The Groom Wore Plaid

by Gayle Callen

  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.

  But how could she marry Owen if it would cost him his life? Yet she wasn’t even certain he would die, and confusion and fear chased each other around in her mind.

  She was simply going to have to tell him the truth.

  She started second-guessing herself almost immediately, because she well remembered his mocking disbelief the last time she’d told him about her dream. But she couldn’t tell him that she wouldn’t marry without offering a plausible reason. She would be honest and convince him that there had to be another way to satisfy the contract, because she wasn’t going to marry him and be responsible for his death.

  At last she crawled back into bed and huddled there. Her eyes wouldn’t close, and at dawn she gave up and went to sit in the window seat, watching the courtyard as it came to life.

  Feeling like she needed to be close to those she loved, she sat down at the delicate writing desk and began to compose a letter to her family. She wrote it to Hugh, knowing he’d share it with the others. She told superficial stories of her first view of the castle, of how polite and considerate Owen had been, and how the castle residents seemed friendly. Silently, she wondered how friendly they’d be if they knew she dreamed things that came true.

  CHAPTER 2

  As if used to aristocratic ladies who rose late, the housekeeper did not arrive with a tray of bannocks and chocolate until several hours later. Maggie felt weak with hunger, exhausted, and worried about her coming discussion with Owen. She had to find the right time to speak with him—as if there was a right time, she thought grimly.

  Mrs. Robertson was tall and thin, with a long gray braid wrapped about her head like a crown and topped with a lace cap. The crown idea wasn’t far off; she was a reserved woman who took her position as head of the household staff with the seriousness reserved for a head of state surveying her kingdom. After a double look at Maggie’s different colored eyes, Mrs. Robertson served her with silent efficiency, but Maggie sensed a faint whiff of disapproval that Mrs. Robertson would never deign to admit out loud. Hospitality was important to Scotsmen, and it was part of Mrs. Robertson’s position. But Maggie was a McCallum, after all.

  Once Maggie had been taken away from the oppression and constant fear of her father’s household, she’d discovered the joy of being around people who knew her only by what she showed the world. She’d been happy, lighthearted, pretending that she was like any other girl. Owen and the heartache that had followed had changed her, made her realize she might never have a normal life. But she’d vowed to find her own way, wouldn’t allow herself to wallow in regrets. She’d changed from a girl into a woman who’d understood caution. And then Owen had returned, stirring up her anger all over again.

  “Will there be anything else, Mistress McCallum?” Mrs. Robertson asked, when the items from her tray were neatly arranged on a small table.

  Maggie had many questions, but none she thought the housekeeper the right person to ask. “Nay, ye’ve taken good care of me, Mrs. Robertson.”

  There was a knock on the door, so hesitant that Maggie knew it wasn’t Owen.

  “That’ll be Kathleen, your lady’s maid,” Mrs. Robertson said.

  “I’ve been assigned a maid?” Maggie asked in surprise. She’d never had a maid just for herself.

  “Of course. Ye’re to be the new countess, after all.”

  Countess. Maggie struggled to keep a pleasant, neutral expression, when she wanted to wince.

  Mrs. Robertson opened the door, and a parade of young men entered, carrying Maggie’s trunks, the ones she’d brought with her from Edinburgh. It wasn’t everything she owned, but it made her feel better to know she�
��d soon be surrounded by her own things.

  The last through the door was a young woman with a round-faced chubbiness that was unusual in the Highlands, especially for a servant. Kathleen had blond hair tinged with red beneath her cap, and a happy smile.

  “Mistress McCallum, what a pleasure to meet ye!” Kathleen bobbed a quick curtsy. “Mrs. Robertson was kind enough to give me the opportunity to serve ye. I’ve brought yer trunks and cannot wait to go through them with ye.”

  Mrs. Robertson’s eyes narrowed, as if Kathleen’s effusiveness was improper, but Maggie couldn’t help giving an encouraging smile.

