The Groom Wore Plaid

by Gayle Callen

  “Am I hurting ye?” he asked, his body frozen in place, but with a restrained sense of urgency as if he really wanted to be moving.

  She shook her head, her awareness centered inward, on how good he felt filling her. “Can I move?”

  “Please God, aye,” he ground out.

  She braced her hands on his chest and leaned over to say, “I’ll conduct my own little experiment and ye can analyze the results.”

  His chuckle was mixed with a groan as she lifted herself up a bit, then sank back. The friction felt so good she did it again, and soon she was enthusiastically riding him, striving to find what felt best. He caressed her breasts, and slid his fingers wickedly between her thighs, and soon she was panting, her head thrown back with exaltation as she found her ultimate pleasure. As if he’d been waiting just for her, Owen took her hips in his hands and arched to thrust himself inside her and join her in fulfillment.

  Maggie collapsed forward to rest her head on his chest. She could hear the thundering of his heart gradually slow down, feeling a sense of peace steal over her as he ran his fingers gently through her hair.

  “So you’re truly my betrothed now,” he murmured.

  She nodded, and let her breath out on a long sigh. Silently, she sent forth another prayer that she was making the right decision, that in her selfish need to have her child legitimate, she wasn’t somehow sending Owen to his death.

  Suddenly her world turned upside down as he rolled her onto her back. And then he was thrusting inside her again, a slow buildup into speed, and all she could do was go along for the ride and let him take her over the edge.

  AN hour later, when Maggie called for Kathleen to help her dress, the maid arrived in a far more subdued manner than she’d ever shown before. Her complexion was pale, her eyes downcast, and Maggie experienced a pang of sadness and even guilt, though she’d done nothing wrong.

  She put a hand on Kathleen’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry about your brother.”

  Kathleen nodded. “Thank ye, mistress.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Kathleen finally searched Maggie’s eyes as if looking for answers. At last she shook her head. “I cannot believe my brother guilty of this, but I’m content to know that the assembly will listen to his words. I will find witnesses for him.”

  Maggie nodded, and when Kathleen began to unlace her gown, she debated asking about the charge of witchcraft that Gregor had made against a woman in the colonies. But what was Kathleen going to do—incriminate her brother? So Maggie said nothing.

  Nine days sped by in a rush of business, from planning the wedding with Cat to working with Mrs. Robertson to learning the methods of the household. Now that Maggie had accepted her role as mistress, she would not shirk it.

  And it gave her a good reason to avoid Owen as much as she could. She was frightened of the power of her feelings for him, and felt vulnerable knowing he did not feel the same way. She couldn’t let herself openly love him, couldn’t give him that power over her. She knew that without being in love, someday he might grow bored with her, and she was afraid of how crushed she’d be to see him try to hide his disinterest. She stayed away from his bedroom, and asked the same of him. She wanted at least something of their wedding night to feel special, and if that was a renewal of exploring the pleasures of their bodies, then she would accept that.

  When her family arrived the day before the ceremony, she felt some trepidation. But she’d warned her brother by letter what had been going on, so that he could provide a strong escort, and would be wary within the walls of Castle Kinlochard. Brendan; Hugh; his wife, Riona; and their mother arrived late in the evening. Maggie had a quiet supper sent to their dressing room and joined them for a talk.

  Hugh ate with his usual hearty appetite, and Riona would have joined him, but she obviously saw the concerned looks Lady McCallum couldn’t hide.

  Maggie ignored it all and talked with excitement about the food that would be served at the banquet afterward and the flowers she’d planned to decorate the church with. Brendan fell asleep and Hugh carried him to his bedroom, and on his return gave Maggie a look. She was boring him to tears, she knew, but it was for the best. She was hoping Hugh hadn’t informed his wife about Gregor’s threats against Maggie.

  “I can’t take any more of this,” Riona said at last, rising to her feet and beginning to pace. “Maggie, aren’t you frightened that this man—what’s his name?” she asked her husband.

  “Gregor,” Hugh said as he sat back and eyed Maggie.

  “That this Gregor had such hatred hidden within him?”

