The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (30 page)

“O’ course new chiefs like to know their clan,” Mrs. Kincaid said, “but to think ye’re paying a call on me!”

They each took a sip of ale to be polite.

Owen smiled. “We do have business to discuss, Mrs. Kincaid. I understand you’re related to Gregor and Kathleen Duff?”

“Two of my sister’s children. They live in the colonies.”

Maggie’s eyes widened when Owen glanced at her before speaking.

“They’re recently returned and have taken up residence at Castle Kinlochard. Kathleen is a maid, and Gregor works in the smithy.”

“Ah, his misfortunes followed him, I see.”

“Misfortunes?”

Her eyes were still sharp beneath heavily wrinkled eyelids. “So ye don’t know much about them?”

“Very little, which is why I’m curious.” “Have they done ye wrong?”

“I don’t believe so, but I know little of them and wish to be prepared.”

“And ye’re not saying why the chief himself would be visitin’ an old lady.”

Maggie hid a smile, and Owen said nothing.

Mrs. Kincaid sighed. “Weel, I believe in supporting Clan Duff. All I have is the letters I received from the family over the years. Do give them back to me when ye’re done.”

“Of course I will,” Owen said.

After accepting the care of a packet of old yellowed letters tied with string, Owen paused when Mrs. Kincaid laid a hand on his arm.

“Remember that the family suffered for their decision to leave us,” the old woman said quietly. “I know not what has happened to them that brings ye here, but they’re my sister’s children, and I need ye to try to understand them.” She looked at Maggie, as if she needed a woman’s confirmation.

“We will, ma’am, and thank ye,” Maggie said. After the door shut behind them, she whispered to Owen, “Those letters sound intriguing.”

“They do, but they must await my business in the village.”

Maggie accompanied Owen for an hour spent in Ledard, introducing himself to those who didn’t know him and hearing their concerns. Maggie held back, not wanting her McCallum name to be debated. After they left, they traveled a mile or so to reach a meadow beside a stream, some distance from the village, for their midday meal. Maggie offered a wrapped package of beef and cheese to Fergus and the other guard, who went off a distance to see to the horses.

“Ye’ve got wise men there,” Maggie said, as she removed more packages from her saddlebag.

He only nodded, showing little interest in the food but much interest in carefully untying the letters so as not to damage them. There were dates on each, so he read them aloud in order. Many were concerning an important event or tragedy, Mrs. Kincaid’s sister’s death first, the deaths of the other children, the smithy that their father built which struggled along, then his death and Gregor taking over.

Owen frowned as he studied the final letter.

“What is it?” Maggie asked.

“This last one was written by Kathleen, defending her brother.” Owen read silently a moment, then looked up at Maggie. “She’s insisting that their Scottish relatives not believe the worst of Gregor, that he had good reason to publicly accuse a local woman of being a witch.”

Maggie’s mouth sagged open, and suddenly she didn’t think she’d even be able to eat another bite. Her worst fear, that she’d be accused of witchcraft . . . and Gregor had done that to someone. Could he somehow know about her dreams, and that was why he was targeting her, why he might have put the talisman in her bed? Was it more than her just being a McCallum?

Owen reached across the blanket and briefly clasped her hand. “Stop. I can see every thought crossing your face. Gregor knows nothing about you.”

She nodded, knowing he was probably right, but
her mouth was dry and it was proving difficult to swallow. He handed her a flask of cider and she took a deep swallow. “What else does it say?”

Owen read the words aloud, “‘Dear Gregor had good reason to believe this woman a witch. He’d courted her himself and had seen the signs.’”

“She’d probably rejected him, and this was how he repaid her,” Maggie said coldly.

Owen nodded. “A logical conclusion. ‘This evil woman rallied her family and neighbors against Owen, and his business suffered. I don’t know how much longer we can remain here.’” He looked up. “And that’s it. They must have made the decision to return to Scotland right after this letter.”

“How lucky for us,” she said sarcastically. Then she gave Owen a searching glance. “Is this enough to believe he’s the one out to frighten me away? It seems his goal is to end the peace between clans, not do me bodily injury.”

