The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (16 page)

She pushed away from him, breathing hard.

“Maggie—”

“Nay, ’tis your turn to listen to me. Maybe ye won’t believe in this either, but ye deserve to know. Something happened while ye were gone.”

“And what was that?” He folded his arms over his chest and regarded her impassively.

“Someone entered my room and left an item in my bed to frighten me.”

She sensed the tension in him as if it were a snake coiled within his skin.

“What was it?” he demanded.

“A talisman, a sort of evil charm. It was a stick carved with backward lettering, a clear symbol of witchcraft. I do not know if they meant to frighten me or implicate me, but ye’re the only one who knows about my . . . talent.”

“And you think I told someone.”

“Of course not,” she said with conviction. “Ye wouldn’t embarrass yourself that way.”

“Embarrass myself? What has that to do with anything? I will always protect what you tell me in confidence. We are betrothed.”

“And someone doesn’t want us to be.”

“Show me the talisman.”

She winced. “And there is the problem. I was so appalled that someone was trying to implicate me as a witch that I tossed it into the fire. I have no proof to show ye, only my word.”

“And I believe you.”

She blinked at him. “Ye do?”

“Why would you invent such a story?”

“I—I wouldn’t,” she agreed, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Do ye think it’s the same person who set the fires?”

“I don’t know. The fires could have been against me and my ascension to the chiefdom.”

“Or because ye betrothed yourself to a McCallum,” she pointed out.

“But this is aimed directly at you.”

She hugged herself. “Aye, but again, it could have been meant to reflect badly on ye.”

He said nothing for a long moment, his head down in thought. “I will ask Mrs. Robertson if anyone was seen lingering outside your door.”

“Don’t tell her about the talisman. The charge of witchcraft—I’ve always feared it.”

She waited for him to tease her, but he only studied her solemnly.

“I never want you to be afraid here,” he said in a husky voice, “and now someone has made you so.”

She shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “Someone is
trying to drive me away. Such a coward seldom acts openly.”

“But you won’t be driven away?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Nay. I’ll leave when the contract is settled between our families and not a moment before.”

He lowered his voice and spoke. “And I say you’ll never want to leave.”

She rolled her eyes.

“But for now, I will increase the men guarding the towerhouse.”

She stiffened.

“The fires are enough of a reason. There’s someone trying to ruin the peace between the McCallums and Duffs. Between you and me, Maggie, we won’t let that happen.”

F
OR
two days, Maggie resisted every effort to help prepare for the festival, even though her family would be attending. Mrs. Robertson’s coolness grew into icy disdain, but she doggedly kept Maggie informed, as if the woman could will Maggie to prove herself capable of being a Duff bride. Kathleen chattered nonstop about it, trying to remake Maggie with just her kind flow of words. All Kathleen had were the stories people told her about the coming together of the whole clan for a several-day event of food and games and fun.

“My brother is being a curmudgeon about it,” Kathleen confided one morning.

“How can he not be interested in meeting more of the Duffs?” Maggie asked, hiding her suspicions about Gregor.

Mrs. Robertson lifted her head from her lists and frowned at Maggie as if to say,
Ye’re interested in talk of Gregor but not making your husband proud?

Maggie felt a little sick inside. She’d always been an obedient young woman, and had never realized how important the respect of the staff truly was. But all she needed to do was remind herself that Mrs. Robertson would thank her if she knew Maggie was trying to save Owen’s life.

But not if she thought Maggie was a witch.

“Gregor claims that the festival is frivolous,” Kathleen said, as she tied the laces crossing Maggie’s ugly stomacher. “That takin’ days away from work is somethin’ that—” She broke off, and her face flushed scarlet.

“That McCallums would do?” Maggie finished quietly.

“Ye know I don’t think that!” Kathleen said in a rush. “I’ve come to know ye as a good mistress and a kind woman.”

“I appreciate that. When my family arrives for the festival, Gregor will see that they can work just as hard as a Duff, and can be just as fair.”

“I’ll tell him, mistress, I promise.” Kathleen swallowed
several times and forced a smile as she returned to the laces.

Maggie pitied the maid her hard life in the colonies, and imagined it must be difficult to deal with Gregor, a man who would turn against Maggie simply because of her last name. Would he try to frighten her with the talisman? Sadly, he wasn’t the only clansmen in the Highlands to hate simply because it had been taught to him.

For a moment, Maggie imagined being the one to bring healing to both clans, to stand at Owen’s side as his wife and end the bloodshed forever. Oh, she was becoming more and more drawn into that world that could never happen. It made her remember being in his arms in the near darkness, his bed—their marriage bed—so close. But she was not a woman who could blithely forget the harm that could happen to Owen if he married her. She wouldn’t give up on discovering the truth of her dream.

She took a deep breath. “Mrs. Robertson, ye’ve mentioned a healing woman in the village.”

Kathleen didn’t lift her head, but Mrs. Robertson straightened and eyed her warily.

“Aye, Euphemia. Are ye feeling ill, mistress?”

“Nay, I’ve simply heard that the old woman is a seer. My mother has interest in such things.” Oh, the lie came far too easily to her, and she hoped God could forgive her. “She’ll want to visit, I know, so I thought I’d be certain if Euphemia is an honest woman.”

“Och, honest as our King Over the Water,” said Mrs. Robertson. “She’s a wise woman, too, with potions and charms to help ease sickness or fight the evil eye. But aye, though she’s hesitant about it, she’s a seer,” the housekeeper added with some reluctance.

“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.

C
HAPTER
10

M
aggie 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.”