The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (14 page)

“Harold believes I consider myself an earl before a chief. He only knows my father’s example, of course.”

She seated herself in the chair he pulled out for her. “So . . . this was a test?”

“Perhaps. He subtly implied the rough trip across mountain might be too much for me.” He took a deep sip of his wine.

“And ye’re not offended.”

“It was a challenge I appreciated, one that was necessary to my men.”

“And ye think challenges are simply for men?”

He eyed her. “I didn’t say that.”

“Nay, but ye’ve implied it, especially by the way ye had your uncle traipsing around like my nursemaid.”

“I wouldn’t let him hear you say that,” he said dryly.

“I am able to take care of myself,” she said. “Next time tell him that I once went toe-to-toe with a British soldier.”

“Of course you did.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and said in a low voice, “Are ye accusing me of lying—again?”

He cocked his head, aware that he was approaching
a line that she’d drawn between them. “Perhaps exaggerating for the enjoyment of your audience.”

“Those are pretty words for lying. I tell the truth—
all
the time.”

And maybe there was some part of her that thought she did, but it didn’t change how he felt about her ridiculous claims to be some sort of seer. Perhaps her parents had been so busy ignoring her that she’d fallen into the hands of a superstitious group of women. Or she’d found a way to manipulate people by claiming powers. One coincidence that ended up coming true couldn’t change his mind.

But he wasn’t about to say all of that. “Then go ahead and tell me how you and a redcoat faced off.”

“Aye, I will. He boldly stared at me one day as I walked through town, followed me home, came right into the parlor, and told my mother he intended to court me. She rebuffed him politely—we weren’t
that
stupid—and we hoped that that would be the end of it.”

Owen suddenly realized that sounded very real, very dangerous. “How old were you?”

“Twenty.”

She was like a little rooster, so much bluster and crowing, but very helpless against a bigger opponent. He felt a stirring of dread as he imagined her at the mercy of a man.

“What happened next?” he demanded. He heard himself sound cold, icy, but it was the only way to
keep down the heat of rage that was building up inside him. What was happening to him—what was she doing to him?

“He started following me, day after day, not bothering to hide, his red uniform blindingly obvious, his ugly smirk promising perseverance. My mother suggested I find a husband, but I would not be forced to marry.”

Maggie gave Owen a look that plainly said she still felt the same.

“He was not invited to private parties, of course,” she continued, “but at public dancing assemblies, British officers did as they wished. Finally, he found me in a corridor after I’d needed a moment’s privacy, and pulled me outside into the garden.”

The defensive righteousness in her voice was slowly fading away as her gaze unfocused. She was obviously seeing into the past, leaving her body so tense that Owen felt if he touched her, she might shatter. He felt an unfamiliar urge to comfort her, and it made him uneasy. This woman who was upsetting all his plans was part of a bargain, not a love match. He couldn’t imagine ever trusting her enough for that. But she was suffering now, and he didn’t like how her suffering seemed to hurt him as well.

“He tried to take liberties with me,” she said, her chin up with bravery. “I fought him, which surprised him.”

“You are fierce. I like that in a woman.”

As he’d hoped, it seemed to distract her from the terror of her memories, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Aye, weel, I would have felt better with a pistol or at least a dirk. But luckily, he was tippled, and I ended up breaking a vase over his head before giving him a bloody nose.”

It was hard not to look at her with open admiration, but he managed to conceal his emotions. She was a spitfire, which he’d known from the beginning. Brave and clearheaded, even when under attack. “Did he leave you alone after that?”

“Aye, he did, but he turned his sights on another girl less able to defend herself.”

Now her changeable expression became haunted, and he found himself even more tense.

“Her father took matters into his own hands when it seemed the worst had happened, calling out the redcoat. They fought, and the redcoat was killed. Although many stood up in defense of the Scot’s actions, they hung him regardless, and the girl was ruined.” Her voice was soft by the end, but she showed little reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing it was another in a long line of tragedies that a Sassenach had caused.

