The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (3 page)

“Nay, no familiarity involved there,” Maggie said with a dry tone in her voice. “At least none that mattered. I do believe he offered for me because it was the only
honorable
thing to do to keep the peace.”

Owen stiffened. “Honorable? You cannot possibly question
me
about that after what your brother did.”

Her smile faded and they looked at each other intently.

In a mild voice, Harold said, “Shall I play the role of arbiter, as well as war chief?”

“That won’t be necessary, Uncle,” Owen said. “You asked me to explain what happened and I shall. You knew that Maggie’s brother Hugh was engaged to my sister since her birth. It was our fathers’ attempt to bring peace to the clan, to offer a dowry to the McCallums, and to share the land where they distilled their whisky. After Hugh became chief, he came to collect his bride, and my father behaved dishonorably by secreting her away and putting our cousin Riona in her place.”

Harold stiffened, but his expression remained impassive. He well knew the cruelty his brother had often practiced.

“Hugh took the wrong bride and fell in love with her,” Owen finished.

Maggie’s gaze shot to his face, and she didn’t hide her surprise. Had she thought he’d continue to berate her brother’s choices, the way the man had kidnapped Riona and wouldn’t believe the truth? Hugh’s mistakes were in the past, and after all, Owen’s father had played his own part. But the earl was dead, and it was up to Owen to make things right. His father managed to control him in the end, even from beyond the grave.

“So the marriage contract was broken,” Harold said slowly.

“Maggie and I decided to set it aright,” Owen answered. “We will marry and seal the bond between our clans. I don’t want animosity to ever erupt again.”

Harold looked from him to Maggie and back again. Maggie was simply pushing her food about her plate, her expression pensive, perhaps even sad.

They’d been forced into a marriage they didn’t want because of poorly planned actions on both sides. Owen was doing his best—she damned well better try just as hard.

“When will this marriage take place?” Harold asked.

The sooner the better, Owen thought. What would be the point of delaying the inevitable? “Four weeks. That is enough time for Maggie to settle in at Castle Kinlochard and have the banns read.”

Maggie stood up, pushing back her chair with force.
“I’d like to retire now. Mrs. Robertson, will ye show me to my bedroom?”

And without looking back, Maggie left the great hall. Owen watched her until she’d gone, anger and frustration warring within him.

“Take heart, lad,” Harold said. “Many a marriage has started worse.”

“Says the man who never found the right woman to marry,” Owen shot back.

Harold gave a rare grin. “Didn’t say which of us was the smartest, now did I?”

Owen exhaled swiftly. “Before I find my bed, tell me what has happened since I’ve been gone.”

They spoke for another hour before Owen said good night and departed, after insisting Fergus find his own bed. Another level up in the towerhouse, Owen strode down the hall, passing the chamber Maggie had been assigned without slowing down—until he heard a high, frightened, piercing cry from within.

M
AGGIE
struggled to return to consciousness, the weight of hands holding her down. She felt mindless with fear at the vividness of the dream, for it had been years since one stole so completely into her mind and soul. She was locked in the terror and reality of Owen lying bloody and near death on their wedding day.

“Maggie! Maggie, lass, wake up.”

She thrashed to escape, to stay in the dream and find out the truth of what might happen to him, to know if
being married to her meant his death, but the insistent voice kept calling to her, and large hands seemed to drag her from the depths of a deep pool.

She opened her eyes wide and saw Owen, and the night shadows cast by the moon looked like blood upon his face.

She screamed again, then grabbed ahold of his coat and pulled him even closer. “Are you well? There’s so much blood!” She spread his coat, then felt frantically across his chest, looking for the hot, sticky wetness. Nothing except the strong beat of his heart. She touched his stubbled face, and the back of her hand became a part of the mottled shadows, not blood.

He took both her hands in his and spoke firmly. “Maggie, it was a nightmare. You’re awake now.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. He was too close, hovering over her, powerful and intimidating. She yanked away from him and sat up, leaning back into the headboard of the four-poster and pulling the counterpane to her chin as if for protection from the evil she’d just witnessed. She couldn’t forget the image of his bloody face, and she covered her eyes and moaned.

