The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (8 page)

“Kathleen, this was too much work,” Maggie said, amazed at how many gowns had been prepared for the evening. “Ye should have just chosen one and given it to me.”

Kathleen looked aghast. “Nay, mistress, such a decision isn’t up to me. And the gowns were so lovely that I couldn’t have chosen if they were me own.”

Maggie felt uneasy as she imagined Kathleen’s life in the colonies, where things must have been so difficult if they’d felt the need to return to the Highlands after they’d been gone so many years. Gregor was certainly bitter about what they’d experienced. Had there been more family besides their parents?

But she couldn’t ask, not now, when Kathleen looked at the gowns as if Maggie were a princess.

“Kathleen, you choose,” she finally said, and soon she was clothed in the most elegant gown she owned, green silk with an embroidered square décolletage,
and pleated fabric that hung from her shoulders down her back to the floor in a small train. She’d worn it to a ball in Edinburgh, but she wasn’t certain it was proper for a supper in the Highlands.

And then Owen appeared at her door, and by the admiring look on his face, it would seem Kathleen had chosen well. The maid slipped out behind the frozen Owen, her eyes dancing as she gave Maggie a little wave and disappeared.

Maggie felt exasperated and defensive.
She
hadn’t chosen this gown to entice him, but he appeared enticed, even after their argument. Men and their base ways. But an embarrassing blush spread down her neck to her cleavage, the top of which was too on display.

“You look lovely,” Owen said, then stepped all the way inside and closed the door.

Maggie barely resisted rolling her eyes. Flattery meant nothing when it was contrived. She took a deep fortifying breath—and saw where his gaze settled. “I reject you, and the first thing ye do is stare at my softer bits?”

“The softer bits make your tart tongue easier to accept.”

“Ye don’t have to worry about my tart tongue. I don’t plan to offer it to ye in any permanent fashion.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Not this again.”

“Ye thought my refusal to marry ye a temporary protest? Oh, that’s right, ye don’t ken me well at all.”

“But I’ll learn, though it takes me a lifetime. Now come to supper—or are you trying to avoid that, too?”

She stared at him, hiding her dismay. She’d known he wouldn’t suddenly change his mind about everything she’d confided in him, but it was now clear that the truth alone wasn’t going deter his intention to marry her. While she tried to figure out the end of the dream, maybe she would have to give him reasons to end the betrothal himself.

In the hall, the same young man bristling with weapons fell into place right behind them.

“Maggie, this is Fergus,” he said.

Fergus bowed his head. “My lady.”

“I’m not your lady yet, Fergus. Just call me Maggie.”

Owen eyed Fergus over his shoulder, but said nothing. Owen obviously meant to tolerate this particular clan tradition of protection. It was expected by the people, who wanted their chief to be a powerful man so important that he needed to be guarded. It was a mark of pride.

They arrived in the great hall, where every torch was lit, illuminating even the most shadowy of corners. Light from the setting sun still shone through the tall windows and onto the beautiful tapestries, reflecting off displays of targes and swords.

“My lord?”

The intimidating Harold Duff stood against the wall as if he’d been waiting for them.

“A word in private, my lord?”

Owen made an exasperated sound. “Uncle, call me Owen. You’ve known me since I was a lad.”

“And how am I supposed to know what to call ye when your father preferred me to call him that?”

“I’m not my father, and I don’t intend to be. Now what can I help you with, Uncle?”

Harold hesitated, glancing at Maggie.

“You may speak in front of my betrothed,” Owen said.

She could start her campaign against the marriage right now, telling his uncle she’d refused the “honor.” But making Owen out to be a fool before his clan would not get her what she wanted.

Harold narrowed his eyes. “Aye. I’ve received word of a cow byre gone up in flames this afternoon.”

Owen dropped her arm to face his uncle. “Was anyone injured?”

“Nay. And the cows were grazing in their shieling up on the mountain,” he added.

