The Groom Wore Plaid

by Gayle Callen

  “What happened?” she cried, guiding her horse up beside him.

  He pointed and ordered, “That way, hide in the copse of trees. Ride quickly. I’ll follow.”

  She didn’t protest, just did as he ordered. Her back itched as if someone was aiming for it. She took a deep breath only when the shadows swallowed her up. She followed a deer path until several trees were between her and the road.

  They’d been shot at. It could have been a British patrol or someone from a rival clan, but . . . she knew better. A sense of coldness moved through her, filling her, chilling her.

  “Are ye all right?” Owen demanded.

  She gave a start, not having even heard him approach. A villain could have come upon her and done anything. She was a fool.

  “I’m fine,” she said grimly.

  Owen leaned toward her and plucked at her sleeve. She stared down at the hole torn through—and the trickle of blood. Her mouth sagged a moment before she said, “I don’t even feel a sting.”

  His warm hand gripped her arm, and he studied it closely. “Just grazed ye. Won’t even leave a scar.” And then he stared at her with eyes warm with concern and frustration.

  “That person couldn’t have been aiming at me,” she said, her bravado growing fainter.

  He grimaced. “Ye’ve been threatened already.”

  “Well . . . we have to go see who it is!” she said, and as if sensing her eagerness, the horse gave a little dance sideways.

  “My men will return with their report. We’ll wait until then.”

  He kept looking at her arm until she wished to hide it. “Owen, stop. ’Tis nothing.”

  “It could have been everything,” he said solemnly. “I could have lost ye.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. The Owen she was used to normally revealed nothing in his voice, but for once, she heard regret and sadness.

  “I already introduced ye to Dorothy and Helen,” she said lightly. “Ye’d be fine.”

  His brown eyes blazed.

  “I was teasing,” she said in a weak voice.

  “I didn’t find it amusing.”

  By the time the two guards returned, Maggie was glad of it. Owen was frosty with barely restrained temper, and she understood that he hated feeling helpless. Worse yet, the two men could report nothing. The gunman had slipped away by the time they made it up the hill. On the final mile home, Owen and the other two surrounded her, and even back within the castle walls, she didn’t feel safe. The gunman might have come from here, she realized bleakly.

  Owen dismounted at the stables and marched toward the smithy. She wanted to hurry after him, but Fergus stepped in front of her, while the other man followed Owen.

  “Mistress Maggie, we have our orders,” Fergus said apologetically.

  She watched, practically holding her breath, as Owen faced down Gregor, who was working over the fire, long tongs in his gloved hands and a glowing horseshoe at the end. All it would take was a thrust and Owen would be scarred for life.

  But Gregor lowered the tongs and spoke to Owen, then slammed the tongs back into the fire and gestured with both hands. Several people near the smithy were openly listening, but Owen and Gregor weren’t garnering too much attention beyond that. At last Gregor walked away beside the guard, taking long, angry strides.

  Owen returned to Maggie. “It is done.”

  “What is done?” she demanded. “What did he say?”

  “That he is innocent, of course. Yet he’d just begun to work at the smithy not an hour before, and he did not think anyone could vouch for him. I did agree to look into the matter of witnesses, so he agreed to a fair hearing before the next assembly. Until then, he will be under guard within his own room in the barracks.”

  Her stiff shoulders relaxed a bit. “I guess that is fair. But what shall I say to Kathleen?”

  “Allow me to handle it. I am her chief.”

  Maggie wanted to protest, but didn’t. He was the chief. Or did she simply not want to be the one to tell Kathleen that her only remaining sibling could face a terrible punishment if his guilt was decided?

  “Now can you be at ease, Maggie?” Owen asked. “The wedding is only ten days away. Your family will be safe when they arrive.”

  She was glad for that. But his words made her wonder—did Gregor’s capture change how she felt about marrying Owen? She wanted her family to be safe—but she wanted Owen to be safe, too. The thought that he might not die was an ache in her chest that made her eyes water with hope.

  By supper, there were whispers all through the great hall, but Owen had forbidden either his two guards or the smithy from discussing what had happened, in case Gregor was innocent. But Owen seemed positive he was not, and his confidence mildly eased Maggie, even when Kathleen did not make an appearance, and Mrs. Robertson came to help her prepare for bed and change the tiny bandage on her arm. Maggie wouldn’t even need it in the morning. For once, the housekeeper’s poorly hidden disapproval seemed absent, as if Owen had revealed what Gregor had done. Maggie accepted the woman’s help, but didn’t discuss anything herself and let Mrs. Robertson leave disappointed.

  Maggie’s confused thoughts settled on the most important one: Could she marry Owen now? And could she live with the risk that she might be wrong?

  But she didn’t have long to wait before her decision became undeniable.

  For only the second time in ten years, she had a vivid dream. She was awake, sitting in Owen’s room, looking out the window upon the newly budding trees of spring. Her hands rested protectively on her very swollen stomach, and she experienced the most incredible feeling of tenderness and joy and anticipation.

