The Groom Wore Plaid Page 22

  Owen was no longer surprised by the power of his obsession with Maggie. He found himself watching her whenever they were in the same room. She’d surprised him by talking to Martin Hepburn’s daughter earlier that day. Owen might have thought it was random, that she was just being polite, but she’d seemed to focus right in on the Hepburns. Strange.

  And then this evening, one of his cousins arrived, one who hadn’t been in attendance the previous day. When Owen saw Maggie smiling as she spoke to him, Owen had felt such an overwhelming feeling of jealousy and possession, he’d had to stay away from them, lest he overreact. It felt like every part of the refined, logical man he’d once been was being stripped away, bit by bit, as if his ancestors were claiming him back to the Highlands, urging him to take the woman who was his.

  When he saw Maggie to her room for bed, she tried to speak to him, but he wasn’t in the mood to listen, not with how confused he was feeling. He retreated to his own bedroom and when, not a quarter of an hour later, someone knocked, he opened the door, ready to confront Maggie.

  But it was the housekeeper, and she was twisting her hands together uncharacteristically.

  He frowned. “Mrs. Robertson, is something wrong?”

  “Might I speak with ye, my lord?” she murmured, looking down the hall.

  At Maggie’s room.

  Owen stepped back and she followed him inside. He closed the door and regarded her, folding his arms over his chest. “What is this about?”

  She bit her lip, then reached into a hidden pocket in the folds of her skirt and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I thought I’d left one of Lady Aberfoyle’s chests in Mistress Maggie’s room, my lord. I was searching for an item she wanted, and I admit I was in hurry, and tossing things this way and that. But . . . I came across this. Oh, my lord, I—I—” And then she bowed her head.

  Alarmed, he read:

  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.

  He stared at the words, unable to believe what they said. Maggie was so unhappy being forced to marry him that she wished to do herself harm?

  A coldness seemed to seize his chest, making it hard to breathe.

  “My lord?” Mrs. Robertson said hesitantly. “I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded, then as if from a distance, heard himself say, “I’ll take care of this. I’ll see her safe. Do not tell anyone what you have seen.”

  Mrs. Robertson bobbed her head several times, then shook it, looking panic-stricken, before hurrying away.

  He stood still for a moment, unable to move. The thought of a world without Maggie . . . And then the coldness that had frozen him began to crack one painful piece at a time, stabbing him. He’d never imagined how much she’d grown to mean to him, had never imagined the sorrow of knowing she was so terribly unhappy, she’d rather die. He should have let her go with her brother—

  But she hadn’t asked him. Did even the chance to escape marriage not matter anymore?

  He closed his door and walked swiftly to her room. He didn’t think about knocking, didn’t even know what he would say to her. He just opened the door.

  She was wearing naught but her thin nightshift, bent over a chest, clothing dumped on the floor. She cried out when he appeared so suddenly, then put a hand to her chest.

  “Och, Owen, why did ye scare me like that?”

  She looked so normal, her usual exasperation with him evident, but it didn’t help. All the while she’d been insisting she couldn’t marry him, she’d been sinking more and more into despair. He’d driven her to this.

  When he didn’t say anything, she frowned and rose slowly to her feet. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t know what to say or how to explain it. He should ask logical questions and discover the answer. But all he could do was hold up the paper.

  “Oh, I was just looking—” Those unusual eyes went wide. “Owen—I didn’t write this, I swear to ye. Here’s the second part of the note that must have gotten mixed up between the garments.”

  He just stared at her, then said hoarsely, “I didn’t find it. Mrs. Robertson . . .” He trailed off. Would Maggie lie now that she’d been discovered? When he had the proof right there?

  “Oh, Owen,” she murmured in a voice far too tender. “I would never take such a cowardly way out. Ye ken I’m a fighter—I’ve been fighting ye all along. Here, read this one.”

  He took the paper and had to force his eyes to focus.

  Go home while you still can.

  “Someone forged my writing,” Maggie said grimly. “They just wanted to scare me, I know. I found it last night.”

  “Last night?” he repeated, with only a faint echo of anger. He was too relieved, too overcome.

  “I couldn’t show ye this morn,” she insisted. “My brother was still too close and ye might have made me leave with him. I was going to show ye earlier tonight, but ye didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “I was . . . angry about my cousins.” His anger seemed ridiculous, so minor in the scheme of all that had been revealed to him about how he felt about Maggie.

  Suddenly, he captured her face in both hands. “Ye’re telling me the truth, lass,” he whispered.

  She cupped his face in return. “Aye, I swear on God and the Virgin Mary.”

  And then he was kissing her, her trembling mouth, her damp cheeks, her fluttering eyelids. He kissed her forehead, her mouth again, her neck, and then pulled her so hard into his embrace, he heard the air leaving her lungs with a gasp. She smelled of lavender and herself, and with his hands he discovered how soft her back was. He clumsily pulled at the tie of her long braid, and soon her dark, rippling hair flowed far down her back.

  He was separated from her skin by the sheerest linen nightshift. No padding hid her delicate waist. He slid his hands down and cupped her ass, molding her, then bringing her hard against his hips.

