The Groom Wore Plaid Page 13

  “But has she warned people to their advantage?” Maggie asked.

  Kathleen looked at her, baffled.

  “Fate deals its hand to us all,” Mrs. Robertson said in a stilted voice. “Little can be changed. Does your mother understand that?”

  Maggie cleared her throat. “Of course. Aye, my mother can be a bit obsessed at times.”

  Kathleen’s eyes seemed to shine with pity, before she said brightly, “Will ye be attendin’ the spectacle the men are puttin’ on today, mistress? They’re havin’ another competition. Wrestlin’ done the Scottish way,” Kathleen said with pride. “Gregor used to show his friends in the colonies.”

  “Then I hope he has success,” Maggie said, her mind beginning to race.

  Everyone would be distracted by the spectacle. She should be able to slip away to the village and speak to Euphemia about her dreams. Perhaps the woman could help her relive it again, or maybe Euphemia even had success trying to change what her visions had shown her.

  CHAPTER 10

  Maggie had never imagined that the entire village might crowd into the castle courtyard to see a wrestling event. Sword fighting always seemed so much more dashing and dangerous to her. Or perhaps it was simply the spectacle of seeing who could defeat their new chief. Maggie didn’t stand above the crowd on the first floor balcony as before, but mingled among them, looking for Euphemia, but she never saw the elderly woman. The clan was growing used to her now; some gave deferential nods, but others didn’t meet her gaze, and some turned away altogether. She told herself all this would help prove to Owen that she wasn’t fit to be his bride, but she still felt terrible—and so very lonely.

  Scottish backhold wrestling was always a feat of brute strength. The men paired up, and she easily found Owen, who leaned forward to “hug” his opponent, hands clasped together at his back, right arm beneath the man’s left, Owen’s left arm over the man’s shoulder. Maggie had watched many times in her youth, and knew the loser was the man who touched the ground with anything other than his feet. It was simply two men, using every muscle in their bodies to remain standing, while knocking over the challenger.

  Owen easily slid his foot behind his opponent’s, then pushed him over it, forcing the man to the ground. It was best two out of three, but Owen won the second match as well, and would face another challenger. There were plenty of brawny bare legs and flying kilts as the men upended each other, making the women squeal with delight. Maggie unabashedly enjoyed the sight.

  Watching Owen move, the display of his muscles, gave her an unwelcome shiver of awareness. He’d been far too solicitous with his caresses, his touches, many of them seemingly innocent—though she had her doubts. No one needed to touch someone as much as Owen touched her. She was beginning to anticipate it each time he was so close, to gird herself to resist any enjoyment. She constantly flinched and frowned at him, trying to prove herself irritated. She wasn’t certain it was working, for he looked too satisfied with himself.

  But she couldn’t think about that now. She had plans for the day.

  It was easy enough to slip into the dark tunnel beneath the gatehouse and then across the moat bridge. The village was just down the lane, and she’d had the cottages and their owners pointed out on her last visit. It was strange how deserted the place seemed. An occasional chicken pecked at the grain near a cottage door, but no people weeded their small gardens or remained on watch over cattle on a nearby hill. The sky had been threatening rain all day, and a wet mist settled over everything. Maggie shivered and moved through the center of the village and beyond, to the last solitary cottage, alone before a thick copse of trees. There was a well nearby, and a little bench as if its owner liked the peaceful view. She turned and took a deep breath, never tiring of the beautiful mountains surrounding the loch that threaded its way through the glen.

  Maggie knocked. It was a long time before the door opened, but she was patient, knowing Euphemia’s age. The door slowly creaked open, and two bright eyes peered out at her from the gloom.

  Then those eyes went wide. “Mistress Maggie?”

  Euphemia drew the door all the way open, and Maggie saw the little wizened woman with her hunched back, white wispy hair gathered into a long braid, and her face as crinkled as a dried apple.

  “Good day, Mistress Euphemia,” Maggie said. “I wasn’t certain ye’d know me.”

  “Of course I know ye, lass,” Euphemia said, her voice high-pitched and rough with long use. “Everyone does. Ye’re to marry our chief. And ye wear those silly gowns.”

