The Groom Wore Plaid Read online

  “But Hugh’s right,” Cat conceded as if with regret. She glanced at her brother. “Owen, I spent the entire journey there reminding Mother that your happiness was more important than the hatred her parents had taught her, that a new day of peace was upon us. When we arrived, she was polite and distant with everyone until she met up with Lady McCallum. I don’t know what they sensed about each other—”

  “A kindred spirit?” Riona interrupted with a smile.

  Cat chuckled. “Perhaps that’s as good an explanation as any. They apparently hadn’t expected it and insisted on resisting for many days of sarcasm and biting comments.”

  Hugh exhaled a deep sigh. “’Twas exhausting. I wanted to enjoy my new bride, not judge every dispute between two old—”

  “Hugh!” Maggie said, glancing apologetically at Owen and Cat. “So how did they realize they could be friends?”

  “You mean besides the reminder that their children would be marrying each other?” Cat said.

  Cat smiled from Owen to Maggie with such hope that it was painful when it faltered as she stared deep into Maggie’s eyes.

  “It was as simple as discovering they were both fond of embroidery,” Riona said. “Lady Aberfoyle saw what Lady McCallum was working on, and they stiffly began to discuss it.”

  “For two entire days we had to listen to that at every meal,” Hugh said, shaking his head.

  “It was better than their arguments,” Cat pointed out.

  Maggie was relieved to see that Cat was comfortable with Hugh now. Cat had been worried about her cousin Riona’s captivity turning into a good marriage. Apparently her fears had gone.

  “Let us allow our guests to refresh themselves before the meal,” Owen said.

  “Dorothy, Helen!” Maggie called, ready to foist them off on Owen.

  Owen lifted a hand and Mrs. Robertson smoothly glided forward as if a signal had been arranged. “Aye, my lord?”

  “Please show Maggie’s cousins, the Mistresses McCallum, to their bedroom.” To the women, he said, “We hope you do not mind sharing one room. Many guests are expected for the festival, and every room will be full.”

  “We don’t mind,” Dorothy said forthrightly. “After all, we assume Maggie brought us here to consider men for our husbands. The more guests there are, the luckier we might be.”

  Maggie looked everywhere but into Owen’s knowing eyes. Hugh was regarding her suspiciously, too.

  Helen blushed again. “Dorothy, ye’re far too free with your words. Lord Aberfoyle doesn’t care about such things.”

  “We aren’t offending him,” Dorothy insisted. “’Tis not as if we’re here expecting a trial marriage to begin.”

  The sisters brushed shoulders as they laughed, and Maggie saw Riona and Hugh regard each other with their own special smile. Their marriage had begun that way.

  Maggie was startled when Owen slid his arm into hers. “Come, let us show our guests to their rooms together. While they’re resting, we can make sure the evening’s entertainment is ready.”

  “Oh, but Mrs. Robertson—”

  “—can use our help.”

  He turned to Hugh, and Maggie watched that careful shield come up between them again, as if they were so concerned to be civil to each other that they could not be themselves. But Owen said nothing, just gestured to the corridor down which their mothers had disappeared, then led the way.

  But he didn’t let go of Maggie’s arm.

  CHAPTER 13

  Owen wasn’t surprised that Maggie soon found a way to avoid him after they saw her family settled. She escaped to go find her mother, leaving him to stare after her, and Hugh to give him a narrow-eyed glare. Could the McCallum chief be regretting the contract, regretting handing over his sister to a stranger? But Cat was the stranger Hugh would have taken to wife, had Owen’s father not deceived them all. It was difficult to believe Hugh would want the contract broken, after all that had been done to save it.

  Owen had taken no chances, doubling the guards patrolling the battlements and stationed in the great hall. He wasn’t just preparing in case Hugh tried something—he wanted to keep Maggie’s family safe from whoever had decided that the marriage shouldn’t happen.

  If Hugh was planning treachery, he was doing a good job disguising it. Anyone could see the love he had for Owen’s cousin Riona. Riona wouldn’t countenance a betrayal—if she knew about it.