  Maggie sat up in bed with a gasp, wide awake in a dark room, with the moon outside the window the only light. She put a hand to her stomach in amazement and wonder. She was with child. Soon there would be a babe in her arms, nursing at her breast, looking to her for guidance and protection. The ache of love was surprisingly deep, and it brought tears to her eyes.

  Keeping her hand tight to her stomach, she whispered, “I’ll do what’s best for ye, little one. I’ll keep ye safe and happy.”

  OWEN drank a mug of ale and stared out the window at the courtyard below. It was just past dawn, men were in the training yard working, guards were patrolling the battlements looking out on the countryside—but the smithy was absent a worker.

  Everything inside Owen tightened into a twisted mass of anger, revenge—and through it all, the overwhelming sensation of relief. He could have lost Maggie. When that gunshot had rung across the mountain and he’d seen the spot of blood on her sleeve, the surprise and fear in her expression, his vaunted sense of dispassion and control had been obliterated. Someone had threatened the life of his future wife. She was an innocent, a woman being used to bring peace to two clans—she didn’t deserve to risk her life for it.

  And he couldn’t lose her. The thought of his life without the rare grace of her smile was unfathomable. The challenge of matching wits with her brought true satisfaction. He was falling in love with her, and there was nothing he could do about it—

  But protect her. The primitive need overrode all his thoughts of himself as a civilized man.

  The only credible person who’d made any threats against her was Gregor. When Owen had first seen him in the smithy after the gunshot, it had taken an extreme act of will not to pummel him into the ground right there, to demand his vengeance like the days of old, where he could have met his enemy on the field and destroyed him in combat.

  But he wasn’t a warrior knight—he was the chief of the Clan Duff and he had to rule his people with impartial justice—even though a cowardly worm like Gregor, who would shoot an innocent woman, didn’t deserve fairness.

  But bringing the case against Gregor before the assembly of gentlemen was the correct thing to do. It was his duty to keep the law for the clan, and his right to sentence a man for attempted murder, but even in his bloodlust, he wanted the fact to be undisputable. He w
anted Gregor to confess.

  And Gregor hadn’t. He’d been unable to name a witness who’d seen him within the castle before his shift in the smithy. And he hadn’t denied that he was against the uniting of the two clans. But he claimed he had not fired a musket at Maggie, that he’d never shoot a woman.

  Owen wanted a confession, not a protestation of innocence, he thought, taking another swig of ale. He wanted to know that the right man paid for the crime. For years, he had watched his father hand out punishments with little care for the truth. He’d been a dictator, a man who believed in the superiority and power of his title, and thought everyone else beneath him. Owen had been determined to be different, to bring justice to his clan and display fairness.

  Now he felt as if the need for revenge was eating away his humanity. He’d spent his adult life combating his emotions, dealing in logic and science because it made sense, inspired nothing but pride and wonder and satisfaction. It was disheartening to realize that underneath, he could feel bloodthirsty because of a threat to his mate, as if man had not advanced in thousands of years, regardless of the ability to understand the planets or create new machines to aid mankind.

  There was a knock on the door, and Owen turned his head. “Come in.”

  Maggie entered, then leaned back against the closed door and regarded him warily. Such an expression actually disheartened him. Had he thought a threat to her life would make her confess her love and accept his protection? No, he knew her too well. She was independent, determined to have her own way even if it made no sense.

  To his surprise, she hadn’t even dressed for the day, was still wearing her dressing gown. He forced his mind not to go to what lay just beneath, so close at hand. If he’d thought taking Maggie’s virginity would ease his obsession with her, he’d been completely wrong. He wanted her even more, and forcing himself to regard her dispassionately took great effort.

  He arched a brow. “I thought after yesterday you would allow yourself to rest longer.”

  She shook her head. “We need to have a discussion and it can’t wait.”

  She approached him and stood at his side, staring out the window. He wanted to put his arm around her, but hesitated, then felt exasperated with himself. He slid his arm around her waist, and to his surprise, she leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed. Such a small surrender from a woman like Maggie should have appeased him, but it didn’t.

  “What is worrying you?” he asked quietly. “Gregor is confined. I promise he will never hurt you again. Is your arm sore?”

  She shook her head almost impatiently. “’Twas barely a scratch. Nay, I am glad to know Gregor will pay for what he’s tried to do—not that I understand it, even now. But . . . that isn’t what I came here for. You need to know that I am with child.”

  She said it so matter-of-factly that he almost didn’t understand the significance. And then he took her upper arms in his hands and stared into her face.

  “With child?” he echoed, searching her eyes as if only seeing her emotions would have meaning. And then he realized a painful truth. “How can you know that? A woman has to miss her menses, and it’s only been days. Can you truly call yourself ‘late’ without waiting for a more appropriate length of time to pass?”

  She sighed and shrugged off his hands. “Sometimes you exhaust me, Owen. Nay, I’ve not even missed my womanly time yet.”

  He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  She put a hand on her stomach. “I dreamed of my advanced pregnancy come next spring. I know I will be having a child.”

