The Groom Wore Plaid

by Gayle Callen

  He glanced up at the entry to the great hall, at the landing at the top of the stairs. Maggie still stood there, and for a moment, it was as if they were but steps apart, so much did he feel compelled by her gaze. But was he simply showing off for her? Could a display of muscle truly win over a woman who invented stories when things didn’t go her way?

  But he couldn’t keep being angry with her, not and see her wedded and bedded. She’d gone beyond being just his duty to being a challenge. Perhaps his physicality could be used as a potent weapon against her. He wanted to touch her all the time—why hold back? Surely it would be a better weapon in his battle to save their clans by marrying.

  So that evening at supper, he kept his chair close to hers, let his knee rest against hers, brushed her hand when they reached for their silverware. Maggie gave him irritated glances, but she was a little too flushed and bright-eyed to make him believe she was unresponsive. She leaned farther and farther over that ridiculous law book she was reading, as if she could bury herself in the words. He kept this up throughout the meal, until she tried her own distraction.

  “Remember that I have the shirts I sewed for ye.”

  “Then I’ll come to your bedroom right now and try them on.”

  “What?”

  Her eyes widened with panic, and it was a fine sight.

  “But I didn’t finish my supper,” she insisted.

  He pushed back his chair, and took her hand.

  “But—”

  He didn’t let her take up the law book she made a lunge for, only pulled her from the room, leaving behind the amused chuckles of his clan.

  In her room, she faced him with her hands on her hips. “That was uncomfortable for me. Your people are probably appalled at your behavior.”

  “They think I’m smitten.”

  “A lie if I ever heard one,” she scoffed.

  “Is it?” He took a step toward her and she didn’t back down, only lifted her chin as if to dare him.

  And he was tempted. But he wanted her off balance, kept wondering about his methods.

  “Did you enjoy the sword fighting?” he asked.

  She blinked in confusion, but rallied.

  “You gave a tolerable response to your uncle’s obvious superiority.”

  He felt the rare urge to laugh, but didn’t give in to it.

  “I train often, even in London,” he told her. He moved smoothly by her and went to the dressing table, where her brush and hand mirror awaited. There were tiny bottles of women’s things, and he touched them one at a time, noticing over his shoulder that she’d fisted her hands. “There are many men who’ll train in the sport, even if they have to fight a Scot. I see that the Sassenach weren’t as good for my training as facing a Highlander would have been.”

  He lowered his voice and faced her again. “Nights sleeping in the heather and among rocks were a reminder of a more primitive part of myself: being with the men of the clan, putting meat on the table for my people, defending a man against a wild stag. At heart I am such a man, Maggie, and such a man thinks about bedding his wife and making her revel in the glory of physical sensation. I thought constantly about what you look like beneath those garments.”

  Maggie felt heat flush beneath her bodice, up her neck and across her face. She was far too aware that they were alone in her room, with no one nearby to serve as a distraction. It was just the two of them, and he wielded his wicked flattery like a sword against her. And she was far too susceptible. He was touching her things, intruding on her life—and bringing about his own ruin, she reminded herself, taking a deep, calming breath.

  He came another step closer. “I never would have imagined being so distracted by a woman.”

  Something in her traitorously wanted to believe him, wanted to be distracting to a man, had never imagined what a heady, powerful feeling it might be.

  But it wasn’t true. It was all a ruse to assure her cooperation.

  She licked her lips and tried to summon a cool tone. “I think ye’re talking yourself into an obsession for something ye can’t have.”

  He passed by her, circling her. She held her breath, then gasped when he kissed her neck, his warm, damp lips making her shudder. Why could she not remain cold to him, when she wished for it so desperately?

  “Such an innocent reaction,” he murmured, then blew across her damp skin.

  “Then ye misunderstand my reluctance to be touched by ye.”

  He chuckled.

  Where was his anger? It was easier to do battle with an angry man. Humor was a new tactic that reminded her too much of those autumn weeks they’d spent together.