  Well, at least some people were noticing, she thought, since Owen was ignoring her lack of style completely.

  Euphemia narrowed her eyes and stared hard at Maggie, who wondered what gifts the old woman truly had.

  “Come in, my wee bairn, I was just having a cup of buttermilk. Would ye like some?”

  Maggie followed the elderly lady inside, and had to duck beneath all the herbs hanging to dry from the ceiling beams. It was a single room, with a peat fire on the floor in the center, smoke escaping through a hole in the roof directly above. Euphemia gestured to a wooden table with two chairs, and Maggie took a seat. The cup of buttermilk was warm and nourishing, and reminded her of the summers of her youth in Edinburgh, when she’d looked forward to going back to the Highlands for the treat.

  Euphemia sat down very, very slowly, and Maggie could hear the creaking of her joints.

  “Ahhh,” Euphemia said after her first sip. “Now tell me why I’ve been lucky enough to be visited by the chief’s future wife.”

  Maggie hesitated, staring into old, old eyes that had seen the joys and sorrows of everyone in this village. They were intelligent eyes, a deep, deep blue, full of sympathy as well as curiosity.

  “May I trust that what I share with ye will go no further?” Maggie asked quietly.

  Euphemia crossed her arms over her chest, and chewed her bare gums together briefly before saying, “A woman like me knows how to keep secrets, mistress.”

  Maggie took a deep breath—and told her everything, about the dreams of her youth, the dream that ended any chance of a marriage with Owen, her attempts to discover what happened next. Through it all, Euphemia remained silent.

  Suddenly thirsty, Maggie took a deep draught of buttermilk, sat back, and gave a long, weary sigh. For a small moment, it had felt good to share the worst with someone else. But then . . . the fear suddenly overwhelmed her. What had she done? Why had she trusted a stranger with something that could ruin her life should it be discovered?

  “Och, my wee bairn,” Euphemia said gently, “ye need have no fear of me. I have met others like ye, and they yet lead uncomplicated lives.”

  Her expression was sly and merry, and Maggie gave a shaky smile. “Are . . . you like me?” she asked.

  Euphemia’s smile faded a bit, but not her humor. “Nay, I do not have dreams in the night, but visions, mostly at dusk. I hear things, too, but perhaps someone already told ye that, for ye to seek me out.” She chuckled, a dry old rasp. “Ye do not need to tell me who, lass. I don’t hide my true nature.”

  “How do you bear it?” Maggie asked. “I’ve seen how people with our gifts are treated. I’ve been able to keep the truth to my family and a few others, but here . . .” She looked out the window and swallowed against the lump that arose in her throat. “I’m a McCallum, Euphemia, the enemy.”

  “Ye don’t seem so threatening to me.”

  The gentle kindness of her voice was almost Maggie’s undoing, but she willed the stinging in her eyes to recede. “Perhaps not to ye, but I’ve heard cruel whispers. A byre and a cottage were set to burning; I’ve been followed about. And recently, someone left a talisman of witchcraft in my bed, a stick with letters carved backwards.”

  Euphemia sat back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “’Tis terrible to do such things to a girl only trying to mend a feud men started centuries ago.”

  “How can I marry Owen if it will mean his death?” Maggie asked bitter
ly. “He doesn’t believe that he’ll die; he thinks I’m only trying to deceive him. And maybe it is all a deception in my mind—I don’t even know the true ending of the dream. Can ye help me, Euphemia? I don’t want my actions to renew this terrible feud, but . . .”

  “Aye, his lairdship cannot be allowed to die,” the old woman said. “He’s a good man, a good chief.”

  “So ye think my dream means that he will die?” Maggie demanded.

  “That I cannot know, lass.”

  “Can I know? Can ye think of any way I could have the dream again? I’ve tried everything I know and nothing works. I keep seeing him lying on the floor, pale and blood-spattered.” She shuddered.

  Euphemia put her hands to her thighs and rose to her feet. “I ken of only one thing that might help. Come with me.”

