The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (20 page)

“Thievery, my lord!” the boy cried, so out of breath he had to bend at the waist, support his hands on his knees and pant.

The voices swelled with concern and outrage, and again, Owen raised a hand. “Boy, what is your name?”

“Arthur, m-my lord,” he gasped. “My da sent me to tell ye he’d been overcome by strangers and two dozen cattle taken.”

Maggie stared at Owen, hiding a wince at the realization that with so many men occupied at the assembly, an enemy had taken advantage.

“We know who did this!” rang out a man’s voice.

Maggie took a quick breath as she saw Gregor elbow his way through the crowd and stand in front of the
dais, hands on his hips. With rising dread, she guessed what he would say before he said it.

“’Twas the McCallums!” Gregor continued, catching the eyes of many men and nodding at them all.

Maggie clasped her hands together tightly and looked toward Owen. She tried to concentrate on his stern face to avoid the suspicious gazes of so many people.

“Nonsense,” Owen said firmly. “Calling an old enemy guilty because of history makes no sense.”

Gregor’s face reddened, and more than one man eyed Owen with wariness. Maggie swallowed heavily, knowing she was part of the reason it would be difficult for him to earn the trust of all of his people.

“The McCallum and I have a contract joining our families,” Owen continued, his voice calm and reasonable. “His sister lives among us, my intended bride. It would be harming his own family to harm us. Let us not jump to conclusions, but form a party and investigate. The war chief will decide our number.”

Maggie took a deep breath, realizing she was letting herself grow light-headed.

Owen came around the dais and went to the boy, putting his hands on his shoulders and talking to him. Maggie couldn’t hear them, but she knew many others were listening. Owen wasn’t making a secret of the interrogation, just trying to get any detail from Arthur without making the boy even more nervous by putting him on display.

Ten minutes later, Owen moved past Maggie, leaving the great hall, and she hurried after him. Without hesitating, she followed him into his bedchamber, and then closed the door in Fergus’s startled face.

As Owen unpinned the brooch holding the plaid over his shoulder, he eyed her. “Did you need something from me?”

The length of plaid fell to hang from his belt, and he began to unbuckle that, too.

Raising her eyes to his face reluctantly, she said, “I wanted to say I regret that Gregor could try to use my family against ye.”

“The feud between our clans lasted centuries. The acceptance of peace and the fostering of goodwill will take at least our lifetimes.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “You and I will be the beginning of it.”

She briefly closed her eyes in frustration. “Owen, I’ve said I won’t marry ye. And just now, in the great hall, ye promised to let me see the contract so that I wouldn’t embarrass ye.”

“I was not worried about being embarrassed,” he said.

And his plaid fell to the floor, leaving him wearing the shirt she’d sewn. It was ridiculously tight across his hips, and she almost felt strangely touched that he wore it at all. She reminded herself that he was doing it to annoy her, not to please her.

Then he turned toward the window, and she could
see the perfect outline of his—she hastily lifted her gaze and called upon every skill she’d developed to keep her emotions hidden away. She was an expert, after the parenting she’d had.

“Then why did ye agree to let me see the contract?” she demanded.

He said nothing at first, just stood where she could see him—practically every part of him. And she only arched a brow and waited, willing herself not to perspire. He was tall, and leaner than some she knew, but oh, every muscle was put together perfectly. When he bent to unbuckle his leather shoes and remove his good stockings, she swallowed heavily, then got herself back under control.

“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?

C
HAPTER
12

S
upper 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.