“Are you well?” he asked. “Should I fetch a doctor?”

She shuddered. His cultured voice had lost the Gaelic rhythm and accent of their people, making him seem even more a stranger.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Is there water in the pitcher? I’m parched.”

He went to pour her a glass, and it was a relief to have him not staring at her. She had to get herself under control, to push the dream away—for now. Because certainly, she would have no choice but to dissect it when she was alone.

Owen brought her the water, and to her dismay, she was shaking, and had to hold the glass with both hands. She took a long drink, then let it rest in her lap while she willed herself to cease trembling.

His brows were lowered in a frown of concern. “Are you truly well?”

“’Twas just a nightmare,” she said, boldly meeting his eyes and daring him to disagree.

She hadn’t had a vivid dream portending the future in ten long years. After the shock of Emily’s death and Owen’s derisive disbelief, she hadn’t ever wanted to experience such a dream again. The few times she’d felt one become too real, she’d learned to wake up until, gradually she’d molded herself into a normal woman who faced each day hopeful for the future, unaware of how things would truly turn out. She no longer had fears that people would find out and call her a witch or keep their children away from her. Yet . . . she never felt whole, but as if a part of her was missing.

But tonight a dream had swept over her like an ocean wave, more powerful for the long restraint, battering her emotions against the crumbling rocks of stability she’d erected to protect herself. Seeing Owen near death . . . would he really die?

His derision and Emily’s death had forced her to change everything about herself. The happy girl who’d known there were exciting mysteries in the world had been replaced by a woman who wanted to forget such things existed.

But a dream had happened again, and she was back to being the outsider. She had no one to confide in, because she’d insisted Hugh and Riona needed to celebrate their marriage, not accompany her to the Duff stronghold like she was a child. Maggie had probably hurt her mother by making her stay behind, too.

“Are you feeling better?” Owen asked, his voice low and cool.

Maggie jerked and looked up at him. Her anger toward him had never dissipated after how he’d caused her to hate a part of herself and then forgot she existed. But she nodded her answer to his question.

“You don’t look better.”

He went to the hearth and, using a taper, lit several candles about the room, including the one at her bedside. The shadows receded, making her feel a little calmer, and giving her a clearer view of him. It had still been a shock to see how much Owen had changed in ten years—and yet how little, as well. Had she expected him to grow ugly and deformed? She’d been almost angry enough to wish for it. His face was still lean and handsome, with prominent cheekbones, and a bold square jaw. His light brown hair was drawn back into a queue rather than hidden beneath a wig.
There was a maturity to him now, a heaviness to his shoulders and upper body that said he had not been simply dancing and paying court to ladies so far away in London all these years. But it wasn’t just his physical appearance that still consumed her—it was his very presence, an attraction that she hadn’t imagined could still exist after everything he’d done—yet it seemed to have grown stronger through the passage of time.

So when he’d offered to wed her only moments after seeing each other again . . . she’d been so stunned and affronted and full of a dawning futility that she couldn’t decide which one she was supposed to feel.

“What are you doing here?” she finally asked. “Was my scream so very loud?”

“Yes, it was.” He rocked back on his heels and considered her. “I was passing by on my way to bed when I heard you. I thought you were being attacked.”

“So you rushed in to save me,” she said coolly.

With a shrug, he leaned against the bedpost, arms folded across his chest in a way that seemed so masculine, so aware of himself and her as a couple who were supposed to marry.

She shuddered at the sudden memory of herself in her bridal gown with his blood spattered across it.

Owen frowned. “You’re shaking with the cold. There has to be another blanket here somewhere.” He bent over one of the chests that lined the wall.

“Nay, ’tis all right—”

But he ignored her, spreading a wool blanket across
the counterpane. He was leaning over her, and when he met her gaze, it was as if he touched her.

“Better?” he asked, his voice suddenly gone husky.

“Aye,” she answered quickly, wishing he’d move away.