  “Thank ye, Kathleen. I do feel a need for a bath and a change of clothing.”

  She swallowed several bites of the oatcakes while Kathleen bustled about, shaking out gowns and admiring them as she hung them in the wardrobe. Maggie thought she was simply being polite, for her wardrobe would be unusually plain for a countess.

  “I think ye’ll like it here, mistress,” Kathleen said, pouring another cup of chocolate for Maggie. “I’m new here, but I’ve been made welcome.”

  “New here?” Maggie echoed. “Ye mean new to the castle?”

  “Aye, and new to everything with the clan. Me brother and I recently returned from the American colonies, where our parents took us when I was a wee babe. So I’m sympathizing with yer feeling like ye don’t know anyone. Ye know me now!”

  Kathleen smiled, and Maggie couldn’t help smiling back at her.

  “How was America?” Maggie asked.

  Kathleen went back to the trunks, but said over her shoulder, “Me parents thought life would be different there, but it wasn’t, not really. The same family but in a new place. They worked hard and we survived, but it wasn’t easy. And when at last it was just me brother and me, we decided to come back. I’ve heard stories all my life of Duff lands and our clan. I’m glad to be here.”

  Maggie nodded. Her maid was far more talkative than most servants, but she was comforted by the chatter. Kathleen was right; it made Maggie feel less alone to know someone else was a stranger here as well.

  But Kathleen wanted to become a part of the Duffs, to get to know her relatives and fellow clansmen; Maggie could only think that for herself, being here was a terrible mistake. By agreeing to Owen’s proposal, she’d set in motion a destiny that would change all their lives.

  AFTER a morning spent in the stables, going over the horseflesh with the marshal of horses, Owen was looking forward to a more sedate luncheon that he could share with Maggie. Ten years ago, they’d shared dinner from a basket one or the other of them had taken from their family kitchen. Occasionally they’d even bought something from a shop. They’d been dangerously alone, while he’d fought against the desire he shouldn’t have been feeling when there’d been another woman he was supposed to marry.

  Not that they’d be alone at Castle Kinlochard, of course. They’d be sharing meals in the communal great hall of his ancestors. His father had put too much stock in living like an English earl, where one ate only with family or friends of the same Society. Here in the Highlands, one shared the day with one’s clan. He was on display, as everyone measured him against the—admittedly low—standard his father had set. He was determined to be a different chief, one who spent more time with his people when he was home. He would do his duty and serve in the House of Lords for several months each year, but when he was home, he would be a Highlander.

  He was wearing his belted plaid for the first time in a long while, and he’d seen the way the stable grooms, even the marshal, had eyed him. No one showed outright skepticism, but he sensed it, there beneath the surface. There was no way to undo the damage his father had done to the chiefdom, except to lead by example and to prove his worth.

  And then Maggie arrived in the hall, radiant in a rose-colored gown that set off her creamy skin, her hair a dark, silky cloud about her head. Owen was standing before he even realized it. Several tables were full of clansmen, and they, too, noticed her, as all conversations died. No one else stood at first, and Owen was about to rake them all with a deadly gaze, until an elderly lady rose to her feet, leaning heavily on a cane. With reluctance, more followed, and he saw Maggie blush as she stood in the doorway, an ethereal sprite amid uncouth Highlanders. He would have to introduce her to his clan in an elaborate way, so that they’d begin to accept her.

  He strode to escort her the rest of the way, and saw her eyes dip to his garments and then widen.

  “Ye’re pretending to be a Highlander now, are ye?” she asked.

  “Pretending? I don’t have to pretend what I’ve earned from my ancestors.” He had also donned a black armband for his father, but Maggie didn’t comment on that. She wasn’t wearing mourning for her own father. From what he remembered of her stories when they were young, he didn’t blame her.

  “Ye just look different, as if ye want everyone to forget ye’re an earl.”

  “I am a Scottish earl. And remember, I’m not an earl to you, Maggie, but a bridegroom.”