  Maggie let out a frustrated breath. “Hugh, ye were supposed to keep this a secret. I didn’t want anyone worried for nothing.”

  “Ye’ll find out soon enough, sister dear, that there are few secrets in a marriage.”

  “Few!” Riona echoed, rounding on him.

  He put both hands up, smiling. “I was teasing.”

  Riona rolled her eyes, then reached to take Maggie’s hand. “Were you not scared? I heard there was a fire, and threatening words, and then a gunshot!”

  Maggie frowned at her brother, who only shrugged. She said, “It no longer matters, because the man is under guard now.”

  Her mother was watching her very carefully, but said nothing.

  Riona turned back to Hugh. “And this is all right with you?”

  “Of course it’s not all right,” Hugh said. “I am disturbed that my own sister would keep these things from me the last time we were here. But I also know she thought she was doing what was best. I sometimes pity poor Owen,” he said, almost as an aside.

  “I had to keep silent,” Maggie insisted. “I didn’t want ye here, where ye could be hurt. As for me, I had Owen’s protection.”

  “And he did a crack job at that, I see,” Hugh said dryly.

  “I am alive and well and about to be married.”

  “And ye seem so happy about that.” His voice took on a note of sarcasm.

  She took a deep breath. “I am happy. This will be a good marriage.”

  “Does he love ye?” Hugh shot back.

  She hesitated. “I don’t know. I want to believe it will happen, but he’s a man who doesn’t show his emotions—unlike you, brother dear, who shows more emotions than are necessary.”

  Hugh only grinned, and Riona looked from her husband to Maggie with confusion.

  “Then I’ll show ye another emotion, Maggie,” Hugh said, his smile fading. “Empathy. I sense a difference in ye, and I see ye holding your belly as if in protection.”

  Maggie stiffened, then dropped her hand, trying not to blush with guilt.

  Lady Aberfoyle’s expression turned from shock to happiness to worry, all in the blink of an eye. “Margaret, ye’re with child?”

  “I—I think so,” she admitted. “’Tis too soon to ken for certain—”

  “Then our children will grow up together!” Riona cried happily, as if forgetting that her fears had begun this conversation.

  “Ye’re pregnant, too?” Maggie asked, allowing delight to raise her spirits.

  Riona grinned and nodded, and they both hugged. Maggie saw her brother watching with fond satisfaction, as if he’d set everything up himself. And in a way he had, kidnapping the wrong bride and setting in motion the conflict that even now interfered between Owen and her.

  As for Maggie’s admission of pregnancy, no one looked embarrassed or ashamed, for in the Highlands, a child was welcomed, and often sealed the bond between the mother and father. In fact, Hugh looked downright relieved.

  Maggie gave him a light swat on the shoulder. “Stop that! In England, ye’d be calling Owen out for dishonoring me instead of looking like ye’re thrilled to be an uncle. Am I not right, Riona?”

  “Yes, she’s right,” Riona admitted.

  “But we aren’t in England,” Hugh said easily. “We’re in the Highlands, and what started out as a betrothal to end a feud has changed into one where the two of ye c
annot keep your hands off each other. I am only sorry to know there are still ignorant people who don’t want peace.” And then he scowled. “Ye’re certain ye’ve got the right man locked up?”

  “The evidence against him is mounting,” Maggie said. “And nothing has happened to me since he’s been confined.” She touched her stomach again. “And I’ve been shown a dream that I was with child—it seems I’m meant to marry Owen.”

  Maggie thought she’d calmed and comforted her family enough, but her mother followed her to her room when it was time for them all to retire.

  Maggie welcomed her with a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t need the wedding-night explanation from the mother of the bride.”

  Lady McCallum winced. “I cannot claim I’m unhappy about that. I’ve heard ’tis an awkward conversation. But things must be going better between ye if ye’re carrying his babe.”

  “Better, aye.” Maggie sagged onto the edge of the bed, where her mother joined her. “But . . . he doesn’t love me, Mathair; he cannot believe in me.”

  “How do ye ken he cannot love ye? Just because he hasn’t said the words yet? He’s a man, and sometimes sentimentality is a difficult thing to admit.”

