The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (13 page)

In the library, she knew he was trying to make
things simple as he talked about the telescope, showing her the eyepiece mounted on the side of the polished wooden tube. Never once did he make her feel inferior because she had so little knowledge of her own.

“This is a reflecting telescope, invented in the 1660s by Isaac Newton, who died earlier this year.”

She nodded solemnly and let him talk on about the different mirrors used in the various telescopes, and how they reflected light. She didn’t understand most of it, but for once, she didn’t allow herself to become frustrated. He would teach her, she saw that now. He didn’t think of her as a mere woman, too stupid to understand manly concepts. Being treated that way was . . . refreshing. He seemed like a different person, as if the weight of his responsibilities as chief and earl fell away, and the guarded way he held himself around her faded. He was just another scholar, full of enthusiasm for learning. His father had tried to crush that thirst for knowledge, but Owen hadn’t allowed that to happen.

“Just six years ago,” he continued, “John Hadley presented a revised version of Newton’s telescope at the Royal Society. I was fortunate to be there and see its demonstration,” he said, his eyes unfocused as he remembered what was obviously a momentous occasion for him.

“Ye spent most of your time in England,” she observed. “I’m curious why ye didn’t become a Hanoverian instead of a Jacobite. By all rights, ye should have
been more loyal to the Crown than our King Over the Water.”

“I won’t forget that Scotland’s king—England’s true king—had his throne taken away from him, and we Scots had more and more taken away from us. We were promised our equal place in Parliament, and then it was denied us. Those rights still haven’t been fully restored. There are new customs and excise taxes—”

He broke off when Maggie stared at him in disbelief.

“I did spend my entire life in Scotland,” she pointed out.

“Then you know I could go on with our grievances,” he answered smoothly. “It still infuriates me. Famine only made things worse. When the Jacobites tried to bring our king back to Scotland and his rightful rule, I supported it.”

She frowned. “My brother Hugh was eighteen during the Fifteen rising. He fought in it. But you were only sixteen. Surely ye didn’t participate.”

He looked back through the eyepiece of his telescope.

“Owen?”

“No, I didn’t fight,” he said, meeting her gaze, “but not because I didn’t want to. I was in Scotland when the call came to gather the clans. My own people went. I planned to go with them. And then I was hit from behind.”

Maggie inhaled with surprise.

“When I woke up, trapped in a coach, we’d already
crossed into England. My father kept me a prisoner at one of our estates for that entire autumn and winter. Over ten thousand Highlanders gathered to defend our country and our king, and I wasn’t there.”

“Ye ken it didn’t turn out well, Owen,” she said quietly. “So many mistakes were made. The Earl of Mar delayed when he should have pressed forward. Men deserted while our leaders argued over what to do next. And then when we finally fought at Sheriffmuir, Mar refused to engage our entire army, and the Duke of Argyll and his much smaller force were allowed to withdraw.” She sighed. “Even the Scottish contingent that marched into England surrendered. How ironic that both sides claimed victory.”

Owen was watching her with interest. “You know the details well.”

She shrugged and felt a warm embarrassment steal over her, then silently berated herself for it. It wasn’t in her plan to win his admiration—she was supposed to be his idea of a terrible wife. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut and play dumb? It was too late now. “My mother brought me back to Larig Castle as the clans were gathering, figuring I’d be most safe there. My brother eventually returned from the battle, wounded, and—and he told me everything.” She’d almost said she helped nurse him back to health, but she didn’t want Owen to know she had any healing skills.

“I didn’t know Hugh had defended us,” Owen said. “While he fought, I read books. Are you not
impressed?” he asked bitterly. “Clan Duff was represented by my uncle Harold and many of our men, while I was safe in England.”

She understood far more than he was actually saying. Was that guilt he was trying to hide? Could that have been part of the reason he rarely came home?

“But I learned from all of it,” he continued. “I’ve made sure these last years that although the Disarming Act was supposed to deprive us of weapons, we’ve taken good care to hide ours away. Let the Campbells and the Hanoverians and Whigs do without; we’ll be ready to defend what is ours.”