  With a bow, Owen took his leave and returned to his room to change, even as he wondered what Maggie had in store for him this evening. When she’d first mentioned having cousins he might favor, he’d put it off to her desperation to delay their wedding.

  Each night as he lay alone in bed, he remembered the touch of her bare flesh, how she’d trembled but not stopped his exploration. She’d been as aroused as he, so moist in her depths that he’d done more than he meant to, unable to resist showing her what their nights together would bring.

  And her reaction to her own surrender?

  Threatening to find him McCallum cousins he was supposed to consider as his wife. She’d even told him exactly what she intended, and he’d dismissed her words as mere bravado. And then he’d taunted her about her dreams, and felt guilty about it ever since—and angry with himself for feeling the guilt at all. In a moment of frustration, he’d struck out at what she considered her biggest vulnerability. She’d called him cruel, and sworn she was trying to save his life. Was she honestly telling the truth about this dream—a truth only she might believe in? It just seemed beyond belief to him.

  The logical thing for Owen to do was to watch Maggie and Hugh together and try to find out the truth. That made a lot more sense to him than believing that her dreams came true.

  She’d been right about Emily, a voice whispered inside him. He ignored the doubt like always, but it was getting more and more difficult.

  He still had to deal with her newest plan to get out of the marriage: foisting her cousins onto him. He should have known never to underestimate her. It shouldn’t be this difficult for a woman to marry an earl, he thought, pacing from one end of his bedroom to the other. Many women in London would have married him for the title alone, though it was Scottish.

  And then he stopped pacing as an idea began to form.

  OWEN was eminently satisfied with the meal that evening, the choicest chicken, partridge, and heathcocks, mixed with salmon and haddock, courses that went on for hours. Through it all, his clan musicians played, harpist and piper, and the bard recited deeds from Duff history.

  In the spirit of the evening, he’d seated Dorothy and Helen on either side of him on the dais, moving Maggie down a seat. She seemed delighted with the seating arrangement, engrossed in conversations with her brother to her right.

  And Owen was stuck with her two cousins. They weren’t unappealing, just very . . . young, newly in their twenties. They hadn’t seen anything of the world beyond their village, had experienced little except the farming seasons. Dorothy was bold with her questions, and often encouraged her shy sister to tell of her feminine pursuits, but beyond polite conversation, Owen experienced no pull of interest, nothing compared to what he felt every time he saw Maggie laughing at something her brother said.

  And it made him realize he hadn’t seen her laugh at all in these last few weeks, not once, though she’d been a laughing girl when first they met. Those different-colored eyes sparkled with mirth, and there was a relaxation about her that made her seem even warmer and more appealing. With her family she seemed genuine and open, which she’d never granted him.

  Because she didn’t want to marry him.

  He felt a stab of loss that surprised and unsettled him.

  After the feast, the tables were cleared from the floor so that the dancing could commence. Owen took the opportunity Maggie wanted him to have, dancing with each of her cousins first, a country dance, and then a minuet. But he kept an eye on Maggie as he did so. She began with sedate clapping, keeping time easily to the music. He hadn’t failed to not
ice that before her family had arrived, she hadn’t enthusiastically joined in whenever there were guests being entertained. He’d assumed that she felt herself a McCallum amid Duffs, or that she wouldn’t let herself be his hostess. But these last few days, he’d begun to accept that she’d told him the truth, that she couldn’t relax among people, that she never let herself have close friends because of the dreams she kept secret.

  That wasn’t true with her brother, of course. But when Hugh tried to pull her into a dance, she’d demurred and he’d acquiesced as if he was used to it.

  And then Owen stepped on Dorothy’s foot. She was polite about it, but he realized he was more interested in watching Maggie than in dancing.