  The old woman took down a cloak from a peg near the door, and without asking questions, Maggie helped her don it. A walking stick came next, and then the two of them went outside.

  Maggie froze upon seeing Martin Hepburn standing in the middle of the lane, surprise and guilt mingling on his face. She tried to step in front of Euphemia, in case he meant them harm, but using her walking stick, Euphemia pushed her aside.

  “Martin, off with ye,” Euphemia ordered.

  His face flushing, he turned in a dignified manner and walked back toward the center of the village.

  “Why is he following me?” Maggie asked with frustration.

  “Pay him no mind, lass.”

  Maggie fell into step as the old woman took a dirt path that led past her house and began to slope upward. Maggie didn’t know how long she could ignore Martin and his unsettling behavior toward her. But for now, she would concentrate on Euphemia.

  To her surprise, the old woman was as steady on the hillside as a goat. For half an hour they climbed a rocky path, passing the occasional curious cow that lifted its head from chewing grass and blinked at them. The mist burned off. The glen fell away below them, and by glancing over her shoulder, she could see the towers of Castle Kinlochard looking more like a child’s toy. The wind picked up, and Maggie felt tendrils of hair escape her chignon. Euphemia moved slowly but steadily. Gradually the path curved along the mountain, and soon any sign of civilization disappeared.

  The path flattened at last, where their small mountain crested. Beyond loomed more mountains, but on the windswept summit was a sight that took Maggie’s breath away. Rising up from the short scrub grass were standing stones, like jagged teeth against the cloudy sky. There were only three of them, and one was squat as if broken. They stood side by side, sentinels left by distant ancestors. With the mountains as a backdrop, they reminded her of the columns of a wild cathedral.

  Maggie let out a soft “oh” of appreciation, yet barely spoke above a whisper. “Euphemia, how incredible.”

  Narrow-eyed against the wind, the old woman said, “No one can say why they’re here, why they’re scattered throughout Scotland and beyond. Some say they were men turned by enchantment into stone. Others say they are but monuments to men killed in battle. Perchance they were used in rituals long since lost to time.”

  “Ye don’t use them yourself?”

  “I have found my gift inside me alone. Believe me, I have tried to use them, but they are not for me. Yet they bring me solace when I need to think.”

  “May I . . . walk among them?”

  Euphemia said nothing for a long moment, just studying her with old, shrewd eyes. “Aye,” she said slowly. “And touch them. Perhaps they can give you the strength to find your answers.”

  Gooseflesh swept across Maggie’s skin as she walked toward the stones. Two more were lying on the ground, half sunk like stones in mud. The tall grass clung to her skirt as if pulling on her. The stones were taller than she, and as she moved among them, whenever their shadows fell upon her, she shivered. At last she touched one, putting both palms on it and closing her eyes.

  But nothing happened to her, no vision, no sudden realization. Not that she’d expected it, since she’d only experienced her gift in dreams. But still, she was disappointed. The stone was as cold as she imagined, rough where it had been chipped away, smooth in other places.

  “The stones have not given ye inspiration,” Euphemia said, coming to stand beside one and placing her hand on it with deliberate intent.

  Maggie shook her head. “I cannot expect something to magically happen. I spent many years denying my dreams, forcing them away. Perhaps I made enemies of whoever gave me such a gift.”

  “Why did ye deny yourself?”

  “There was a woman I dreamed would drown. I did not stop it from happening, and the guilt is sometimes still a terrible burden—one I well deserve.”

  “Och, ye don’t even ken if ye could have stopped it, lass,” she said kindly.

  “Have ye ever changed a vision foretold to ye?”

  “Nay, and I stopped trying long ago.”

  Maggie felt her shoulders slump with disappointment.

  Euphemia continued, “I’ve accepted my glimpse through the curtains of time, and come to peace with it.”

  Maggie thought about Owen—had he come to peace with the knowledge he’d had of his betrothed’s death? Or had he simply forgotten it all? “The dreams shaped me in a way I’ve not often acknowledged. I was afraid to become close to people outside my family, for fear I’d see something I could not change.”