She took several deep breaths, and when she met his gaze again, her eyes were cool. “’Tis in the past,” she said at last. “And that story is the proof that I can handle any challenge.”

He studied her for a long moment, at the way her
unusual eyes sparkled with determination and pride. Without intending to, he found himself taking her hand and bringing it to his lips again, but not in the flamboyant way he’d done so in the courtyard. He heard her breathing quicken, and his own matched it.

Until she pulled away and said brightly, “Did ye kill many poor animals on your hunt?”

She didn’t want his sympathy, and he felt uncomfortable having tried to give it. “Many. I have excellent aim.”

“Then the castle will feast.” She hesitated, then turned that challenging gaze on him again. “Do ye remember the first dinner we shared?”

“Ten years ago in Edinburgh?”

She waved a hand. “Nay, not that. I knew ye wouldn’t remember.”

She went back to her bannock.

Curiosity got the better of him. “You’re going to leave it like that,” he said dryly.

“Very well. We were young when our parents forced us together for a meal. Ye were fourteen to my twelve. Ye didn’t even look me in the face, so angry at being kept from whatever ye’d meant to be doing that night.” She lifted her chin. “I thought ye a spoiled child.”

“I do not remember that dinner, but if you were twelve”—he glanced down at her chest—“you might have changed a bit since then.”

She gave him a faintly sarcastic glance. “So have you.”

“For the better.” He leaned toward her, inhaling the lavender scent that was a part of her.

“Aye, ye continue to delude yourself that way.” Shaking her head, she turned back to help herself from the serving bowl full of boiled broccoli and onions. He allowed her her silence as she ate, but eventually he engaged her once again, remembering her evasiveness when he’d first arrived at the castle.

“What did you do to occupy your time while I was gone?” he asked.

“I did not pine away for ye, if that’s what’s got in your head.”

“You can be a cold woman, Maggie McCallum.”

“Ye don’t need me to make ye think good of yourself. Ye’ve always had that in hand.”

Owen heard a chuckle behind him, and turned to see Harold, whose eyes still twinkled, though his lips barely curved upward. Fergus stared straight over their heads at the other dinner guests, but his mouth twitched.

“I’ll repeat my query so that we can have a civilized conversation,” Owen said. “What did you do to occupy your time?”

Maggie sighed. “I spent most of it in the library, if ye must know. Your books are varied and fascinating. I tried to find the most basic and easiest to read. I feel . . . quite ignorant.”

“When I read a new book, sometimes it takes me
days or even weeks to understand the complexities of the theory proposed.”

Though she nodded, her frown didn’t recede. She only wanted what he wanted, he told himself, knowledge of the world. It was rare to find that in anyone. Most were simply concerned with their own lives and struggles and never thought beyond their own villages.

“You’ll be happy to know,” Maggie added, “that I also spent much time sewing, a very proper womanly occupation.”

He couldn’t help looking down warily at her ridiculous gown.

She just blinked her big, innocent eyes at him before saying, “Mrs. Robertson told me that you were very particular about your shirts, and I insisted that I could handle the directions well.”

“You made me shirts?” he said, barely withholding a grimace. He had them sewn professionally in London and Edinburgh.

“I did. I’ll show you this evening so that ye can wear one in the morning. I felt so very much like a wife,” she said sweetly.

That didn’t bode well . . .

L
ATE
that afternoon, Maggie stood at the balustrade outside the open doors of the great hall. Below her, the men prepared to compete with their swords, part
of Owen’s attempt to acquaint himself with his men. They were as jolly as if on an outing in the countryside, rather than about to risk serious harm or even death by simply practicing. She’d been around the bravado of men her entire life, but sometimes it still surprised her.

She found herself watching Owen wherever he went. He wore an air of confidence, of command, that came from a lifetime of knowing he was heir to a chiefdom and an earldom. Men watched him or made way for him, showing respect for the position, and perhaps beginning to show the same to the man himself.