  And then she remembered her plan for tonight. “I ken ye’re waiting anxiously to see the shirts I sewed for ye. Let me get them.”

  Heading for a chest against the wall was a face-saving retreat, she thought wryly. She held out both hands, offering the shirts, perfectly pressed and folded.

  He barely gave them a glance, was watching her as if he meant to pounce. She dropped the pile on her bed, then shook out the first one. Her stitches at the neckline were even—deceptive, she knew. She peeked over the top of the shirt to find him frowning at it.

  He immediately wiped the frown away and said, “Thank you for taking the time to perform such a wifely deed.”

  She gritted her teeth, then spoke with dismay. “Oh, dear.”

  “What is it?”

  He couldn’t hide the wariness, which delighted her.

  “I do believe I made a mistake. I am so thoughtless! My mother always told me to pay more attention to my sewing, but nay, I only wished to be outside, looking for frogs.” She winced. The little boy he’d been had loved frogs, too.

  “I don’t see a mistake,” he said pleasantly.

  She shook the shirt out even farther, and a third sleeve materialized on the right side. “I’ll never be able to look Mrs. Robertson in the face again! Already she thinks I’m hopeless in the womanly arts.”

  “Nonsense,” he said smoothly. “When I wear it, I’ll have an extra handy cloth with which to clean off my sword.”

  She gaped at him. Why wasn’t he irritated? Why wasn’t he growing tired of her? It was so frustrating. Then he put his hand into his coat and removed an unfamiliar object, a several-inch long piece of triangular glass.

  “Your mention of frogs reminded me that I had thought to continue your lessons this night with a prism. But the experiment won’t work here, since the setting sun is in the wrong window.”

  And then he took her hand and led her toward the door. She couldn’t pull from his strong grip, and damn him, she was intrigued by what kind of experiment could be done with a strangely shaped piece of glass.

  But she made certain to grab the shirts on her way out.

  At the end of the hall, when he pushed open a set of double doors, she saw a massive, curtained four-poster bed, with a satin burgundy counterpane.

  “This is your bedroom,” she said warily, and let go of his hand to remain near the door.

  “So it is.” He arched a devilish brow.

  He began to open the chests that lined one wall and searched through. Curious in spite of herself, she studied the paneled walls with their intricate carved decoration, the bare wig stand that had probably been his father’s, for Owen showed no inclination to wear a wig as so many men did. The furniture was heavy and masculine, finely made for an earl.

  “I can’t find any sheets,” he muttered.

  “Sheets?” She glanced wide-eyed at the bed.

  As if he read her mind, he began to toss bed pillows to the floor and pulled down the counterpane.

  “Owen, I absolutely will not—”

  He yanked a white sheet right off the bed, then grinned at her aghast expression, as her insides quaked.

  He draped the sheet over a chair and placed it across from the window. As he pulled shut the curtains on the setting sun, moving from one window to the next, he said, “The light is almost gone. We must hurry.”


  The room was suddenly full of shadows, his body almost a blur of movement, as lacking in shape as a ghost. She had a pang of foreboding about her dream, but let it go.

  He gathered a section of the curtain up, then glanced around with a frown. “Need something to—ah.”

  To her surprise, he unpinned the brooch from his shoulder, and the loose ends of his plaid fell to dangle along the outside of his belt. Next he flung off his coat and waistcoat until he was only wearing his shirt and plaid, tucking the excess plaid into the belt at his waist. In his shirtsleeves, the width of his shoulders made her catch her breath. Oh, she shouldn’t be here.

  Using his brooch, Owen pinned up a section of the curtain until it let in a narrow beam of light, then lined up the sheet-covered chair across the room.

  He motioned Maggie forward. “Come closer and watch. This is how Newton proved that white light is a mix of colors.”

  She hesitantly approached, not wanting to be too near the bed. It wasn’t just that she didn’t trust him—she didn’t trust herself around him.

  Owen put the triangular piece of glass into the light—and she gasped as the light appeared a rainbow of colors on the white sheet.