  With an impudent toss of her head, she looked away. He glanced down her body, seeing the way she had more curves than he remembered. She had lush breasts shown off to perfection by her stays, and her gown flowed out from her narrow waist, hinting at a curve of hip that made him want to test it with his hands.

  He put out his arm, and her cool hesitation before taking it made him grind his teeth. He saw her into her chair and then sat beside her. Trays of roasted venison, mutton, and hares; bowls of turnips, leeks, and cabbage were displayed before them both. She filled up her plate, then set to eating as if she could ignore him that way. She kept her eyes downcast, but more than once, when she raised them to a servant, their own eyes widened at her different-colored eyes, and they crossed themselves. That had to be an annoying reaction. He would speak to Mrs. Robertson about it.

  “Did you have a pleasant morning?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Robertson gave me a tour of the castle,” she said.

  Boldly she looked about, since many were staring and not doing a good job of hiding it. Owen arched an eyebrow as he glanced pointedly at the clan, and most immediately returned to their meal.

  “What did you think of your new home?” he asked.

  “’Tis an adequate fortress.”

  She wasn’t going to give an inch. “The clan has several, but I thought you’d be most comfortable here, nearer your kin.”

  “We have several castles as well. We’re not competing over this, are we?”

  “Of course not,” he said impassively.

  He let her return to eating silently for several minutes, but he found it was difficult to keep quiet when he still had questions. “What did you like about Castle Kinlochard? It’s to be your home, after all.”

  She considered him with narrowed eyes, as if he was trying to trap her.

  “I like your library,” she said at last. “My father did not believe in books for their own sake, just what was needed for the estates. Whereas ye have so many.”

  “Surely you remembered my focus on educating myself,” he said. Alluding to their aborted time together in Edinburgh was a risky move.

  Anger flashed in those amazing eyes, but she kept her voice level. “I remember many things. But I imagine ye don’t want them discussed here.”

  “Do you plan to make this more difficult than it has to be?” he asked quietly, coldly.

  “Do ye like your women so meek and accepting, Owen?” She emphasized his name. “If we’re not to discuss difficult things, we won’t have much of a marriage.”

  “I will discuss anything you wish, but I’d prefer to be more subtle and private about it.”

  “So we can only discuss things the way you’d like to.”

  “I’m trying to know you better, Maggie. Why are you angry with me when you agreed to this marriage?”

  Her eyes widened, and she looked him up and down with barely concealed scorn. “If ye cannot remember how we parted ten years ago, then for a man who reads history
, ye seem good at deluding yourself about it. Aye, I agreed to this marriage—I didn’t say I was happy about it.”

  They regarded each other in tense silence, and many people gave them curious glances. At last, Maggie seemed to notice them.

  “Very well,” she said, “ye’d like me to be as polite and vapid as callers are in an Edinburgh parlor. Aye, ye were focused on an education—one denied women, by the way. Did ye take up the classics like your father wanted, or the sciences?”

  “My father and I agreed to an arrangement,” he said coolly. “I would study what he wished, the classics, as long as I could choose my own bride.”

  “And it took ye so long that ye’re settling for me at last?” she asked with sarcasm. “Och, forgive me, I couldn’t resist my baser nature. Ye’ve met no other women ye like?” Her skepticism was obvious.

  “A woman I would willingly marry? No.” He leaned closer to murmur the last words. “Until you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Ye didn’t offer to marry me willingly, now did ye. Let’s not pretend otherwise with false flattery.” She regally turned her head away, giving him the back of her dark brown hair, caught in a chignon at her nape. He thought she shivered, but he couldn’t be certain of his interpretation. He wanted her to be aroused, but was she hiding behind a wall of indignation?

  He was so near he could inhale the scent of her, a hint of lavender and springtime. It was heady and enthralling, and if they could just put the anger behind them . . .

  She glanced at him again and her lips were far too close, reminding him of the kisses she’d once offered with eager naiveté.

  “Lord Aberfoyle, your nearness is embarrassing me before your clan.”