  “Maggie,” he said against her throat. “Maggie.”

  She arched against him, as if she, too, couldn’t be close enough.

  He didn’t know what to touch first. Through her garment, her skin felt smooth and warm. For the first time he cupped her breasts unbound, and they filled his hands.

  “I need to feel you, Owen,” she whispered, almost shyly.

  And then her hands were at his belt, and somehow his plaid was falling and only his shirt and her shift separated them. He pulled her back against him harder, lifting her knee, spreading her thighs, pressing himself against the soft heat there. She cried out and clutched him to her, feeling his back and lower, grabbing his ass as he’d done to her.

  For just a moment they rocked together, his penis rubbing along the length of her. He felt her knees soften, and then he picked her right up and carried her to the bed. He set her on her feet, and she started to fist the nightshift at her hips, but he stopped her. She looked so suitably worried that he found himself smiling.

  “Allow me.”

  He took the folds in his hands and moved slowly upward, letting the fabric drag along her thighs. He kissed her, head slanted, mouth opened hungrily over hers. She kept her hands on his chest as if she’d fall without his support.

  And then he could touch her waist, and his hot hands cupped her there and moved slowly higher, her nightshift draping over his arms. He took her breasts in his hands and for a long minute he played with them, cupping, kneading, gently twisting her nipples, then caressing to soothe them. She didn’t seem to be able to take a deep enough breath, and neither could he.

  At last he needed to see her, and he drew the nightshift right over her head and stepped back. She stood there, chin lifted, her body slightly trembling. The candles scattered through the room made her body glow, the brightest, most beautiful thing in the shadowy room.

  He bent to take her breast deeply into his mouth even as he played with the other one
. Her arms went behind and she braced herself on the bed, head dropped back, her dark hair vivid against the pale sheets.

  Dropping to one knee, Owen kissed his way down her soft belly, and then nuzzled at the silky hair of her sex. He thought she would protest, but she only moaned and spread her thighs. She excited him, Maggie did. Bold and unafraid and a match for him in every way. He stroked her with his tongue, then lifted her thigh and went deeper, against the heart of her, where he wanted to be.

  She clutched his hair, murmuring his name, her excited pants growing faster. He circled her clitoris with his tongue, then stroked, reaching up to caress her breast. She arched backward as she reached her ultimate pleasure, and he kissed her softly before rising.

  Her eyes, blue and green, were half closed with pleasure and satisfaction, but no shame. Then she stared down at his shirt, where it stuck straight out at her hips. He didn’t hesitate, only pulled the garment over his head.

  But she scooted back on the bed and reached for him. He climbed up and over her on all fours, staring at her hair gloriously tumbled around her shoulders like a dark sun. He settled down between her thighs, kissing her with urgency again. She moved restlessly against him, lifting her knees, clutching his hips hard, and it was as natural as breathing to slide into her. She gave a little gasp, and he stilled.

  “Nay, it doesn’t hurt much,” she said. “It just surprised me.”

  “Tell me if there’s any pain,” he whispered against her mouth.

  He started moving then, withdrawing until she cried out as if he’d leave her, then surging back inside with the satisfaction of knowing she desired him. He couldn’t stop himself, the pleasure taking over his mind, his will. He thrust hard and deep, over and over, knowing he should wait for her to climax again, but unable to. He cried out with the passionate release, shuddering, surging, feeling only her heels against his ass, watching through half-closed eyes as she flung her arms exuberantly wide and looked up at him with such a wicked, delicious smile, none of her reluctance and diffidence there.

  She was his, at last, forever.

  And then reality came back to him, not with slow, languid pleasure, but with the dawning realization that he might have shown her too much, too much desperation and need, shown her how much he cared, how lost he’d be without her.

  He didn’t want to be so controlled by his emotions, by a woman. When he gave in like that, that darkness seemed to rise up and possess him. He’d spent his lifetime learning to manipulate his very will, and he’d just surrendered it all to this obsession with a woman who wouldn’t marry him.

  CHAPTER 17

  Still joined to Owen so intimately, Maggie saw immediately when he began to withdraw from her—both physically and emotionally. It was his expression first, steadily changing from passion to contentment to wariness and then at last into utter impassivity. Then he left her body, leaving her feeling so very empty, rolled off her and right out of bed. Suddenly, she felt too wanton, too sinful, and she pulled a sheet over her.

  She should be used to his behavior. He’d done his best not to allow her a glimpse of his emotions, of his vulnerabilities. When she’d seen his reaction to the suicide letter, she’d felt they’d at last reached a deeper level—she’d known she wasn’t just a bargaining tool between two powerful clans. Her love trapped unacknowledged in her heart could be denied no longer, and she’d given herself to him, made love with him. She didn’t want to regret it, but apparently he did.

  He poured water in the basin and washed his face and hands, as if he needed to be free of the scent of her.

  Oh, now she was the one who was letting her doubts hold sway, reading too much into a simple act. He’d told her he’d desired her from the beginning. His emotional retreat wasn’t about the physical connection between them.