  Maggie shrugged. She wanted to believe that, but . . . “Oh, he wants me, and has no problem showing those emotions,” she said wryly, once again touching her stomach. “He was happy that the revelation of the baby changed my mind about the marriage.”

  “I thought Gregor’s capture did that?” Lady McCallum asked uneasily.

  “It did. But Mathair, Gregor professes his innocence, still. I guess only a complete admission of guilt will truly satisfy me. What if—what if I marry Owen and—” She broke off as her throat became too full to speak.

  “Ye do love him,” her mother said, sympathy gleaming in her eyes.

  Maggie nodded. “But how can he ever love me if he doesn’t believe in my dreams?”

  “If he respects ye—and I think he does, because he didn’t force ye to marry immediately—then love should follow, my lass. Ye’ve already committed to this marriage. Commit to believing that Owen has feelings he doesn’t know how to express. Commit to a happy future, where Gregor can never bother ye again.”

  Maggie nodded, quickly wiping away a solitary tear. “Look at me. I never thought I’d be crying on the eve of my wedding.”

  “Perhaps it only proves the depth of your emotion. I have faith in ye. And I have faith in Owen. He didn’t have to propose to ye; he could have taken our prized land and left us with no way to earn coin in these difficult times. He has honor.”

  Maggie nodded again, then accepted her mother’s hug and held on longer than necessary. Then her mother kissed her forehead and left.

  Maggie was alone, wondering for the thousandth time if she was doing the right thing.

  CHAPTER 20

  Maggie tried to enjoy her wedding day, but every moment was steeped in a creeping sense of rising fear. Owen had surprised her by having the seamstresses make a new gown—the one she’d been wearing in her dream. She’d stared at it as Kathleen had held it up, and horror was a nausea that seemed to rise from her belly and into her throat. In the end, she’d stood a little too close to the fire, and Kathleen had had to toss the pitcher of water at the hem to combat any flames. Maggie felt guilty, and promised Kathleen they’d repair the gown for the next big assembly or festival—but she wasn’t going to wear it on her wedding day.

  If Owen recognized the green silk gown she’d worn the night he first officially welcomed her to the castle, he hadn’t said a thing when she reached his side in the family chapel. Maggie was still shaken that he was alive and smiling at her, but she could not get over the feeling that her dream could unfold any moment. She barely noticed the fresh flowers in vases, or the way the rare sun shone through the windows with beams of light. Owen’s gentlemen and their wives faded into the background. His sister Cat and uncle Harold were simply backdrops near the altar, waiting to stand at their sides.

  Maggie could only look at Owen, at the pride that lingered in his faint smile as he took her hand from Hugh. They were in the chapel, which hadn’t been in her dream. They were honestly getting married. She even managed to relax a bit, and her voice didn’t shake too much when she repeated her vows.

  And then it was done, and Owen was kissing her, and people were cheering. Maggie tried to remember that she was doing this for peace and to save lives and to give her baby a name. And she was doing it for love, even if he couldn’t reciprocate. Could her love be enough for the both of them?

  The wedding feast was full of food and gaiety, poetry and songs. The more hours passed, the better Maggie felt. Her mother broke the traditional oatcake over her head for good luck. And Owen kept touching Maggie, whether it be her hand or her arm, or her thigh beneath the table. They’d barely kissed these last few days, and even she was growing more excited about the wedding night than worried. The day was almost over. Had she truly succeeded in keeping Owen safe?

  Kathleen came to her at the dais. Though subdued and thinner since her brother’s confinement, she’d lost her pallor and had seemed to put on an optimistic attitude. Maggie hoped for the girl’s sake that Gregor’s punishment wouldn’t be too severe.

  Now Kathleen leaned over and spoke into Maggie’s ear to be heard over the pipes. “Lady Aberfoyle—”

  Though Maggie had heard the honorific through the day, it still sounded strange. At least she was Maggie McCallum, and had no need to take Owen’s clan name for her own. She would consider it, of course, if it helped keep the peace.

