The Groom Wore Plaid

by Gayle Callen

  In the great hall of the main towerhouse, servants headed to the kitchen to prepare for another feast, and all the men dispersed to their rooms to change. Maggie didn’t know if Owen wished a hot bath, so she followed him up the stairs and caught him just as he opened the door to his room.

  “Owen?” she called. “Should I send some serving boys with the bathing tub?”

  He looked into his room, then gestured for her to come closer. Curious, she approached, only to have him take her arm and pull her inside.

  “Owen!”

  He took both her arms in his big hands and practically lifted her onto her toes. “Maggie, stop putting those poor cousins of yours in my way. I won’t be waving to them, leading them on.”

  Her mouth opened and closed; she knew she should respond, but his sandy hair was dark with water as it brushed his shoulders. Even his eyelashes were spiky with moisture. One long drop slid slowly down his nose, mesmerizing her. His face looked shadowed from the whiskers that had grown during the day.

  He gave her a little shake. “Do ye understand me, lass?”

  The deep musical Scottish sound of his voice made her give a little internal moan. She didn’t even realize she’d made a sound out loud, until he drew her right up against his wet body.

  “I—I understand,” she managed in a husky voice.

  “I think ye need convincing.”

  And then he was kissing her, putting her back up against the door and pressing his hard, wet body along hers. She moaned and slid her arms around his neck, holding on as if she never wanted him to let go.

  This was wicked, leading him on when she wouldn’t marry him.

  This was dangerous to her own well-being and self-respect.

  And she didn’t care. She wanted this—she wanted him. She felt herself tumbling into the rising passion as if falling into a deep pond and sinking down, down . . . She lost her breath, and it was glorious. His tongue mated with hers, and she explored his mouth with equal vigor.

  He left her mouth to kiss his way down her neck and she tilted her head to give him even greater access. His hands continued to move on her body, from her waist and up her torso to skim the delicate flesh above her cleavage. Every touch made her shiver; the moistness of his tongue tracing along the lace of her décolletage made her moan.

  “Your stays are not so tightly laced,” he murmured against the top curve of her breast, his hands feeling her waist.

  “I kept them loosened . . . in case we ate out in the grass.”

  “Perfect.”

  He gave a little tug down and she felt the constriction across her breasts ease. And then his hands were freeing her, her breasts indecently bare above the neckline of her gown. For a moment he lifted his head and kissed her again, while his hands cupped her breasts. He was chilled from the water, and her skin was so very hot that it made her gasp and jump.

  “Forgive me,” he said, smiling against her mouth. “Let me try something warmer.”

  He bent his head and took her hard nipple into his mouth. She bit back a startled cry, shocked and aroused, helpless to look away as he licked and suckled. She felt it outward into every limb of her body, and then inward, deep in her most private places.

  She wanted more, and she held his head to her, burying her fingers in the silky thickness of his hair.

  When his hands reached beneath her skirt, she knew she’d been waiting for this, to feel so alive and wondrous again.

  But it was wrong—she knew it was wrong. She wanted completion for herself, but couldn’t offer it to him, not without ruining herself and perhaps getting with child.

  “Stop, oh, Owen, we must stop,” she pleaded. “I will not be your mistress and I cannot be your wife.”

  He lifted his head slowly and eyed her. Flustered and terribly sad, she didn’t know what emotion he was trying to hide, anger or disgust or sadness. Her skirts fell from his hands, and she reached to cover her aching breasts.

  Recklessly, she stumbled on. “I—I’ve thought of another way to satisfy the contract.”

  He took a step back from her. “I cannot believe ye’re bringing this up now,” he said between clenched teeth.

  “But I have to! If ye won’t have one of my cousins, then I could marry one of yours.”

  His brows lowered so ominously she expected storm clouds to gather above the castle and rumble with thunder.

  She rushed on. “After all, maybe they won’t mind a wife who has difficulty staying thin. Surely ye’ve noticed, and ye must be so disappointed. It runs in my family, ye know.”

