The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (21 page)

“Better,” she said distractedly. “I barely limp.”

And then she lowered her head and began to read the contract, trying to ignore him but, as usual, finding it difficult. While drinking his wine, he watched her closely, and it was awkward enough reading such formal language without his unnerving stare. She was relieved that her work deciphering the law book helped her understand most of it.

But neither her name nor his was written there, and she pointed that out.

“The amended contract is with your brother,” Owen said.

“Ye don’t have our betrothal in writing?” she demanded. “Our actual names? Ye ken what that means.”

He frowned. “And what does that mean?”

“Ye don’t have to marry
me
,” she said. “You and Hugh can amend the contract any time ye like, apparently.”

“You have other sisters you want me to consider?” he asked with sarcasm.

“Nay, but I have several cousins who would be perfect for ye. I’ll send for them.” She should feel relieved, glad that at last she’d found a way to escape the marriage contract and Owen’s risk of death, while still keeping the peace between their clans. But the thought of watching him flirt with other women made her relief strangely hollow.

He studied her as if she was a specimen he was examining. “Maggie, is there something you need to tell me about your dowry?”

Puzzled, she said, “I don’t understand.”

“Is there a simpler reason you need to avoid marriage? Did you discover that your father didn’t leave you the promised dowry? Or did your people need it more than you felt you did?”

“This has nothing to do with my dowry!” she snapped. “I’ve been honest with ye, Owen, and I don’t appreciate ye trying to find different reasons to explain my resistance to marriage.”

“Let me be honest with
you.
I don’t care about your dowry, whatever it is.
You
are enough for me to have in this marriage.”

She opened her mouth, but for a moment, could find nothing to say. It would be the dream of every young
woman for her husband to want her just for herself. But he didn’t. “Let’s not forget our whisky land, Owen. Your clan has already begun to make a name for itself with our precious resources.”

He leaned closer. “And let’s not forget that your brother’s forfeiture of marriage to my sister would have taken that land away from the McCallums permanently. I didn’t need to marry you at all.”

“And now I’m supposed to be grateful for your pity?”

“It wasn’t pity!” he said with obvious frustration.

“Good. I prefer a practical decision taking into consideration the future of both our clans. Which is why Dorothy or Helen will do just as well for your wife.”

He set down his wine goblet with deliberation. “Go on
dreaming
, Maggie. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She flinched at his choice of words. “That’s ugly of ye, Owen. After all, I’m trying to save your life, regardless of how ungrateful ye are.”

Without a word, he closed the door behind him, and she was left fuming at his need to find another reason she was resistant to the marriage. Because of course, it couldn’t be the simple truth that she’d been telling him from the beginning, she thought sarcastically. She sat down at her writing desk and began a letter to her brother, pushing aside her anger to cheerfully praise the upcoming festival, and asking him to bring two of her cousins to enjoy the event, though she didn’t explain why . . .

F
OR
the next few days, Maggie had a bit of reprieve from Owen’s attentions as he concentrated on the paperwork generated by his decisions at the assembly. Although once she was in the library struggling through a book on natural philosophy, and Owen took time from his schedule to discuss the many branches of the science. During their discussion, she occasionally found herself studying his face, the sober, intent way he explained everything to her, yet with an element of excited wonder he tried to hide, as if “wonder” was a childish emotion. He would never be the kind of man to think his life had to be the same routine, day in and day out, not when simply studying the world gave him such pleasure. He saw endless possibilities stretched out before him, the promise of new discoveries. Quantitative discoveries, of course, she reminded herself angrily, not discoveries as vague as dreams or visions. Nothing to do with deeper emotions. Maybe she was focusing on educating herself for some of the same reasons. Because she didn’t have to look at the woman she’d become, one who held back from life, who couldn’t take the risk of anyone knowing her truest self. She’d offered that to Owen not once, but twice, and felt humiliated and disregarded when he’d branded her a liar.