  She’d dreamed. Of course she’d dreamed, he thought. He knew better than to question her about it, whatever he felt. He wanted her as his wife; he wanted a child—and if her belief made it happen, so much the better.

  And then he could see their babe in her arms, and the surge of tenderness and love was daunting.

  “Then we shall marry as quickly as possible,” he said, feeling not one bit guilty to use her beliefs to persuade her.

  She watched him with suspicion. “’Twas that easy to convince ye I spoke the truth? Ye suddenly believe in my dreams?”

  “What do you want me to say, Maggie? I like having the truth from you. I want no secrets between us.”

  “And ye want us to marry, and this is the perfect excuse.”

  “I don’t need an excuse to marry you, although it seems you do.”

  She glanced away, a blush of guilt rising. “Aye, this pregnancy changes things for me. I won’t have our child a bastard, as ye said. And with Gregor now being held for the crime against me . . .’tis time to accept my fate.”

  “Such a ringing, romantic endorsement of your own wedding,” he said dryly.

  Her face only reddened more before she sighed. “I’m sorry, Owen. Nothing has ever been easy for us. How can ye expect me to proceed with joyous abandon? I’ve never had a dream that didn’t come true. I’m frightened for ye. But there’s a child coming, and I have to trust that I’ve been shown one path for ye, with the chance to change it. I hope we have. I pray we have,” she added fervently.

  He cupped her face with both hands. “I may not have said it before, but your concern for me moves me. Ye don’t care about my title or my lands—”

  “Of course I do—they’re what will help bring peace to both our clans.”

  He grimaced. “Ye know what I mean, lass. From the beginning of our betrothal, ye’ve been worried for me.”

  He brushed his thumb along her lower lip. He would marry this woman; she’d share his bed and his life. It was daunting and overwhelming and he couldn’t think about how he’d changed because of her. But he knew he wanted her. She carried their future within her. He leaned down and kissed her. She seemed stiff for a long moment, until with a low moan she sighed and leaned into him, sliding her arms about his waist.

  CHAPTER 19

  Inside her heart, Maggie knew she’d surrendered to her love of Owen weeks ago, and now she surrendered her very life to him. She would be his. If she’d hoped for an impassioned declaration of love, it had been within only a little corner of herself, a sad little corner that had to accept the fact that with an arranged marriage to a man like Owen, she had to take her blessings where she found them. She would never have a great love, but he wanted her, and she would learn to be content with that.

  Because she wanted him, with a desperation that frightened her. She wanted the impossible—she wanted his love, she wanted a future with him, and she didn’t know if she could have those things.

  But oh, when his kiss deepened into one of hunger, when he pulled her so close to his body that she could feel the pounding of his heart near to hers—she simply melted. Her flesh burned to experience the pleasure he’d given her just two days ago. She reveled in the feel of his hands sliding down her back, cupping her backside, pulling her firmly against him. They kissed for a long, sweet moment, exploring and tasting. He would be her husband, the father of her child. He would have a powerful, important place in her life. She would just have to find a way to accept him for who he was, even if he couldn’t accept her the same way.

  She shivered when he parted her dressing gown and it fell from her shoulders. He didn’t touch, just looked at the way the fabric skimmed her body. He lifted the nightshift over her head, leaving her bare to him in the morning light, then he put his hand on her flat belly and stared into her eyes. Was he looking for the truth? Or could he simply believe her? Her eyes misted as she prayed they would find happiness as parents.

  And then he pulled off his own garments so quickly it made her smile.

  “I like that smile,” he murmured. “It is all too rare.”

  But her smile faded when she looked down his body, admiring the way his broad chest tapered into narrow hips. She let herself touch him, skimming her hands over smooth, hard muscles, brushing his nipples as he’d done to her. She could feel his flesh shiver as if her touch excited him. And that excited her. She let her caresses move lower, across the ridges of his
stomach. As his breathing increased, she felt a powerful sense of wonder that she could affect him so. And then she clasped his erection in her hand and he shuddered. It was hard and thick and smooth, and she explored it with great interest.

  “Though I’m enjoying this, lass, I won’t be able to stand it for long,” he said hoarsely. “Your touch is far too—”

  Then he broke off with a gasp as she reached lower, to caress the round sacs below. He liked that, too, she realized. She would have a lifetime to learn everything about him.

  She hoped. Oh, she hated that little voice of worry deep in her mind that wouldn’t leave her.

  But she forgot all of that as Owen’s hands began to caress her at the same time, one hand lingered at her nipples, the other moving between her legs to slide along her newly moist flesh. As they touched each other, neither looked away, and it was incredibly moving to know unabashedly what they could make each other feel, to acknowledge, if only with their eyes, the power of their connection.

  And then with a groan, Owen moved backward, pulling her with him as he sat upon the bed. He lifted her onto his lap to straddle him.

  He leaned back on his elbows, his expression eager. “Guide me inside of you.”

  This new position intrigued her, and though she felt awkward about how to accomplish it, she came up on her knees, took him into her hand, and slid him along the depth of her. It made her shudder, and when he suddenly took her hips in his big hands and pulled down, sheathing himself deep inside her, she gasped.