  “And Himself?”

  “I keep my distance, aye,” she whispered, then leaned her forehead against a cold stone and sighed. The wind whirled around her.

  “Ye cannot be second-guessing your life.”

  “Can’t I? Do your visions make ye hold back? Ye don’t live in the center of the village, do ye?”

  Euphemia’s smile was secretive. “Perhaps my customers prefer privacy; perhaps I prefer privacy. Or perhaps I’ve a lover no one needs to know about.”

  Maggie’s head came around to gape at the old woman—and then they both laughed. “Glad I am to hear that.”

  They walked a while longer on the mountaintop, taking in the beautiful view of the glen so far below, the loch a narrow, glistening line through it like a finger.

  “Do ye think I’ll be able to discover the end of the dream?” Maggie asked, just before they were going to leave.

  “I think ye cannot count on that, mistress. Ye can only hope. Make plans accordingly.”

  Maggie went first going back down the steep path, turning to offer her hand where Euphemia might need it.

  “Have you given thought to being honest with everyone about your gift, mistress?” the old woman asked. “Perhaps ye’re a wise woman like me. The village could use another. I won’t live much longer.”

  Maggie gasped. “Ye’ve seen your own death?”

  Euphemia gave another raspy chuckle. “Nay, I just feel it in these old bones. I cannot live forever.”

  Though Maggie hadn’t received the help she wished, she found herself smiling all the way back to Euphemia’s cottage.

  OWEN felt that his frown was a like a thundercloud preceding him as he entered the village. Most were still back at the castle, enjoying the refreshments he’d ordered, but a woman carrying a bucket scurried out of his way, eyes wide.

  After the wrestling competition was over and he couldn’t find Maggie, he’d been angry that she’d left the safety of the castle, and that his men had been too distracted to pay attention to her departure. When Mrs. Robertson had admitted Maggie’s interest in Euphemia, it had given him a measure of relief. On the quick walk, his anger had mostly turned to exasperation. But now that he saw how empty the village was, how anything could have happened to Maggie with no one to see even a clue, his exasperation merged into worry. She made rash decisions without thinking through the consequences. He wanted her safe within the castle walls, not wandering alone, an easy target.

  And now he couldn’t stop thinking of a person who’d set Duff property on fire, risking lives, or would frighten a young woman by leaving supe
rstitious nonsense in her bed. It was a threat, even if Owen didn’t believe in the ancient ways it stood for. He’d dealt often with crime in the cities, but it didn’t seem right, here at home.

  But Maggie was exactly where Mrs. Robertson had suggested, at Euphemia’s cottage. He saw the two of them sitting on a little bench, Euphemia drooping as if tired. She was so much tinier than he remembered. He’d been frightened of her as a little boy, because everyone seemed so in awe of her. When he was a little older, he and some other boys had dared each other to touch her front door, and she’d opened it wide even as he’d been an inch from touching it. He’d run away, convinced she was giving him the evil eye. Now she watched him approach with lively interest, and then looked from Maggie to him with expectation.

  He stopped before the bench and nodded his head. “Euphemia, it’s been many years since we’ve last spoken. You have not changed much in all that time.”

  “Neither have ye, my lord, though ye’ve gotten tall and brawny.”

  “Have you convinced my betrothed to marry me?” he asked.

  Maggie’s eyes went wide.

  “Surely you had to know everyone is compelled to tell their troubles to Euphemia,” he continued. “Of course, most wouldn’t have come here alone with the village practically deserted.”

  Euphemia gave a hoarse rasp that must have been a laugh. “She’s a stubborn girl who knows her own mind. There’s no hurrying her.”

  Maggie made a point of looking behind him. “Where’s Fergus? Ye may not like me walking about alone, but he feels the same about ye.”

  “I left him basking in the glory of second place.”

  “Second to ye?” she inquired, tilting her head.

  “Nay, second to Gregor.”

  To his surprise, Maggie’s face paled.

  She asked, “Did ye wrestle him yourself?”

  He shook his head. “I lost just before the finals. Why do you look so relieved?”