  “You’ve seen something like this before, with rainbows or puddles of water,” he said. “Scientists used to think that a prism or other things somehow dyed the sunbeam into different colors. But Newton took another prism and held it into the multicolored light, and it reformed back into a white light, proving that white light contains all the colors mixed together. Fascinating how it all works, isn’t it?”

  She stared at him. His enthusiasm and wonder matched her own, and she felt rather overwhelmed. The world was a strange and miraculous place, and knowing men in some far-off city had explained parts of it didn’t make it any less magical. But men hadn’t explained dreams, didn’t deem them worthy to be studied, to be believed.

  He lowered the prism, and the rainbow disappeared. His smile faded, his brown eyes became almost black as he regarded her with that awareness to which she was so susceptible. They were alone, the setting sun almost gone. The air fairly shimmered with the tension between them, almost as much as the white of his shirt against his dark, sun-touched skin. She was closer to the bed than she’d meant to stand, and suddenly, it loomed like something alluring and exotic and foreign, no longer a simple bed for rest.

  “Maggie.”

  He said her name in a deep, rough voice that set her to trembling. She should leave. But he crossed the fading beam of light and took her into his arms. His kiss was as deep and rough as his voice, taking from her, drinking from her, making her think of the darkness of passion as an ocean current at night, sweeping her away. She forgot all about resisting him or playing ignorant about how to kiss.

  His big hands on her back slid lower, cupping her backside and pulling her against him. Through her skirts she could feel the hard length of him. Knowing he wanted her was thrilling and intoxicating, making her forget the danger of desire between them. The future was suddenly something she couldn’t control, shouldn’t know.

  And then he was kissing her brow and her cheek, and down her neck. He slid his hand up her body and cupped her breast above the stays. She moaned. She felt trapped within her garments, wanting to shed them and any resistance she thought she could sustain against him.

  She suddenly realized that the padding she’d donned at her waist interfered with his touch, and snapped her back to the reality of her plight.

  She couldn’t lose herself. She’d been granted a gift she couldn’t ignore.

  She turned her head aside, and he straightened.

  “Maggie, your knowledge of kissing has come a long way.”

  She ignored his teasing. “Don’t ye see, Owen? Dreams can be just as baffling as science before it’s explained,” she cried. “Ye’ve no problem accepting the word of a scientist ye’ve never met, but ye cannot believe in me.”

  She pushed away from him, breathing hard.

  “Maggie—”

  “Nay, ’tis your turn to listen to me. Maybe ye won’t believe in this either, but ye deserve to know. Something happened while ye were gone.”

  “And what was that?” He folded his arms over his chest and regarded her impassively.

  “Someone entered my room and left an item in my bed to frighten me.”

  She sensed the tension in him as if it were a snake coiled within his skin.

  “What was it?” he demanded.

  “A talisman, a sort of evil charm. It was a stick carved with backward lettering, a clear symbol of witchcraft. I do not know if they meant to frighten me or implicate me, but ye’re the only one who knows about my . . . talent.”

  “And you think I told someone.”

  “Of course not,” she said with conviction. “Ye wouldn’t embarrass yourself that way.”

  “Embarrass myself? What has that to do with anything? I will always protect what you tell me in confidence. We are betrothed.”

  “And someone doesn’t want us to be.”

  “Show me the talisman.”

  She winced. “And there is the problem. I was so appalled that someone was trying to implicate me as a witch that I tossed it into the fire. I have no proof to show ye, only my word.”

  “And I believe you.”

  She blinked at him. “Ye do?”

  “Why would you invent such a story?”

  “I—I wouldn’t,” she agreed, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Do ye think it’s the same person who set the fires?”

  “I don’t know. The fires could have been against me and my ascension to the chiefdom.”

  “Or because ye betrothed yourself to a McCallum,” she pointed out.

  “But this is aimed directly at you.”

  She hugged herself. “Aye, but again, it could have been meant to reflect badly on ye.”