“It is enough to question him, perhaps even confine him, before bringing it up at the next assembly of gentlemen,” Owen said grimly.

Maggie sighed. “I don’t know how I’ll tell Kathleen. He’s the only brother she has left. How many siblings died?”

“Five others.”

She hugged herself. “Should I ask her about the witchcraft charge he made?”

“Why? I know it feels personal to you, but I doubt
even more information on the subject will matter to us. It’s enough to know he behaved dishonorably to another woman, and came here in desperation. I imagine they thought the childhood they left behind was rosier than the reality.”

“I know she said Gregor wasn’t happy to be working for someone else.”

Owen shrugged. “If you cannot afford to buy a business, you have to save for it somehow.”

“I imagine that is the fault of the McCallums, too.”

They finished their meal mostly in awkward silence. At last Maggie wrapped the remains and stored them away while Owen tightened the saddle girths. When it came time to help her mount, he put his hands on her waist, she looked up into his eyes, and for just a moment, she wished so many things could be different, that they were just two people looking ahead to marriage, without the complications of clans and enemies both internal and external. Then she heard their two guards talking near the road, and she looked away from Owen and all of her sad what-ifs.

The journey back to the castle was uneventful, with little to discuss. Maggie mostly dwelled on sad thoughts until they were beginning the climb up the final hill before leveling into the meadow surrounding the castle. Suddenly a crack sounded, Maggie felt a whistle of air past her, and her horse reared. Controlling the animal took all her concentration, and by the time she looked up, Fergus and the other guard were
already halfway up the hill, their horses taking the incline easily. Owen was in front of her, standing in the stirrups, blocking her with his body as he tried to see into the distance. She saw no telltale sign of blood on his clothing, and tried to relax her galloping heart.

“What happened?” she cried, guiding her horse up beside him.

He pointed and ordered, “That way, hide in the copse of trees. Ride quickly. I’ll follow.”

She didn’t protest, just did as he ordered. Her back itched as if someone was aiming for it. She took a deep breath only when the shadows swallowed her up. She followed a deer path until several trees were between her and the road.

They’d been shot at. It could have been a British patrol or someone from a rival clan, but . . . she knew better. A sense of coldness moved through her, filling her, chilling her.

“Are ye all right?” Owen demanded.

She gave a start, not having even heard him approach. A villain could have come upon her and done anything. She was a fool.

“I’m fine,” she said grimly.

Owen leaned toward her and plucked at her sleeve. She stared down at the hole torn through—and the trickle of blood. Her mouth sagged a moment before she said, “I don’t even feel a sting.”

His warm hand gripped her arm, and he studied it closely. “Just grazed ye. Won’t even leave a scar.” And
then he stared at her with eyes warm with concern and frustration.

“That person couldn’t have been aiming at me,” she said, her bravado growing fainter.

He grimaced. “Ye’ve been threatened already.”

“Well . . . we have to go see who it is!” she said, and as if sensing her eagerness, the horse gave a little dance sideways.

“My men will return with their report. We’ll wait until then.”

He kept looking at her arm until she wished to hide it. “Owen, stop. ’Tis nothing.”

“It could have been everything,” he said solemnly. “I could have lost ye.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. The Owen she was used to normally revealed nothing in his voice, but for once, she heard regret and sadness.

“I already introduced ye to Dorothy and Helen,” she said lightly. “Ye’d be fine.”

His brown eyes blazed.

“I was teasing,” she said in a weak voice.

“I didn’t find it amusing.”

By the time the two guards returned, Maggie was glad of it. Owen was frosty with barely restrained temper, and she understood that he hated feeling helpless. Worse yet, the two men could report nothing. The gunman had slipped away by the time they made it up the hill. On the final mile home, Owen and the other two surrounded her, and even back within the castle
walls, she didn’t feel safe. The gunman might have come from here, she realized bleakly.

Owen dismounted at the stables and marched toward the smithy. She wanted to hurry after him, but Fergus stepped in front of her, while the other man followed Owen.

“Mistress Maggie, we have our orders,” Fergus said apologetically.

