The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (2 page)

He met her gaze at last, and she felt like she’d never forget the heat she saw there, the passion he was showing just for her. But he was betrothed, and a lump rose high up into her throat, shutting off any words.

She scrambled to her feet and backed away from him before she would embarrass herself more by crying. “I—I have to go.”

“Let me walk ye back,” Owen said.

He didn’t try to change her mind, or promise to end the betrothal. The first tear fell down her cheek and she angrily wiped it away.

She held up a hand. “Nay, I—I don’t want to see ye again, Owen.”

His expression twisted with pain, and she knew she’d hurt him. She didn’t trust easily, not with a drunkard for a father, and she felt the worst kind of fool for trusting a stranger—a Duff. They’d exchanged so much about their lives these last few weeks, but not the most important detail of all, at least in a woman’s eyes.

She barely remembered the journey home, for she ran part of it, and even tripped on her skirts and bruised and bloodied her palms. She avoided supper with her mother by claiming a headache, then curled up in her bed and cried like she hadn’t allowed herself to all day. Her last conscious thought was how foolish she’d been. She wasn’t sure if she was crying over the loss of the friendship more than a romance, because she knew she couldn’t trust him again.

As if the floodgate of her emotions had opened up a deeper place inside her, she dreamed that night, one of the vivid dreams that felt so real to her. She saw Owen, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, there was another girl at his side, red-haired and freckled and lovely. They were being presented to each other. Light reflected strangely off a ring, and it seemed to pierce Maggie’s eyes as she looked at it.

Then the scene disappeared and Maggie saw the
redhead again, staring at her with intent. But the girl’s face was waxen, her clothing soaked, and water puddled around her.

Maggie awoke with a start, gasping for breath. Her whole body shuddered with chills, as if she, too, were soaked and freezing. She knew what the dream predicted—Owen’s betrothed would drown. Covering her face, Maggie rocked in the bed, telling herself she was being ridiculous—but this was not the first time she’d dreamed of a death before it happened. The first time, she’d been uncertain and afraid, and had watched in horror as it had all come true. This time, this time she wouldn’t bury the blatant warning.

After a restless night, she slipped out of their flat at dawn and went outside. She couldn’t knock on Owen’s door, but she could wait for him, and by mid-morning, he appeared, thankfully alone. She caught up with him by the end of the block.

“Owen!”

He turned around with a start and simply stared at her, his expression impassive, not glad, yet not uncomfortable either. She was so confused that she didn’t know what she wanted him to feel. Maybe sorrow, because that was what she felt.

She twisted her hands together as she faced him, not having realized how difficult it would be to reveal her secret, to risk his derision, or even his pity. She almost turned away—until she remembered the dream girl’s waxen face and aggrieved eyes.

“I—I didn’t want to approach you,” she said, “after—after everything that happened yesterday.”

He gave her a formal nod as if they were strangers. “I don’t blame ye. I didn’t think to tell ye a truth that still doesn’t seem real to me.”

“What is her name?”

He frowned.

“The girl ye’re to marry. What is her name?”

“I don’t see why it should matter, but she’s Emily.”

Maggie nodded, because hearing the name made Emily seem more real. “Can I speak with ye in private about her?”

Owen hesitated, and now he finally did look uncomfortable. “Maggie, what is there to say? I should have told, ye, aye, but—”

She waved away his words. “It’s not that. It’s—” She looked around, feeling as if everyone stared at them. “I cannot say it here, not like this.” She pointed down the wynd, the narrow lane that led between the town houses. “Come with me, away from prying eyes. Please, Owen.”

To her relief, he didn’t protest again. They walked silently until they’d left behind the fenced close at the rear of the town house, and out into a lane that led into the countryside.

At last she stopped beneath a tall larch tree. She was nervous now, and his air of impatience wasn’t helping. She’d been angry he hadn’t told her about his betrothal, but then again, she hadn’t told him about her
dreams. But how did one confide such a thing and not be thought crazy? Scotland had always had its seers, but she did not wish anyone to believe she was such an outcast. And the whispers of “witch” could be a woman’s end.

Could she trust her secret to a man who’d already been proven untrustworthy? But she didn’t have a choice.