  “There seems to be a disturbance among the weavers in the woman room,” Kathleen finished, then added apologetically, “Ye said as the new mistress of the castle, ye wished to be told such things.”

  “Of course, Kathleen, thank ye. A disturbance?”

  “I do believe an argument is growin’ worse.”

  “Very well, I’ll go settle things right now.”

  Women were weaving during her wedding banquet? It seemed very strange. Maggie didn’t bother to tell Owen she was leaving for something so small. In fact, she didn’t even see him in the crowd. But she headed up the spiral staircase to the next floor, rushing past both her and Owen’s rooms, even as she hoped she would find the argument already amicably settled. It was her wedding day, after all!

  OWEN noticed Maggie had left the hall, but it wasn’t until he received the note from Kathleen that he thought anything about it. Maggie wrote that she wanted to meet him in his room in private. Did she wish to avoid the traditional friendly escort to their bedroom? He liked his wife’s daring. And he was a little drunk, too.

  His wife. Those two words had taken on a new meaning. Fergus tried to follow him upstairs, and Owen stretched two arms across the width of the corridor to stop him.

  “It’s my wedding night, Fergus,” Owen patiently explained.

  Even the tips of Fergus’s ears reddened. “Aye, my lord, but—”

  “But nothing. My wife awaits. Stay here and enjoy yourself.”

  Owen was practically whistling as he took the stairs two at a time. The corridor had grown darker, but torches were lit at intervals. He opened up his door, anticipating seeing Maggie naked in his bed, the candlelight illuminating her like a painting come to life.

  But there was no light on at all, which was strange. And then something hard hit him in the head. He stumbled forward to his knees, dazed with the pain, then felt a sharp stab in his back. With instinct, he arched backward and grabbed, catching his fingers in hair as he fell. On the floor, he twisted and grabbed the assailant’s thin ankle, but a kick caught him across the jaw and he lost his hold.

  As he began to lose consciousness, he swore he could smell Maggie’s perfume. The door slammed shut and he was alone—too alone. He tried to get up on his hands and knees but reeled with dizziness and the throb of pain in his back. He didn’t know how badly he was bleeding, but he couldn’t risk simply hoping for help. He crawled the rest of the way to the do
or, and though it felt a mile above him, he reached the handle and managed to open it. He collapsed near the threshold, the torches weaving as he stared at them from between half-closed eyes. He wasn’t certain how long he lay there.

  “Owen!”

  His uncle’s rumbling voice had an urgency Owen had never heard before.

  “Who did this to ye, lad?” Harold demanded.

  “A . . . woman.” Owen lifted his trembling hand, and he thought he saw strands of hair caught between his fingers.

  As if he was falling farther and farther away, he could hear a woman scream.

  MAGGIE couldn’t seem to stop screaming as she stood in the doorway and saw Owen lying in his own blood. She felt frozen and brittle, as if she could be broken in half. She had done everything to avoid this wedding, had thought Gregor’s capture would save Owen, and it all had led to him bleeding just as she’d foreseen. Fate had cruelly taunted her, but hadn’t allowed her to change a thing.

  Someone had her by the arms and was shaking her, but she stared past at Owen on the floor, face white as death, eyelids fluttering.

  “Fergus, send for the physician!” Harold shouted past her.

  He let her alone then, and she staggered forward and dropped to her knees beside Owen. She pulled him across her lap, straining, and then Harold was helping her.

  “Put your hands on the wound,” she cried. “Stop the bleeding!”

  As Harold did as she commanded, she rocked Owen as his head bobbed lifelessly on her shoulder, his arms trailing like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  “Don’t die,” she whispered into his hair, pressing kisses there, too. “Don’t die, please don’t die.”

  And then people rushed into the room and pulled Owen away from her. She screamed at the loss, needing to be with him if it was his final moment. But Harold had her again, holding her by the arm so tightly she felt bruised.

  “The physician will see to him,” he said sternly.

  Maggie blinked up at him. “Physician—? There isn’t one in the castle. Euphemia—”

  “Owen sent for him from Edinburgh, wanted him here for the ceremony, though I didn’t know why.” Gruffly, he added, “Thank God.”