But she could not change Owen, and she had to focus on the fact that he expected the discoveries of science to help mankind, to help his people. He would
never be a man who kept himself apart. He wanted to be familiar to them, to know them in return. To that end, they had another manly competition, target shooting. The men of the nearby villages and the castle barracks met up in the field on the far side of the moat and took turns impressing each other with their marksmanship.

More than once she’d caught Gregor glaring at her, as if he was thinking of the McCallums he’d like to be shooting. It made her uncomfortable, casting a dark cloud over the event of the day.

This was the first competition that Owen won outright, and afterward, she saw Gregor monopolize him for several long minutes, and she could only wonder what the smithy was saying.

She told herself it wasn’t important if she herself was accepted by the Duff clan—her replacement would be arriving soon. Maggie hoped that in some small way, her presence here had already begun the healing, easing the way for Owen’s McCallum wife. She had beautiful cousins, and she knew Owen would be just as attracted to them as to her. He’d done nothing to show her he had any deeper regard for her than as a woman to warm his bed and stop a feud. They had the occasional discussions, but he could have those with anyone. And if it made her feel a deep sorrow, it was the price she’d have to pay for keeping him safe.

Suddenly, she heard a child cry out from the midst of a pack of children gathered to watch the competition
. Owen strode within their midst, and soon he emerged leading a young boy, whose dirty face was streaked with tears—and blood was dripping from his hand.

Maggie rushed toward them. “What happened?” she demanded, taking a handkerchief from within her sleeve and wrapping it about the boy’s bleeding palm.

“It seems James here thought a dirk-throwing competition should be next, and decided to show his friends what he could do.”

The boy, who could not be more than ten, sniffed back his tears and said nothing.

“Could you help him, Maggie?” Owen asked.

“Take him to the great hall and send for hot water. I’ll fetch my sewing.”

When they met again, she was surprised that Owen was still with James, and in fact, was bathing the boy’s hand over a basin of now pink water. Mrs. Robertson stood back and watched fondly, and Maggie couldn’t help thinking that such a display of compassion did Owen well before his people. But that was cynical of her.

She set to work, cleaning the wound with soap, even as the boy cried silent tears without resisting her. After warning James to remain as still as possible, Maggie carefully sewed the wound closed with a few stitches. His face paled and he twitched, but he was a good patient. At last she covered the wound with a salve Mrs. Robertson supplied, bandaged it, then let the boy go, with the admonishment to keep it clean and have
his mother apply fresh bandages each day. James ran from the hall as if she’d tortured him. Maggie watched ruefully.

“What a fine seamstress you are,” Owen murmured in a teasing voice.

Startled, Maggie turned to him, only to find him leaning far too close. She shivered when he continued to whisper in her ear.

“What a good wife and household mistress you’ll make. Such compassion.”

She frowned at him—had he steered the boy to her deliberately to prove a point, that she was very capable of being a competent wife? Saying nothing, she packed up her sewing and left him, her nose in the air when she heard him chuckle behind her.

A
T
midday on the eve of the festival, a rider came to alert the castle that the McCallum party had been spotted and would arrive before supper. Maggie flew into a flurry of activity, including a last examination of all the guest bedrooms, knowing and accepting that she was behaving as if she didn’t trust Mrs. Robertson.

Maggie was surprised by how much the nearly three weeks of being away from her family had affected her. It wasn’t as if she’d never been apart from her brother for months on end, but then she’d had her mother. Now . . . she had no one to confide in, no one to feel safe with, no one who believed in her.

In her mind, she saw the image of Owen, felt again
the way his hands had touched her days ago, but not once since. Feeling desired was not the same thing as feeling cherished.

The thought of safety made her pray that Gregor could control his animosity while her family was visiting. The McCallums had been respectful to Owen when he’d been at Hugh and Riona’s wedding celebration; surely the Duffs could do the same.

Kathleen arrived to help her change for supper. Maggie usually didn’t do such a thing, but she’d spent hours in the gardens choosing flowers to grace the tables, and felt dirty and sweaty enough to take a bath.