Maggie stared into his chest, at the embroidered waistcoat of a viscount. It reminded her that they were very different. “I—it’s hard for me to say this. I don’t tell many people, but . . .” She trailed off, her throat closing up as she realized she was risking her future.

“Maggie, just say it,” he said with exasperation.

As if he was already done with her and wished to be gone.

She took a shuddering breath. “I . . . dream things, and when they’re vivid and real to me, they . . . come true.”

She met his gaze at last, and he eyed her with growing amusement.

“Och, Maggie, ye had me going with nerves there,” he said, shaking his head. “I spent all night wondering how to apologize to ye.”

“Owen, this has nothing to do with apologies!” she cried. “I’m not telling tales. I had a terrible dream last night, and your Emily was in it.”

His brown eyes narrowed. “Ye can’t have seen her. They haven’t arrived yet.”

With a groan, she flung her arms wide. “I haven’t seen her, Owen, not in truth. But in my dreams I saw her presented to ye. I saw a ring.”

“There’s always a ring—why are ye doing this to us, Maggie? Hurting us both for no reason.”

“I don’t want anyone to be hurt and that’s the point. I didn’t just see her with ye, Owen, but I saw her wet, puddles of water around her, her face cast white as death. And she was staring at me, as if she needed me to do . . . something about it.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye’re making no sense.”

She winced, feeling his disbelief like the cold chill of a late summer evening, the breath of approaching winter. Her voice grew rough. “When I see a person wet, Owen, it means they’re going to die by drowning.”

He said nothing at first. She could hear chickens in the distance, the low of a cow, but no human voices. No one was overhearing them to understand her secret—only Owen. And he looked at her now with pity, and even a little disgust. She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see it.

“This isn’t worthy of ye, Maggie,” he said. “I didn’t think ye’d let jealousy make ye tell lies.”

“This isn’t jealousy! Owen, please, ye must believe me, for Emily’s sake.” Her voice faded into a whisper, because she knew it was too late. He didn’t believe her; he thought her a pathetic liar and a fool.

“Good-bye, Maggie.” He turned and walked back down the wynd toward High Street.

“Owen, warn her, please,” she cried, taking several steps as if to follow him before halting, unable to embarrass herself further.

He didn’t look back at her; he didn’t stop. She hugged herself, feeling more alone than she ever had in her life.

T
WO
weeks passed, and Maggie never saw Owen on the stairs again. He lived in the same building, but he might has well have been in London. At another assembly, she saw him dancing, but not with the redhead from her dreams. Maggie prayed that she’d been mistaken, that no one would die.

He never looked her way. And the anger she’d kept buried finally rose up, and it took everything in her to remain calm. She hadn’t deserved any of his treatment of her.

And then she heard the gossip at the dressmaker’s shop before any announcement made the newspaper. Lady Emily Douglas had been boating with her family and drowned in the firth.

C
HAPTER
1

Ten years later . . .

O
wen Duff, newly the Earl of Aberfoyle, escorted the woman he’d reluctantly offered to marry into Castle Kinlochard. He dutifully took her slender arm, felt her stiffen, but she didn’t fight him, not openly. She’d agreed to the marriage, after all, though making no secret of her reluctance. It was ironic, considering how many women over the years, both Scottish and English, had flattered and flirted for the chance to be his bride. And he’d thought he’d have his choice of them, had been taking his time. It was all for naught.

It was long past supper, and a handful of servants were clearing the tables and talking among themselves. His sister, Catriona, trailed behind him, tired,
but still able to give him a warning look when they both saw their uncle, Harold Duff, standing beside the giant hearth beneath a display of claymores and targes that practically announced his status as war chief. Yawning, Cat waved in sympathy and headed up to bed.

Seeing Owen’s party, Harold slowly lowered the tankard he’d been about to drink.

No time like the present, Owen thought. As he brought his future bride forward, the formality of the gesture was not lost on the servants, who all grew quiet and wide-eyed, awaiting what Owen would say. Harold, a broad-shouldered man with a heavy beard, eyed Owen expectantly.

“Uncle, may I introduce my betrothed, Mistress Margaret McCallum.”

