first fruits of the season, bilberries and wild strawberries, were ready to be picked on the morrow. It was a time of joy, but also a time of tension, because winter was ever nearer, and the harvest had not yet been reaped. They would cut the first oats and make a bread from them as a ritual offering for a successful harvest. She even referred to the days before Christianity, where Lugh was a sky god worshipped by the people. He was the patron of both scholars and warriors—and Euphemia smiled at Owen as she said this.
He, too, was under her spell, as she began to speak in a singsong voice a poem about their ancestors and their worship of Lugh. Owen was glad Father Sinclair wasn’t in attendance.
At last her voice melted away. Euphemia took one of the last torches and led the villagers out through the courtyard. Those that were staying in the castle either rolled into their plaids or followed servants up to their assigned quarters.
Owen looked for Maggie and saw her with their mothers, and her eyes shone with wonder as she watched Euphemia and her followers leave. Then she realized Owen was studying her, and for the briefest moment, he felt a connection she’d been taking obvious pains to deny. Lughnasadh was a time to begin anew, begin new employment, anticipate the harvest—start trial marriages. He let his eyes show her all the passion she inspired in him.
She turned away.
CHAPTER 14
Maggie was still buried beneath her pillows when she heard the knock on her door. Groaning, she lifted her head and blearily looked around. Through the diamond windowpanes she could see the first gray light of dawn. Even Kathleen never tried to awaken her this early. And Owen wouldn’t dare.
Someone knocked again.
There was a whole castle full of people who could be lost, looking for their own rooms . . . With a sigh, she crawled out of bed, managed to slip into her dressing gown and simply hold it closed in front of her as she approached the door.
And then she remembered the threats against her. There were far more guards stationed in the corridors, but still she asked, “Who is it?”
“Your mother.”
Maggie opened the door.
Freshly dressed for the day, her mother stood there, smiling expectantly. “Good morning, Margaret.”
Maggie leaned her head against the door and blinked slowly. “Is it? ’Tis too early to know.”
“May I come in?”
Maggie sighed. They’d always been close, and her mother had had an evening to study her. Maggie had known this discussion would be happening sooner rather than later. Without even lifting her head from the door, she backed up a step.
Lady McCallum chuckled. “Ye cannot be that tired.”
“I am. But I’m glad ye’re here.” She leaned to kiss her mother’s cheek.
Lady McCallum surprised her with a hearty hug. “Oh, my lass, I’ve missed ye. We’ve never been so long parted, ye know.”
“I know.” Maggie smiled as she closed the door.
Her mother regarded the room with a critical eye. “These fine Duffs like to show off their wealth.”
“Ye mean they like to make their guests comfortable.”
“Mmph,” was the woman’s answer to that.
“Come sit with me, Mathair.”
She sat on a cushioned chair before the fire, and Lady McCallum took the other one and drew it close.
“I could hold your hand all day if ye’d let me,” the woman said.
Maggie smiled. “I’m not a little girl.”
“But I feel the need to reassure ye like ye still are.” Her mother searched her eyes, her own filling with worry. “I didn’t like sending ye off with a man ye’d barely ever met.”
“I know. But I’m well.”
“Pshaw, don’t try to lie to me. I see ye swaying those young men—even your brother—but I ken ye to your bones. Has it been so terrible here?”
“Nay, it has not, I promise, Mathair. Owen is respectful and kind. He has this incredible library, and he’s teaching me all about the wonders of natural philosophy and astronomy and—”
“Ye aren’t telling me what’s in his heart, lass.”
“I don’t know what’s in his heart,” she answered wistfully. “And it doesn’t matter, not truly. His kindness and generosity are more important.” She had to pretend they were more important than his trust.
Lady McCallum bit her lip and looked away, blinking rapidly, before she said, “Aye, and it’s growing up with such a man as your father that made ye think this, that love is unimportant. Take it from a woman who never had it from her husband—the love of a good man is everything.”
Maggie’s chest tightened almost painfully, as if her heart could shatter. “I can’t marry him,” she whispered.
She waited apprehensively, as if her mother would talk about duty to the clan and ending the feud.
Instead Lady McCallum’s eyes went wide and she squeezed her hand. “Tell me everything, my wee lass. Let me help.”
Maggie took a deep breath, aware of the magnitude of such a decision. And then she said, “I think I’ve been having dreams about Owen my whole life.”
She thought her mother would gasp or perhaps even brush that aside, but all she said was “Go on.”
So Maggie told her about the dreams of the little boy who’d practically grown up beside her almost as a comforting companion, the stolen weeks with Owen when she’d been sixteen, her confession of her dream about his betrothed, Emily, and his reaction.
Lady McCallum clapped her hands on top of her thighs and shook her head. “’Tis a sad thing to like a boy and be so disappointed in his foolishness. But he was young, then, Margaret. Don’t ye think he’s wiser to the mysteries of the world?”
“Aye, the mysteries of the planets or electricism. Those things can make no sense but he’ll still believe in them! But not in me.” The vehemence in her voice took her aback. She told herself to calm down.
“Ye know that for certain, do ye? Ye’ve discussed your gift?”
“My curse,” Maggie said dully, a rejoinder she’d always given her mother, though they’d usually been bantering. “And aye, we’ve discussed it again. It didn’t go well. He just can’t believe in the old superstitions.” She emphasized the word sarcastically.
/> “But ye haven’t even experienced it in years. Maybe—”
“But I had another dream about him!”
The despair in her own voice shocked her and must have shocked her mother, too, because she regarded Maggie with wide eyes. The silence between them stretched taut.
“He’s going to die,” Maggie whispered, trembling. “If he marries me, on our wedding day, he’ll die.”
She could actually see her mother visibly pale.
“Oh, Maggie, ye saw such a thing in your dreams?”
Maggie nodded, feeling the tears well up and spill over. She dropped to her knees in front of her mother and wrapped her arms about her waist.
“Oh, my wee lass.”
There were tears in Lady McCallum’s voice, too, and they just hugged each other and rocked for what seemed like a long time. At last, Maggie lifted her head, and her mother handed her a handkerchief so she could wipe her face and blow her nose. She sank back into her own chair.
“Tell me the dream,” Lady McCallum said, her voice laced with both firmness and concern.
“There isn’t much to tell,” Maggie said bitterly, “and that’s much of the problem. Owen woke me up before I could see the complete dream.”
Her mother arched a brow. “He woke ye up?”
Maggie waved both hands. “’Twasn’t like that. He heard me scream and came to wake me up the first night I was here. All I saw was me in my wedding clothes, and Owen lying on the floor, blood everywhere, his face white as death.” She hugged herself, her entire body trembling.
“But was he dead?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not yet, but I screamed and clutched him, and my clothes became spattered with his blood. And then—he woke me up.”
“So ye don’t really know he’ll die.”
“Do ye think I don’t realize that? I’ve spent my entire time here trying to have the dream again, to discover the ending, but nothing works. I’ve even discussed it with the healer, Euphemia—”
“The one who seemed to enchant the entire hall with just her voice?”
Maggie nodded. “She took me up to the standing stones, as if there was magic somewhere, anywhere, that might help me. But there’s nothing. So I resolved not to marry him, and have looked for another way to satisfy the contract and keep the peace between our clans.”