She looked at the lovely gown Kathleen had laid out—not one of the ones Maggie had altered to make her unattractive. It was best if she appeared normal for her family; she didn’t want them to become suspicious. But she was still going to pad her waistline when Kathleen had gone.

As Kathleen was helping her tie the laces of her open bodice over the flat stomacher, Kathleen appeared flustered and red-faced.

“What is it, Kathleen?” Maggie asked. “Ye don’t have to be nervous about my family.”

“Nay, mistress, I promise I won’t be, but I have somethin’ to say, and I don’t mean to make ye feel badly.”

“Go on.”

The maid raised a pleading gaze to Maggie’s. “I want to apologize for my brother. I couldn’t decide how to say it, and maybe I waited too long, but . . . He
had no business tryin’ to talk his lordship out of marryin’ ye that day at the target shootin’.”

Maggie stiffened, unable to be surprised. She’d seen the way Gregor had been looking at her when he had Owen’s ear. But Owen hadn’t said a thing.

“I’m embarrassed by his terrible behavior in a place I want to call home . . .” Kathleen’s voice trailed off as she stared at Maggie. “Ye didn’t know, did ye?” the maid whispered. “Och, his lordship was sparin’ yer feelin’s and I made a mess of things.”

Maggie put a hand on Kathleen’s shoulder. “I already knew your brother was not fond of a McCallum marrying a Duff. Think nothing of it.” She almost wished Owen had heeded Gregor’s words. Then it would be over, and she wouldn’t have to see Owen’s dead face in her dreams.

She thought of the fires that had been set, the talisman in her bed, the rocks in the way of her descent. Could Gregor have been the one who raced up the slopes to hurt her? He was younger and fitter than Martin.

She changed the subject to chatter about her family, finding herself describing Hugh, Brendan, and her mother to the interested maid.

Before supper, she found Owen standing on the landing outside the great hall, looking across the battlements and into the distant hills. Below them, the courtyard was a hum of activities, with booths being set up for the peddlers to sell their wares. Owen
glanced down at her with a faint smile, and put an arm around her waist.

“Ye look lovely today,” he said dryly, glancing pointedly at her gown.

She answered primly. “Thank you.”

His look became sober as he returned to the view.

“Are ye worried about the reception of my family during the festival?” she asked. “Kathleen told me her brother tried to talk ye out of marrying me. Ye should have listened.”

He shrugged. “His words meant little to me. There will always be people unable to accept change. They have to learn that McCallums and Duffs aren’t so very different.”

For a strange moment, she almost thought he was telling himself that.

His mouth tilted up. “And besides, I believe Gregor was only hoping to make me miss my next shot.”

And then he put his arm around her waist, right there in public, and she had no choice but to allow it, short of embarrassing him.

To her surprise, he squeezed her padded waist a little tighter and leaned down to whisper into her ear, “I like that you’re rounded in all the right places.”

She stiffened.

“It makes me think of the pleasures of exploring your womanly softness in my bed.”

Frowning with annoyance, she elbowed him, and he chuckled but didn’t let her go. He was pointing out
that he knew the truth of her deception and teasing her about it at the same time.

But his familiarity reminded her of other places his hands had been, and once she’d remembered such intimacy, she couldn’t forget it. She wanted to . . . squirm as if she couldn’t get comfortable; she wanted to press closer to him; she wanted—

She wanted to find a replacement wife and leave, before her treacherous thoughts made her even more miserable.

“I believe I see your family in the distance,” Owen said.

She gasped and stood on tiptoe, as if that would help.

“I see a glint of light off metal,” he added.

“They have to be armed for the journey,” she hastened to assure him.

Amusement crinkled his eyes. “I have traveled roads before and understand the necessities. I know they don’t mean to invade.”

She felt a blush stealing over her but kept her gaze focused in the distance. Several clansmen came up the stairs, nodding respectfully as they moved past through the open doors to the great hall.

“Everyone we care about will be here,” he said quietly. “We could marry. The banns have been read once so far, and I could pay a stipend to speed up the process.”