  She ran out of words and waited for him to berate her over her cousins or her girth, but instead, he suddenly wiped both hands down his face, then showed her an impassive expression with a touch of curiosity. As if he wasn’t angry at all.

  She thought of the tenderness he’d showed her, the one he so quickly masked, just like he masked most of his deeper emotions. If she married him, it would kill her to know he would have to hide disbelief, disdain, or maybe even pity over her dreams, as if he’d assumed she would have grown out of such childhood fancy. She’d spent her whole life hiding her true self from everyone but her brother and mother, and now she’d offered her secrets, her vulnerability, to him. She didn’t want to be different, hadn’t wanted to tell him he would die—she didn’t want him to die. Two tears slipped down her cheeks.

  This time his frown showed concern rather than anger. “Maggie—”

  But she tugged her clothing into place even as she whirled, opened the door, and fled from him.

  MAGGIE avoided Owen as much as she could during the banquet that evening, pleading a headache instead of dancing, because she couldn’t bear to be in his arms. He was acting just as politely, giving her the same secret heated looks, as if she hadn’t just rejected him—again. Any other man would give up on her for all the trouble she was causing. But not Owen. He was stubborn, and used to getting what he wanted. That was all it could be, she told herself, trying to ignore the little pain in her heart.

  She had one more full day with her family, and she intended to enjoy it. After a restless night of little sleep, she spent the day watching a footrace among the children and then among the men, cheering on both her brothers. Cat put up a fuss about women not getting to compete at anything, and soon at least a dozen women—Maggie included—kicked off their shoes and stockings and raced barefoot across the meadow.

  It was strange for Maggie to be a part of such an event after a lifetime of reserve, but it certainly felt good to be exhausted and laughing and not think about her problems.

  At dinner, the bard professed a long recitation of the Duff clan history, and Maggie translated for Riona and Cat, who, having been raised in England, were only now just learning their Gaelic.

  That evening, Maggie took advantage of their new friendship by sitting down with Lady Aberfoyle and asking about the Duff family history, just as someone might who would be joining the family. Of course, her motive had deeper reasons, and she was able to steer the conversation toward details about Owen’s closest male cousins. To her relief many of them were in attendance, and the lady helpfully pointed them out, including two bachelor cousins.

  “There you are, Owen!” Lady Aberfoyle suddenly called to someone behind Maggie.

  Maggie wanted to wince, then silently reminded herself she’d already told him her plan. She turned and gave him a pleasant smile.

  “Maggie is quite ready to join the family now,” Lady Aberfoyle said.

  “Why specifically now?” Owen said, then raised an eyebrow at Maggie.

  “Because she’s been so interested in everyone,” Lady Aberfoyle said. “I’ve just been pointing out your various cousins.”

  “You have?” Owen said with interest. “Then that means I should introduce them to her. Do you mind if I take Maggie away, Mother?”

  Wearing a pleased smile, his mother agreed, and Maggie had no choice but to go with Owen.

  “Interested in my family, are you?” he asked pl
easantly, even as he slid a tight arm around her waist. “The male ones, perchance?”

  She didn’t confirm nor deny—what was the point? She spent the next half hour meeting various Duffs, all while Owen kept a possessive arm around her. Some she’d already seen in passing and hadn’t even realized how closely related to Owen they truly were. She didn’t want Owen to think he’d won, so she was eager and interested and asked polite questions of each one. Every so often she caught a glimpse of her mother regarding her dubiously, but Maggie ignored that, too.

  Owen’s cousins were attractive men—being so closely related to Owen, of course—and one, his second cousin, was an accomplished barrister in Edinburgh. He and Maggie would have the most in common, she knew.

  But really—she was hardly going to do anything about finding a new husband right now. She was betrothed to the earl—it was Owen who needed to accept that she wouldn’t marry him, to allow her her freedom to save her clan however she could. But he obviously wasn’t ready to do that. Their wedding date was growing closer and closer, as he was so fond of pointing out; the banns had been read twice now. Was he honestly going to make her reject him before God, a priest, and everyone they knew, instead of joining with her to find a different solution?