He sounded like a warrior, like a Highlander, and it made something deep inside give a little quiver of need.

To distract herself, she asked quickly, “Does the watch bother ye here?”

“They don’t dare. Those companies can police the Lowlands and the burghs. We take care of our own in the Highlands.”

Maggie saw the determination in the coldness of his deep brown eyes as he stared out the window. She imagined he looked out across the breadth of his land, unseen in the dark, and like many men, he must wish the soldiers would try to come against him, so that he could fight. It was an uncivilized urge for a civilized man, and it made him far too attractive to her.

She deliberately turned back to his telescope and gestured.

The edge of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. “I lined up the telescope where Jupiter is, but let me prepare it for you. You’ll be amazed that there are so many moons around one planet.”

Trying to ignore his nearness, she bent over the telescope to look through the eyepiece. He didn’t let her ignore him, of course. He guided her position at the telescope by placing his hands on her hips to move her, then touched her back as he bent over her to make sure she was looking through it correctly. There was only one eyepiece—how wrong could she get it?

She studied the white disk in the black sky, and when Owen told her how to see the moons’ shadows against Jupiter, she finally started losing herself in the wonder of it all.

She straightened and looked up at Owen. “That is . . . magical,” she breathed. “To think that there are other moons, other planets, that men have developed ways to see them through the vast reaches of the heavens . . .”

“Not just men. I read the works of a French astronomer, a woman named Jeanne Dumée.”

“A woman?” Maggie breathed, stunned.

“She said she hoped to convince people there was no difference between the brains of men and women. I didn’t need her to tell me that. I grew up alongside a formidable woman.”

His relationship with his sister was as strong as hers
with Hugh. It made her think more kindly of Owen, when she couldn’t afford to.

She said, “Cat was very lucky to be allowed to show her intelligence. Though your father was cruel to my brother, he seemed to allow Cat to grow up with dignity and a freedom many women lack.”

Owen shrugged. “He deliberately chose when he would allow either of us that right.”

She thought of Owen confined to his home, reading for endless hours when he wanted to be with his clan fighting for Scottish freedom. For a long moment, they seemed held near one another by invisible strings of tension that pulled her closer regardless of her rational wariness. Her skin felt too sensitive for her body, and somehow she knew touching him would make things both better and far more dangerous.

But he turned back to the telescope and started lecturing again, and she told herself to feel relieved. She put her hand on the law book to remember her priorities.

C
HAPTER
8

T
he next morning, when Owen informed her he was leading his men on a hunting party for a few days, Maggie was relieved. He knew it, she knew it, but he only shook his head and made his plans, giving her a resounding kiss in the great hall as he departed, where everyone could see him. He took obvious delight in telling her to talk with Mrs. Robertson about an upcoming festival the castle would be hosting. When she looked aghast, he settled her down by telling her that her family would be invited, too. Then Maggie retreated to her room to begin a sewing project that made her gleeful when she imagined Owen’s reaction. Mrs. Robertson seemed relieved she had some form of womanly inclination, but Maggie made certain the housekeeper couldn’t see exactly what she was sewing. Maggie noticed that Mrs. Robertson didn’t bother to mention the festival, and Maggie didn’t bother to bring it up, knowing she needed to pretend indifference
. Mrs. Robertson was probably relieved to handle it herself.

In the afternoon, Maggie spent hours in the library, struggling through books on marriage law and making little headway. By evening, she was exhausted and suffering a headache, so she made her excuses to miss supper in the great hall and ate quietly from a tray in her room. With plans to find her bed early, she called for Kathleen’s help undressing, then dismissed her for the night. Maggie practically sighed her pleasure as she pulled down the counterpane on her bed.

She jerked in surprise at what was nestled in her clean sheets—a stick, bare of bark, with the letters of her name carved backward in it. There was nothing else, though she tossed back all the bedding just in case.

The stick seemed ugly and foreign against the white sheets, a representation that someone had invaded her room and left this to . . . what?