He spoke directly at Maggie as if she didn’t know where cows grazed in the summer. She gave him her sweetest smile. He blinked beneath his bushy gray brows and turned back to his nephew.

“Was it an accident?” Owen asked.

“We cannot know that. A man was seen running away, but no one recognized him or caught him.”

“Could he have been going for help?” Maggie asked.

“Help was sought from our nearest village, and did not come from the direction he ran,” Harold said.
“There is concern that another clan could be testing ye, as the new chief.”

“The Campbells?”

“Perhaps,” Harold answered, shrugging.

Maggie let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, as if she thought Owen would accuse her brother.

Frowning, Owen asked, “How bad was the damage?”

“The roof and the hay, of course. The stone remained intact, so the byre can be rebuilt.”

“I’ll order it done, Uncle. If anyone comes forward with new details, let me know.”

Harold nodded and strode away. Maggie watched clansmen respectfully make way for him.

Owen led her to the dais and the servants remained along the walls with their platters, awaiting his word. Fergus took up his position behind the dais, frowning at everyone even as he put one hand on his sword hilt and the other on his pistol. Clansmen had brought their wives and children; the hall was at least two hundred people strong.

And all of them stared at her. She was dressed far more regally, more expensively, than anyone else there. Even Lady Aberfoyle looked at Maggie’s gown and arched a cool brow of disapproval. Maggie had only one ball gown, a gift from her mother’s sister, but wearing it tonight made it seem like she wanted to put on a show, to remind people that she, a McCallum, was better than they were.

And it suddenly gave her the most perfect idea. If Owen wouldn’t believe the truth about his future, she would convince him that a future with her would make him miserable. She would show him that she would be a terrible wife and an incompetent manager of his homes.

Owen did not take her directly to the dais, but began to wander among the tables, introducing her and even introducing himself to those he didn’t know. Maggie knew courtesy and hospitality were important in the Highlands, and she could see by the expressions of his people that he was impressing them. She caught a few sideways glances, some of jealousy, some of disdain, some even with pity.

She told herself she could embarrass him by acting bored, but in the end, she couldn’t do it. He was already complicating his acceptance by his people because she was a McCallum.

When they approached the dais, Lady Aberfoyle and Cat were already there, wearing the black of mourning, making Maggie feel even more out of place in her ostentatious gown. Maybe Owen’s mother would berate him in private for marrying an insensitive woman. Maggie could hope for that. Lady Aberfoyle’s expression was cool and remote—at least the disapproval was hidden from her son—whereas Cat studied Owen and Maggie with interest.

“Maggie, I hear you went for a walk today,” Cat said, smiling. “If you’d like company, please let me know.”

“Neither of you will be walking alone outside the
castle,” Owen said, his expression serious. “Someone set fire to a byre outside the village today.”

Cat gasped.

“No one was hurt,” Owen added, “and I imagine it was simply a prank. But things are unsettled, with me becoming the new earl—”

“And bringing a McCallum into the household,” Lady Aberfoyle said, giving Maggie an unreadable look.

There was an awkward pause, where Maggie wondered if the countess’s hostility would help her end the marriage or make Owen dig in his heels. And then there was Cat’s sympathetic concern. It would be so easy to like her, to confide in her. But Maggie would resist. She wanted Cat to support the ending of the betrothal, not talk Owen out of it.

“We will not assume Maggie is the problem,” Owen said, cutting a piece of meat. “It could very well be me.”

Lady Aberfoyle scoffed and changed the subject by drawing her daughter into a discussion about a family in the village who needed their support.

Maggie eyed Owen and spoke reluctantly. “Ye surely cannot believe your own people are against ye.”

“They don’t know me as well as perhaps they should.”

“Your father kept ye in England.”

“At first. But I, too, was lured by that country, but not for the reasons—Society, prestige—he was.”

“Science,” she said matter-of-factly. “I remember
things about ye, Owen, when ye’ve stubbornly resisted doing the same for me.”