  Was he so confident that she was wrong, that he’d willingly risk death?

  That night, she prepared for bed, already beginning to mourn the next day’s departure of her family. When Kathleen had gone, Maggie pulled the counterpane down and fluffed her pillow—and saw a several pieces of folded paper sticking out from beneath. She froze, remembering the talisman she’d found in her bed ten days ago. Carefully, she pulled it out, opened it, and studied the writing on the first paper in surprise. It looked like her own hand, but something seemed . . . wrong.

  She read the first paragraph and froze.

  Owen, forgive me. I could not bear to be the cause of such dissent among your clan and disappoint my own people. With me gone, you’ll be free to choose the woman you want. I won’t suffer long, I promise. Drowning is a quick death.

  Maggie gasped aloud and read it again, her hands trembling. She quickly went to the second page, which had a bold messy scrawl with the words:

  Go home while you still can.

  She slowly sank down on the bed—and hastily stood up again. She hadn’t been chased away by fires, an evil talisman, rocks meant to trip her, or the anger of Martin and Gregor, so someone had decided to be far more direct.

  Go home while you still can.

  It was a cowardly act, anonymous taunts to scare her into abandoning the marriage and the contract between their clans.

  Or was it not anonymous? Had Gregor or Martin already shown her their contempt, and when their hatred hadn’t worked, they’d taken to threats?

  She stared at the letter again, trying to think without letting her panic overwhelm her. Someone had copied her handwriting. The only samples were the letters to her family. And she knew they’d received them—at least some of them, because both her mother and Riona had mentioned them. So at least one of her letters had been either borrowed or stolen. Who had the skill to copy such a thing? So far, only two men had shown outright objection to the marriage and were her only suspects so far. It could be anyone, but she couldn’t let herself panic over the unknown. She had to rule Gregor and Martin out first. She didn’t know if either of the men could write, and that would be the place to start.

  She buried the two notes deep in one of her chests, the one with her winter garments, and crawled into bed—after checking it thoroughly for any other unwelcome surprises, and pushing a chest in front of the door. She lay wide awake for a long time and considered if she should tell Owen or not. She’d been threatened, aye, but no one had tried to harm her.

  But he needed to know. She’d been honest with him from the beginning, and she wasn’t going to start lying now. She’d tell him . . . after her family left. She didn’t trust Owen to keep it a secret from them, and all she’d need was two furious Highland chiefs keeping her locked up in her room as they looked for an enemy. The threats had been against her—she wasn’t about to cower until they went away. However the contract was satisfied, there would be peace between the Duffs and the McCallums. She would see to it, and no one would stop her.

  CHAPTER 16

  The next morning in the great hall, Maggie sniffed back her tears as she hugged her family good-bye. Riona and Cat held each other tightly, literally rocking in a fierce hug. Hugh practically lifted Maggie off the ground in a warm embrace.

  “I don’t like leaving ye like this,” he said quietly.

  Arms around his neck, she whispered in his ear. “It’ll be all right, I’ve told ye that.”

  “We’ll be back for the wedding,” said her mother, not bothering to hide her tears as they clasped hands. “Only twelve days left.”

  Lady McCallum gazed at Maggie intently, saying even more with her eyes than she could with words, urging Maggie to come up with a solution before then.

  To Maggie’s surprise, even Brendan gave her a quick hug, then ran to his horse as if embarrassed. The party mounted and rode off, and Maggie watched until she could no longer see them, her chest aching with unshed tears. Owen remained with her, even when his mother and sister returned to the castle.

  “Were you tempted to leave with them?” he asked dryly.

  She looked up at him. “Not at all. I finish my commitments.”

  “Unless it’s marriage to me.”

  “I could still be married,” she hedged.

  His mouth quirked in a faint smile. “Do you really think after last night that any of my cousins would dare cross me by asking to marry you?”