  Yet he kept dancing, switching to partner Helen. Every time he smiled down upon the girl, he thought he glimpsed Maggie’s own smile briefly dim. And for the first time, he considered that if not for her dream, maybe Maggie would have eventually welcomed the marriage. He imagined her excited for wedding plans, open to long discussions, eager for his kisses, looking forward to the wedding night as much as he did. What would it have been like not to feel that he was forcing her against her will, like a tyrant.

  He should be angry that a vague dream was more important than the reality of their marriage. But anger had gotten him nowhere. He was far too enthralled with his betrothed, feeling like a boy at his first dancing assembly trying to secure the attention of the loveliest girl there.

  And Maggie was very lovely, he thought, as he brought Helen back to where the McCallums gathered. Then he noticed how isolated the McCallums were, that none of his clan was making any attempt to make them feel comfortable by mingling with them. He couldn’t force such a thing, he knew, but perhaps his dancing with the McCallum girls would do more than just make Maggie jealous, but encourage his own people.

  Standing near Maggie, his arms crossed over his chest, he regarded the merriment in his hall, the abundance of food he’d been able to offer his guests, and felt satisfied. Not that it was a competition with Hugh, he reminded himself.

  He noticed Gregor and his sister Kathleen standing against the wall right behind the McCallums, Gregor’s dark eyes hot with anger. For a man who’d spent most of his life in the colonies, Gregor burned with a hatred that seemed irrational. Kathleen was beseeching him about something, her expression one of worry and even fear.

  Fear?

  Owen thought again of the fires which he’d never been able to solve. When nothing else had happened, he’d let it go, believing it was a prank that the culprit regretted. Then Maggie’s bed had been violated with a symbol of witchcraft, but connecting that to anyone had proved elusive, since Owen couldn’t actually tell anyone about the talisman. But watching Gregor, knowing how the man felt about the McCallums . . . Owen decided to remind his men to be aware of what was going on around them, rather than imbibing too freely.

  He bowed in front of Maggie and offered her his hand. He saw her hesitation, the way she glanced at her brother as if he could save her. Owen ground his teeth together.

  Then she slid her cool hand into his and followed him into the center of the dancers. The dancing took all their fortitude, all their breath, and he saw that though she might stand apart from a crowd, she’d found time to absorb the basics of dance. But she was making a concerted effort to be a step behind him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I’m a poor dancer.”

  Another exaggeration, he knew.

  “Perhaps my cousins—”

  “No. I’m dancing with you, Maggie McCallum, my betrothed.”

  He overpowered her, guided her into the steps as if she truly didn’t know them. She kept up with him because she had to, and soon her natural grace surfaced. He enjoyed swinging her about, feeling her hand in his, moving between couples only to meet up with each other again. Her waist was lean and lithely muscled beneath that extra padding, and he had to think about account books to keep from becoming obviously aroused.

  As they circled each other, Owen was able to pitch his voice so that only she could hear.

  “I wondered if you were going to insult me by refusing to dance.”

  She tipped her fine nose in the air. “I almost did. I’m not fond of dancing. But ye’re our host and ’twas my duty to—”

  He stopped her with a laugh, and she eyed him, affronted.

  “You did not dance with me out of duty,” he said into her ear. The lavender scent of her hair was exotic and overwhelming. “You remember what I did to you with just my hands.”

  Biting her lip, she spun away from him, but the dance brought them back together.

  “How dare ye refer to our private business in public,” she practically hissed.

  He liked her on fire. “Your brother can see that angry expression of yours. Is that what you want him to think, that you’re unhappy?” The moment he said those words, he realized he was still concerned about her brother’s intentions.

  But Maggie was swept away before she could answer.

  A minute later, the dance brought her back. “He’ll ken the truth when I don’t marry ye, after all.”

  “But you would restart a feud tonight?”

  She exhaled loudly, then pasted a false smile on her face. “Nay, not tonight, not ever. I’ve told ye that.”

  “Find a better expression, because that looks positively gloomy.”

  “Gloomy!” she said, her new expression affronted.

  “That’s better.”