A gasp and murmurs rippled away from them throughout the great hall as the servants reacted to her surname. The Duffs and the McCallums were ancient enemies.

Owen said, “Maggie, this is my uncle, Harold Duff, war chief for the Clan Duff.”

Owen watched Harold and Maggie eye each other and, as usual, Maggie didn’t appear bashful or intimidated. That hadn’t changed in these ten years. Owen had thought of her occasionally, the laughing girl who’d once listened raptly as he rambled on about his obsession with science. That autumn, he’d willfully ignored his future, the one with duties and responsibilities
, as if wishing that a different life was within his grasp.

It had been easy to enjoy Maggie, innocent and bold, eager to discuss and debate and learn. Her eyes were still arresting, one blue, one green, and used to study him so solemnly, so eagerly, making him feel important, even if only just to her. Maturity had added dignity and wisdom to the beauty of her face. Her dark hair was drawn to the back of her head, emphasizing her heart-shaped face, her lips full and kissable, as he well remembered.

Harold cleared his throat and bowed his head. “Mistress McCallum.”

“Ye may call me Maggie, sir,” she said.

She spoke with her typical cool politeness. She’d been showing little reaction at all, these last few days since their betrothal. His sister, Cat, had nervously, brightly monopolized Maggie, as if sensing that things might not go smoothly.

Harold’s shrewd gaze shifted back to Owen. “And how did such a betrothal come about?”

Maggie studied Owen, too, her eyes alight with mischief, as if she was curious to hear what he’d say.

“It’s a long story,” Owen said. “Perhaps, Maggie, you’d rather wash before supper?”

She looked about. “We’ve missed supper, and if I delay, we might miss any meal altogether. Nay, the servants can bring me a basin to wash. I’m far too hungry to wait more than that.”

“As you wish.”

Owen gestured to the housekeeper, Mrs. Robertson, who was waiting for his signal. Soon he and Maggie were side by side on the dais. His bodyguard, Fergus Balliol, stood just behind, one hand resting on his sword and the other on his pistol, as if the empty hall posed a threat.

Maggie broke into a freshly baked bannock, closed her eyes, and inhaled with satisfaction. To Owen’s surprise, such an intense look brought a tightening of anticipation inside him, but he forced it back. It was good to be attracted to the woman one had to marry, after all. Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling himself. He’d fought a hard battle against his father to win the right to choose his own bride—only to lose that right because of the McCallums.

When the worst of his hunger had been assuaged, Owen took a sip of whisky.

Maggie studied him with those affecting eyes. “Is that the whisky ye’ve made from our lands?”

He arched a brow. “Your lands?”

“Aye, my family’s lands. The marriage contract between our families permitted ye to share in its bounty, not own the land itself.”

Owen knew there was no point launching into a deeper discussion of the contract. The decision had been made, and there was no going back. “This whisky is from—”

“Never mind my question,” she said. “I’ll tell ye if my guess is right.”

And Maggie plucked the glass out of his hand and took a sip. She didn’t cough or wheeze or even make a distorted face, as so many women did trying the Water of Life.

“I assume you don’t imbibe regularly,” Owen said dryly.

Ignoring him, she narrowed her eyes as she considered the taste on her tongue. “Aye, this is from our land. But ye’ve done something . . . different.”

“Have we.”

As if she hadn’t heard him, she studied the glass. “Ye’ve changed the proportion of the peat, I believe. The smoke of the peat fire is used to dry the malt.”

Her voice was a tad slow, as if explaining to a simpleton.

Maggie sighed, then spoke with satisfied pride. “Och, well, ye had to alter it somehow, or everyone would have thought it was ours. We do distill the best in the Highlands.”

“You did.”

She swished the liquid in the glass and sniffed. “Believe what ye’d like, my lord.”

He took the drink back. “You called me Owen not too long ago.”

“Ten years is a long time—Owen,” she said brusquely.

After the wary distance she’d shown him during her brother’s wedding celebration, he found himself relieved for the renewal of her spirit. He didn’t want to be married to a martyr.

“Ye seem familiar with each other already,” Harold interrupted. “Is that why ye decided to marry?”