  He said nothing for a long moment, his head down in thought. “I will ask Mrs. Robertson if anyone was seen lingering outside your door.”

  “Don’t tell her about the talisman. The charge of witchcraft—I’ve always feared it.”

  She waited for him to tease her, but he only studied her solemnly.

  “I never want you to be afraid here,” he said in a husky voice, “and now someone has made you so.”

  She shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “Someone is trying to drive me away. Such a coward seldom acts openly.”

  “But you won’t be driven away?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

  “Nay. I’ll leave when the contract is settled between our families and not a moment before.”

  He lowered his voice and spoke. “And I say you’ll never want to leave.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “But for now, I will increase the men guarding the towerhouse.”

  She stiffened.

  “The fires are enough of a reason. There’s someone trying to ruin the peace between the McCallums and Duffs. Between you and me, Maggie, we won’t let that happen.”

  FOR two days, Maggie resisted every effort to help prepare for the festival, even though her family would be attending. Mrs. Robertson’s coolness grew into icy disdain, but she doggedly kept Maggie informed, as if the woman could will Maggie to prove herself capable of being a Duff bride. Kathleen chattered nonstop about it, trying to remake Maggie with just her kind flow of words. All Kathleen had were the stories people told her about the coming together of the whole clan for a several-day event of food and games and fun.

  “My brother is being a curmudgeon about it,” Kathleen confided one morning.

  “How can he not be interested in meeting more of the Duffs?” Maggie asked, hiding her suspicions about Gregor.

  Mrs. Robertson lifted her head from her lists and frowned at Maggie as if to say, Ye’re interested in talk of Gregor but not making your husband proud?

  Maggie felt a little sick inside. She’d always been an obedient young woman, and had never realized how important the respect of the staff truly was. But all she need
ed to do was remind herself that Mrs. Robertson would thank her if she knew Maggie was trying to save Owen’s life.

  But not if she thought Maggie was a witch.

  “Gregor claims that the festival is frivolous,” Kathleen said, as she tied the laces crossing Maggie’s ugly stomacher. “That takin’ days away from work is somethin’ that—” She broke off, and her face flushed scarlet.

  “That McCallums would do?” Maggie finished quietly.

  “Ye know I don’t think that!” Kathleen said in a rush. “I’ve come to know ye as a good mistress and a kind woman.”

  “I appreciate that. When my family arrives for the festival, Gregor will see that they can work just as hard as a Duff, and can be just as fair.”

  “I’ll tell him, mistress, I promise.” Kathleen swallowed several times and forced a smile as she returned to the laces.

  Maggie pitied the maid her hard life in the colonies, and imagined it must be difficult to deal with Gregor, a man who would turn against Maggie simply because of her last name. Would he try to frighten her with the talisman? Sadly, he wasn’t the only clansmen in the Highlands to hate simply because it had been taught to him.

  For a moment, Maggie imagined being the one to bring healing to both clans, to stand at Owen’s side as his wife and end the bloodshed forever. Oh, she was becoming more and more drawn into that world that could never happen. It made her remember being in his arms in the near darkness, his bed—their marriage bed—so close. But she was not a woman who could blithely forget the harm that could happen to Owen if he married her. She wouldn’t give up on discovering the truth of her dream.

  She took a deep breath. “Mrs. Robertson, ye’ve mentioned a healing woman in the village.”

  Kathleen didn’t lift her head, but Mrs. Robertson straightened and eyed her warily.

  “Aye, Euphemia. Are ye feeling ill, mistress?”

  “Nay, I’ve simply heard that the old woman is a seer. My mother has interest in such things.” Oh, the lie came far too easily to her, and she hoped God could forgive her. “She’ll want to visit, I know, so I thought I’d be certain if Euphemia is an honest woman.”

  “Och, honest as our King Over the Water,” said Mrs. Robertson. “She’s a wise woman, too, with potions and charms to help ease sickness or fight the evil eye. But aye, though she’s hesitant about it, she’s a seer,” the housekeeper added with some reluctance.