  Taking her by the waist, he whirled her around. He didn’t bother saying anything more—he’d made his point. When the dance had finished, he didn’t return her to her brother, but took her with him back to the dais, where he offered her wine. She took the goblet and sipped.

  “Shall we discuss Dorothy and Helen?” he said.

  “Are they not lovely lasses?” she asked sweetly.

  “Quite lovely. You warned me you’d bring them and I’ll tell you right now that you wasted your time. I’m uninterested.”

  “You aren’t very interested in me but for warming your bed,” she shot back.

  “You know that’s not true. I have the kind of discussions with you that I could never have with your much younger, innocent cousins.”

  “Are ye saying I’m old?” she demanded.

  He cocked his head. “You chose to have them sent for. Do you believe you’re too old?”

  “Ye know I don’t.” She took a deliberate sip of wine. “But are ye saying I’m not innocent?”

  He cupped her face and looked into her eyes. “Oh, you’re an innocent. I think I gave you the first pleasure of your life. And I’ll give you even more, even better, every night of our lives. And don’t go all stiff on me. Your brother is watching.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth and released her. “Go on, be with him. You’ve missed your family, I know.”

  MAGGIE wanted to run to her room. Her emotions were roiling inside her, confusion, anger, despair—desire. Owen did all that to her, and more. He was too devilishly appealing to her poor, innocent cousins. Watching him with other women had been a startling pain in the center of her chest, and that had made her afraid. She couldn’t grow to depend on him, to want him—to love him. Every deeper emotion she felt for him would only be worse if this terrible dream came true—but she wasn’t going to allow that to happen. If she had tender feelings, then very well, she would use them as even more motivation to save his wretched life.

  But there was her brother, his heavy brow low and dark. He was alone, for his wife was standing with their mother and Lady Aberfoyle some distance away. Taking a fortifying breath, Maggie went to him.

  One eyebrow lifted as he regarded her. “What is going on with ye, Maggie McCallum?”

  He only used their surname when he was upset.

  “I—what do ye mean?” she asked lightly.

  “Och, ye’re terrible liar, always have been.”

  “That’s not true. Trust me, I’m far too good at it now.”

  He rolled h
is eyes. “Why do ye think I got between ye and Father so often? Your expressive face revealed everything ye were thinking, and got us into even more trouble.”

  She put a gentle hand on his arm. “Ye mean I got you into more trouble,” she said quietly.

  He shrugged that off.

  “Don’t be like that, Hugh McCallum.” She tossed the surname back at him. “Ye may be chief now, all bluster and command, but I’m dealing with another man like that, and believe me, it’s helped me see through ye. Ye rescued me, protected me, comforted me when I was a frightened little girl. I’ll never forget it, and I’ll love ye until I die.”

  Apprehension rose in his eyes. “Ye’re saying this now? Are ye frightened, lass? Is that what ye’re telling me though ye’re talking in circles?”

  “Nay, Owen would never frighten me,” she said, answering it in a way that wasn’t a lie.

  “But . . . things aren’t right between ye. I can see that. I hurt for ye.” The final words were a rumble deep in his chest.

  She barely kept herself from flinging her arms around him, wishing he could make everything all right, as he’d done in their childhood.

  But she couldn’t tell him the truth—she knew that now. He believed in her dreams, had seen the outcome firsthand. If he thought she’d suffer tragedy on her wedding day, he’d stop it outright, regardless of what it did to the peace between their clans. And how would Gregor and his ilk take such an insult? She shivered.

  “Hugh, I’m simply getting used to him. Less than three weeks ago, I agreed to marry him, a man who might as well be a stranger.”

  “I don’t believe that—I saw how ye were with him. Something happened long ago, something ye didn’t tell me. And ye wouldn’t tell me after ye were betrothed to him.”

  “Hugh, we were celebrating your wedding,” she said with exasperation. “The past—it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I didn’t like hearing there was something between ye and a man.”

  “But I knew it made ye feel better about accepting the betrothal,” she pointed out.