It was a talisman, she suddenly realized, and shivered. A talisman or charm, and she knew enough of superstition—had educated herself because of her fears of what others would think of her—to know that it was the mark of witchcraft, specifically a mark of evil intent.

Was it supposed to make her fear a curse, which she didn’t believe in, or implicate
her
as a witch? No one knew the secret of her dreams except Owen—or did they? She suddenly felt very vulnerable and frightened. Without thinking, she picked up the ugly thing
and tossed it onto the fire, where flames licked greedily before consuming it.

She hugged herself and watched, even as she wondered if the same person behind this had started the fires on clan lands. Had this person grown bolder when no one connected those fires to accuse the McCallums? Was she now to be the focus of someone’s hatred? She needed to tell Owen and—

Then she groaned aloud. She’d burned it, had only been thinking that she didn’t want the evidence of hatred anywhere near her—hadn’t wanted a servant to find it in her possession.

But now she had no proof to show Owen that this villain had penetrated into the castle itself with his threats.

Cursing her impulsiveness, Maggie straightened the bedclothes and reluctantly climbed in. Someone hateful had invaded her room, touched her bed, threatened her. It was a long time before sleep claimed her, and even then, she awoke several times in the night, fearing that someone was trying to enter her room. She slept better only when she pushed a chest in front of the door.

T
WO
days later, Owen rode home through the gates of Castle Kinlochard with the hunting party and searched the crowd for Maggie’s lovely face. He’d been unnaturally concerned about her in his absence, even though he knew his uncle had the castle’s safety well
under control. She wasn’t with the servants crowded around to deal with the carcasses of partridges, duck, and deer being unloaded from packhorses. And then he spotted her at the top of the stairs, at the double doors leading into the great hall. She wore a dark gown that had been altered to downplay her figure, just as she’d done to her other gowns. The skirt was parted, showing off an underskirt made of different colors that clashed garishly, and the neckline was sewn with uneven edges. He could only imagine how appalled her lady’s maid must be.

The new attempt to make herself unpresentable reluctantly amused him. He’d countered by trying to show her that there was nothing she could do to make him break their betrothal, that he wanted her regardless. Could this all be part of a plan with her brother? The man he’d sent to investigate the McCallums had yet to return.

Owen was far too preoccupied with Maggie, he thought with resignation. On the nights he’d lain across the hillside heather, wrapped in his plaid, he imagined what her hair would look like when he removed all the pins and let it fall about her shoulders. He wanted her eyes hot with wanting him, like he’d only glimpsed once or twice until she shuttered her thoughts from him, hid behind her stubbornness.

Now in the courtyard, he lifted his arm in a salute to her where she stood on the landing high above, and she nodded. He saw people looking from him to her,
and that was good. Those who were against peace between the clans had to see that this marriage was a foregone conclusion.

He dismounted into the muddy courtyard, and a groom came to lead his horse away. Taking the stairs two at a time, he saw Maggie’s eyes widen, even as he reached to take both of her hands in his, a deliberately romantic gesture. He pressed her warm hands to his cool lips, then looked up at her.

She eyed him speculatively. “Who are ye trying to impress? ’Tis certainly not me. Ye’ve only been gone two nights.”

He studied her closely. “You are well and safe?”

“And why wouldn’t I be?”

But she didn’t quite meet his gaze, and he frowned his concern.

“Your uncle was practically my bodyguard,” she rushed on, “and I could swear there were several other ‘shadows’ near me, too. Remind me next time, so I don’t think a villain has me in his sights.”

“I will remember.”

Her words were lighthearted, but he sensed a . . . falseness about her, as if there was more she could be saying.

Taking her arm, he led her into the great hall, where servants were feeding the hunting party.

“I assume the hunt was successful?” she asked.

“In more ways than one.”

“And what does that mean?”

He lowered his voice. “My uncle organized the hunt, but assumed I wouldn’t go.”

Her brows knit with puzzlement. “But ye’re the chief.”