She watched, practically holding her breath, as Owen faced down Gregor, who was working over the fire, long tongs in his gloved hands and a glowing horseshoe at the end. All it would take was a thrust and Owen would be scarred for life.

But Gregor lowered the tongs and spoke to Owen, then slammed the tongs back into the fire and gestured with both hands. Several people near the smithy were openly listening, but Owen and Gregor weren’t garnering too much attention beyond that. At last Gregor walked away beside the guard, taking long, angry strides.

Owen returned to Maggie. “It is done.”

“What is done?” she demanded. “What did he say?”

“That he is innocent, of course. Yet he’d just begun to work at the smithy not an hour before, and he did not think anyone could vouch for him. I did agree to look into the matter of witnesses, so he agreed to a fair hearing before the next assembly. Until then, he will be under guard within his own room in the barracks.”

Her stiff shoulders relaxed a bit. “I guess that is fair. But what shall I say to Kathleen?”

“Allow me to handle it. I am her chief.”

Maggie wanted to protest, but didn’t. He
was
the chief. Or did she simply not want to be the one to tell Kathleen that her only remaining sibling could face a terrible punishment if his guilt was decided?

“Now can you be at ease, Maggie?” Owen asked. “The wedding is only ten days away. Your family will be safe when they arrive.”

She was glad for that. But his words made her wonder—did Gregor’s capture change how she felt about marrying Owen? She wanted her family to be safe—but she wanted Owen to be safe, too. The thought that he might not die was an ache in her chest that made her eyes water with hope.

By supper, there were whispers all through the great hall, but Owen had forbidden either his two guards or the smithy from discussing what had happened, in case Gregor was innocent. But Owen seemed positive he was not, and his confidence mildly eased Maggie, even when Kathleen did not make an appearance, and Mrs. Robertson came to help her prepare for bed and change the tiny bandage on her arm. Maggie wouldn’t even need it in the morning. For once, the housekeeper’s poorly hidden disapproval seemed absent, as if Owen had revealed what Gregor had done. Maggie accepted the woman’s help, but didn’t discuss anything herself and let Mrs. Robertson leave disappointed.

Maggie’s confused thoughts settled on the most important one: Could she marry Owen now? And could she live with the risk that she might be wrong?

But she didn’t have long to wait before her decision became undeniable.

For only the second time in ten years, she had a vivid dream. She was awake, sitting in Owen’s room, looking out the window upon the newly budding trees of spring. Her hands rested protectively on her very swollen stomach, and she experienced the most incredible feeling of tenderness and joy and anticipation.

Maggie sat up in bed with a gasp, wide awake in a dark room, with the moon outside the window the only light. She put a hand to her stomach in amazement and wonder. She was with child. Soon there would be a babe in her arms, nursing at her breast, looking to her for guidance and protection. The ache of love was surprisingly deep, and it brought tears to her eyes.

Keeping her hand tight to her stomach, she whispered, “I’ll do what’s best for ye, little one. I’ll keep ye safe and happy.”

O
WEN
drank a mug of ale and stared out the window at the courtyard below. It was just past dawn, men were in the training yard working, guards were patrolling the battlements looking out on the countryside—but the smithy was absent a worker.

Everything inside Owen tightened into a twisted
mass of anger, revenge—and through it all, the overwhelming sensation of relief. He could have lost Maggie. When that gunshot had rung across the mountain and he’d seen the spot of blood on her sleeve, the surprise and fear in her expression, his vaunted sense of dispassion and control had been obliterated. Someone had threatened the life of his future wife. She was an innocent, a woman being used to bring peace to two clans—she didn’t deserve to risk her life for it.

And he couldn’t lose her. The thought of his life without the rare grace of her smile was unfathomable. The challenge of matching wits with her brought true satisfaction. He was falling in love with her, and there was nothing he could do about it—

But protect her. The primitive need overrode all his thoughts of himself as a civilized man.

The only credible person who’d made any threats against her was Gregor. When Owen had first seen him in the smithy after the gunshot, it had taken an extreme act of will not to pummel him into the ground right there, to demand his vengeance like the days of old, where he could have met his enemy on the field and destroyed him in combat.