  “If you freely give me to one of them, he might.”

  “Like a gift, as if you’re my property?”

  “Of course not,” she scoffed. “I should have said when ye agree to revise the contract.”

  “And you said ‘one of them.’ Randomly. It doesn’t matter which one. So love doesn’t matter?”

  “I didn’t say that—you did. I’ll take the time to know them better.”

  “And how do you plan to accomplish that without damaging your reputation?”

  “I don’t know. I’m giving it thought.” She began to walk toward the castle.

  “I’ve been patient, Maggie,” he called in a low voice.

  She paused, looking over her shoulder but not meeting his gaze. “But not open-minded.”

  She thought of her dream again—she wasn’t even certain they were already married in it. What if just planning a ceremony and attending that day was enough to make it all come true?

  She should tell him about the letter right now, so they could put their heads together, in case it had something to do with her wedding day. But not until Hugh was far enough away that Owen couldn’t send her with him. Tonight.

  She continued to walk, and he didn’t catch up to her. There was no point in wasting the day, not when Martin had not gone home to the village yet. Maggie first had to find out who was so against uniting their clans that they’d threaten her with death.

  She was very careful walking over the bridge, and with thoughts of a suicidal drowning, the water below wasn’t soothing or picturesque.

  Most of the guests were still lingering over breakfast, and Maggie had no problem spotting Martin Hepburn and his daughter. Maggie forced herself to speak to guests at a table near them first, and to her relief, when Martin saw her so close, he grumbled something to his daughter and left. Maggie excused herself from the one table and went to his.

  His daughter was saying good-bye to another couple, red-faced and glancing down the hall to where her father was disappearing outside.

  “Good morning,” Maggie called to her.

  The woman came to a stop, wide-eyed.

  “Forgive me,” Maggie continued, “but we were never properly introduced.”

  “Ye’re Mistress Maggie,” Martin’s daughter said, her voice practically a squeak. “His lordship�
��s betrothed.”

  “And ye’re . . .”

  “Nellie Hepburn.” She lowered her gaze. “My da should not have run off like that. ’Twas impolite.”

  “I do not mind. I ken ’tis difficult to change the hearts of those who’ve spent their whole lives thinking one way.” She paused. “Are ye willing to give peace between our clans a chance?”

  Nellie’s big brown eyes went wide. “I’m a woman like you, mistress. We don’t want our men dying for what amounts to a matter of pride.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that. I’d like to help find a way to convince others like your father that I mean well. If I write him a letter, would it help?”

  Nellie shook her head. “Mistress, he cannot read.”

  Ah, just what Maggie needed to know.

  “Could ye read my note to him?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to do more than make out a few of the letters,” she said, blushing.

  “I’m sorry. Then might I visit ye sometime? Ye live in the village?”

  Nellie’s expression showed a bit of fear. “I’m not sure that’s wise just yet. I promise to bring him to the castle more often so he can see how good ye are for his lordship.”

  Maggie actually felt herself blush. “I—what a kind thing to say.”

  “The way the two of ye look at each other . . .’tis very romantic.” Now it was Nellie’s turn to blush.

  Maggie touched the woman’s arm. “Thank ye.”

  “Just the truth, mistress. But please, as for my da. Leave him to me, ye ken?”

  “I do.”

  She watched Nellie hurry away, shoulders hunched, and Maggie felt sorry she’d had to upset the woman so. But if no one in Martin’s family could write, then she could cross him off her list.

  As for Gregor, Kathleen had mentioned he’d owned a smithy in the colonies. Surely he knew how to write.

  LATER that evening, Owen relaxed for what felt like the first time all day. The farewells that morning had been hard for Maggie. He felt relieved himself. He’d been concerned that Maggie would finally confess to her family her refusal to marry, especially after trying to find other eligible Duffs. Her brother would have been forced to attempt to take her home. That wasn’t going to happen, and it could very well have been a standoff between the two men. Owen had grown to respect Hugh over the last few days, and hadn’t wanted that to happen.