  He hadn’t drawn on his clothing yet, so perhaps that was a good sign. She could study him at will, at the patterns formed by candle and shadow on every sculpted muscle of his body. He was masculine and overwhelming, and he made her skin heat just by seeing all that splendid . . . man. He had a few small scars just to make things interesting and intriguing.

  And then he turned to face her, and she saw that he was aroused again, that he still desired her. She wanted to melt back into the pillows, to draw back the sheets and offer herself to him.

  And with her luck, a baby and a wedding ceremony would be the result. Oh, God, had she just guaranteed that she’d have to marry him?

  She burst into tears.

  She saw Owen’s shock for only a moment before she had to cover her face and hunch there, growing more and more miserable. She wanted to curl into a little ball and stay hidden for the rest of her life. It was all too much.

  “Maggie?”

  She felt his hands on her back, and she wanted to shrug him off, but that would take too much effort. And for a moment, the heat of a human hand felt so comforting.

  “Maggie, talk to me. Did I hurt you?”

  Even his brogue was gone again. She cried harder.

  “I promise you, I did not make love to you to force our wedding.”

  And now he could read her mind. How could he know parts of her so well, but not trust her? The tears were flowing so fast she had to use the sheet to mop them up. And then he put a handkerchief in her hands, and she blew her nose.

  “I c-can’t marry ye, Owen, and wonderful though this was, it didn’t change my mind. It makes me realize even more powerfully that I won’t watch you die.”

  He said nothing for so long that at last she had to lift her face to him. Through watery eyes, she could read nothing in his expression, nothing at all. Maybe it was better that he couldn’t love her. And that made her shoulders shake with sobs, because she loved him, hopelessly, helplessly, pointlessly. If he returned her love, the tragedy of their eventual separation would be even worse.

  “Ye need to leave, Owen. I just can’t talk about this anymore.”

  “But we haven’t discussed the letter.”

  “In the morning. And if ye see Mrs. Robertson before I do, please explain about the letter, and ask her to keep quiet about it. And now, I just . . . need to be alone.”

  And like a child, she rolled beneath the counterpane and turned her back on him. She could hear him dressing. She stiffened as he spoke.

  “Lock the door, Maggie. If it makes you feel safer, put a chest in front of it. There’s someone in this castle who can’t accept peace, regardless of who gets hurt.”

  “Very well,” she mumbled.

  It seemed terribly long until the door finally closed. Knowing Owen was right, she turned the key in the lock, then rushed back to bed, crying all over again for what felt like forever, until her head ached and her nose was raw from blowing.

  Love and disappointment were so horribly painful. She wished she could be like him, only having to deal with facts.

  As she lay there, too tired to even hold to her convictions, her doubts began to taunt her. Could she have interpreted the dream incorrectly? Could Owen be right, that it was only a nightmare? She hadn’t had a true dream vision in ten years.

  Oh, she could begin to doubt everything now. After all, she’d slept with him when she knew she wouldn’t marry him. She’d led him to think her intentions were honorable, when they really weren’t.

  But he’d led her to think she meant something to him. And she started to sob again.

  IT had taken a long time for Maggie to fall into an exhausted sleep. When a knock on the door awoke her, she felt bleary-eyed and little rested.

  “Who is it?” she croaked.

  “Kathleen, mistress. I’d come in, but the door seems to be locked.”

  Maggie groaned. “Give me a moment.”

  She sat up, feeling a muscle twinge here and there. Beside her, there was a spot of blood on the sheets. She yanked the counterpane up. She would have to try to remove the stain herself. She didn’t think Kathleen would spread her secrets about, but she wasn’t taking that chance. No one was going to b
e able to force her to marry.

  After wrapping the dressing gown around her, she opened the door to find Kathleen only the first servant in line. The rest carried in a bathing tub and buckets of hot water.

  “I know ye usually bathe at night, mistress, but his lordship reminded me that ye hadn’t.”

  “How kind of him,” Maggie said, striving to sound calm.

  Very well, it was kind of him to remember, she thought grudgingly. And then she looked at all the faces of the young men and boys carrying buckets, all of whom nodded as they passed her, but most did not meet her eyes. How was she ever going to know who wished her gone? Were there young men who’d be angry that they didn’t get to try their skills against the enemy they grew up hating? She felt sad and frustrated—and then angry with her weakness. Anyone who did not see the advantage of peace was a fool.

  After the tub was filled, another bucket left near at hand for rinsing, Kathleen finished laying out Maggie’s clothes and departed.

  Maggie practically moaned when she sank into the tub. She was so grateful it had been fashioned for a big man, because she could sink almost to her chin. She let the heat soothe her mildly aching muscles, and wished it could wipe away all her mental anguish, too.

  As she was lazily soaping her arms, a knock sounded and the handle turned. Nothing happened.

  “Maggie?”

  It was Owen’s voice, and though she’d known she would have to face him soon, she was a little too pleased to say, “’Tis locked. You may return in half an hour.”

  There was no answer for a long moment, and then he politely said, “Very well.”

  Was she actually disappointed? What was wrong with her? He was a man who only wanted her for her body and as a pawn in a feud. He thought she was either a liar or simpleton. And now she had to worry that she was carrying his babe.