While the two dozen men discussed the rules of their competition, Maggie thought about the meal she’d shared with Owen. She regretted becoming so defensive that she’d confided such a personal story about her past. She’d never told anyone other than her family, had spent weeks and months, even years, wishing she’d done more to stop the soldier before men died. Such regrets seemed to be a refrain in her life, she thought bitterly.

Owen had simply listened, hadn’t passed judgment, hadn’t downplayed the event. She didn’t want to know about a thoughtful side to him, one that made him even more attractive to her.

She’d almost told him about the evil talisman, but hadn’t wanted to discuss it in such a public place. Whoever had done such a thing wanted her to be frightened, wanted to see her reaction, and she wasn’t going to give that person the satisfaction.

While Owen was hunting, Maggie had overheard Mrs. Robertson mentioning a healing woman in the village, and Maggie had made it a point to try the occasional subtle query to discover just how far this woman’s gifts extended. Kathleen, practically as newly arrived to the castle as she was, didn’t have any knowledge herself, but she’d proven useful in finding others who did. Maggie had become quite heartened to realize people associated the mystical with this woman, as well. Perhaps the healer would be the perfect person to help her experience the dream—if Maggie could find a way to discuss it without revealing too much.

Maggie had walked into the village, an ever-present gentleman following behind. In an unsettling turn of events, the old man, Martin Hepburn, had taken to following her about when he saw her. He never approached her or said anything, but wherever she went, on the green, or down a wynd between cottages, she could look behind and see him spying on her. Could he have been the one to place the talisman in her bed? He didn’t live in the castle—wouldn’t he have seemed out of place wandering the corridor of the family bedrooms? Or he could have had someone do it for him.

And then Maggie was distracted from her reverie when Owen swung a sword at his first opponent, the blade reflecting the sunlight like lightning. With powerful strokes, he drove the man backward again and again, parrying ripostes with the targe on his left arm. He lured his opponent into a deep lunge, and in the
blink of an eye, disarmed him by catching hold of his wrist.

Maggie’s mouth went dry at the display of power and technique. Other combatants were still battling each other, but those around Owen cheered, and the defeated man hung his head good-naturedly. Had her relationship with Owen been different, she would have cheered, too, enjoying the muscles of his bare legs as his plaid swayed about his thighs. After disarming his second opponent by using the man’s lunge to throw him to the ground, Owen paused to discuss a technique with his foe, demonstrating for the man’s benefit. More than one man listened intently. He was tutoring his gentlemen with patience, enthusiasm, and obvious knowledge of his subject. It wouldn’t be long before every man here followed him without even a hesitation.

In the final battle to decide the winner of the entire challenge, Owen faced his uncle Harold. Every combatant watched, as well as the servants from the household and even some of the villagers who had come in from their fields. So many people gathered around the training yard that if Maggie had gone down the steps to be with them, she wouldn’t have been able to see the fight. On one side of her was Kathleen, eyes glistening with eager excitement, and on the other, Mrs. Robertson, who was waving and cheering for Harold Duff.

Just before commencing, Owen looked up at Maggie and saluted with his sword. Heads lifted to glance up
at her, some even with interest, but fires had been set, witchcraft threatened, and more than one man had protested her marriage to Owen. Would one of his own clansmen try to kill him on his wedding day if he married her?

Then Owen and Harold started to battle, and the crowd had to surge back to avoid the combatants, who ran at each other, slashing swords, thrusting, parrying with their targes. First Harold was the aggressor, then Owen, and it went back and forth for some time. The cheering was so loud Maggie felt like her head was ringing. Kathleen jumped up and down; Mrs. Robertson whistled with a piercingly loud trill.

After a particularly athletic encounter, Owen and Harold circled each other. Both of their swords hung from tired arms, but their footsteps were alert. Owen was wearing a grin, and Harold’s eyes shone even as his face streamed with sweat.

And then suddenly Owen launched an attack, his sword weaving with an intricate maneuver—only to be captured beneath Harold’s strong arm, while the war chief’s own sword stopped a foot from Owen’s chest. A wild cheer surged upward and the two men fell back. Owen breathed as heavily as his uncle, both smiling at each other.