She did feel warmer. Perhaps it was a blush, or another memory of his kiss and his hands bringing her body to life before she’d made him stop that day in the grass. Since then there were lonely nights when her guard was down and she wished she’d have dared to go farther with him, just to know what it felt like to be with a man. Her body aching with memories, it had been difficult to remember that he’d derided her for telling him the truth about her dreams, told her she acted out of jealousy. He hadn’t trusted her; she couldn’t let an inconvenient attraction make her forget what he really thought of her.

And now she was betrothed to him to end the feud that had cost so many lives—and he might meet his death if they went through with the wedding.

“This is the first time we’ve been alone since the betrothal,” Owen said.

The calmness in his voice suddenly seemed for show, as if there were deep things beneath the surface. She stopped breathing, caught in the smoldering intensity of his brown eyes. She’d forgotten their power over her—perhaps deliberately forgotten in her anger—but now those eyes forced her to remember the newness of passion, the excitement of sharing it.
But they’d been little more than children, with no understanding of the world and the responsibilities they owed their clans.

Huskily, Owen said, “There is much we should discuss.”

She gathered her wits and spoke coolly. “Ye didn’t discuss it with me when it mattered. Ye didn’t ask for my hand. Ye said ye’d have me to satisfy the contract, an easy replacement, like a spare wheel to fit on a cart. Not very flattering. Ye’ve become a practical man, I can see.”

“Did you expect to be wooed in such a tense moment?” he asked with faint sarcasm.

“Ye mean since you and my brother were about to fight to the death without having a rational discussion. Ye conveniently left that out with your uncle.”

Owen moved as if to sit upon the bed.

“Nay, I’ll not be having that,” she said sharply. “If someone else heard my scream and comes in to find ye so close . . .”

“They could think
I
was the reason you screamed, and then force me to marry you,” he said dryly.

“Very funny,” she said with her own sarcasm, then frowned. “Just go, Owen. I’m exhausted, and surely ye must be, too.”

He leaned over her, and she stiffened when he touched the side of her face. His hand was warm, when she felt so very cold.

“We could have a decent marriage, Maggie. I’ll make you glad you’re mine.”

Her mouth dropped open at his arrogance, but he didn’t wait around for her response. After he closed the door behind him, she jumped out of the bed and ran to press her ear against it. She heard his footsteps receding down the hall.

Blankly, she stared about at the wainscoted walls with the beautiful landscapes, which the McCallums had seldom been able to afford. Everywhere in this manor was proof that the Duffs were wealthy, from the elegant, upholstered furniture to the silver candlesticks on the mantel. Owen was an earl, with a title and estates, even several in England. And now she was betrothed to him.

At the thought of marriage, she began to relive the dream and then stopped herself. She indulged in a moment of self-pity, wondering why she’d been cursed with something some might call a gift, when she knew it to be anything but. Once upon a time, she’d thought it made her different, special—but Owen had showed her otherwise.

She’d never felt so completely alone, though a castle full of people surrounded her. But they were Duffs, and her father’s drunken railing against his enemy clan echoed through her memory. She remembered stories of warfare across centuries, castle raids, cattle thieving, fires set in stables and cottages alike. Over a hundred years before, the McCallum and his wife were killed when accepting the hospitality of the Duff. But since she hadn’t been able to trust her father, some
part of her had always put these stories aside and been intrigued by the hated enemies of her clan—which explained her forbidden fascination with Owen ten years before.

She might be alone, but she could not be a coward. At last, she had to let the dream take hold of her mind again, and she watched in growing horror as the brief scene unfolded. All she could see was herself rushing to Owen’s side, his face pale, blood pooling beneath him, her own gown stained as she grabbed and held him, screaming. What was terrible and frustrating was that she had no idea what had led to such a tragedy. Try as she might, nothing else came to her, no glimpse of a clue she’d missed. It was just her and Owen in a dark room, and his imminent death.

She paced for long hours, too wide awake to sleep. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do with the information fate had granted her. Her family, her entire clan, was dependent on her to make this marriage work, or they would lose the land they cherished, and be unable to produce the whisky that helped them survive the lean years. Not to mention the resumption of a feud that had caused too many deaths over the centuries.