His jaw clenched but he ignored the provocation. “The work was important to me. I thought I’d find ways to improve what our estates already have, and in a way I’ve begun. In the last few years, an engine was developed using steam and a piston to raise water from the depths of a coal mine. I own several mines. I’m bringing the engine here, although of course the mine foreman is skeptical.”

“Of course ye’ll demonstrate it and convince him,” she said, taking a bite of roasted lamb.

“And can you
predict
that?”

She heard the emphasis on “predict” and knew he was taunting her. “I don’t need to. Ye can make a person believe anything. Ye made me believe ye were an open-minded scholar, did ye not?”

He chuckled, obviously making light of the words she’d meant in truth.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t assume ye can lure us all under your spell. Introducing me to your people one at a time? ’Twas an idea that won’t work.”

“I had more than one purpose.”

“And so I assumed.”

He gave her a sharp look. “You don’t think I could simply want to make you feel at ease?”

“I already ken ye want that. ’Twill make everything easier for ye. Ye’re trying to reintroduce yourself, especially to the men.”

“True. And I have a way to begin to cement their loyalty.”

“No one will be pledging fealty to the Campbells on your watch, eh?” But she had to admit that she was curious.

“I’m not worried about that. We all know that the Campbells are greedy and loyal to the Crown rather than Scotland. But my people know I’ve spent a lot of time in England, and they might think I was too friendly at a dinner party with a redcoat or two. But this isn’t England. The Fifteen wasn’t that long ago. My people must learn that while I’m in London seeing to their interests, it doesn’t mean they don’t have my absolute loyalty. And the only way to do that is to be among them, training with them, competing with them. As the noblest and best young men of the clan, they will try to excel at everything, to prove themselves, just as I once did.”

“Ye make yourself sound ancient,” she said dryly.

“To a twenty-year-old, I am.”

His plan had merit—and for herself, too. It would keep him busy while she tried to figure out the dream and prove herself a poor bride, but he didn’t need to know that. If he would contribute nothing to saving himself, then at least he needed to stay out of her way.

He suddenly leaned too close. “And such competition will inspire my Highland bride to wish that our wedding night was not so far away.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and Maggie knew she’d never see real admiration in his gaze. He wouldn’t admire her, not that real person she was deep inside, the one who was cursed with dreams of the future. Nay,
that
Maggie he disdained. But that didn’t affect his lust for her. And sadly, she still felt the same lust for him; a sin, any priest would tell her. Apparently, she wasn’t very discriminating where men were concerned.

His gaze on her body was as physical as a caress, even here, in front of all his people, in front of his family. And the worst thing was that he seemed to sense her reciprocal desire. The quirk of his mouth said he was aware of her desperation to keep it at bay.

Let him be amused, she thought furiously, forcing herself to stop looking at his lips. She knew what she had to do. Tonight she’d return to her dreams and see if she could bring forth the one she needed to see the most.

Voices at a nearby table grew loud, and a woman shushed someone.

“I don’t care
what
she thinks.”

This voice belonged to an older man, bald head gleaming in the torchlight, whose broad shoulders still spoke of hard work.

“I don’t care what Himself thinks either,” the man continued. “He should know what we
all
think.”

“Da!” A young woman at his side glanced at the dais with mortification.

“She’s a McCallum,” the old man sputtered. “She shouldn’t be here! Why are we standin’ for it?”

Maggie felt a cold shiver of fear over the tenuousness of the peace between their clans, reminding her of how carefully she had to navigate this business of ending their betrothal. If people died because of renewed violence, she’d never be able to forgive herself.

Owen rose to his feet. “Are you speaking of my betrothed, Martin Hepburn?” he demanded.

The young woman gasped, as if she hadn’t thought Owen would know the name—as if she’d lived in fear over the trouble her father would bring their way.

Martin rose slowly to his feet, and Maggie stared back at him impassively. Hatred narrowed the man’s eyes and put a sneer on his face.

“Aye, my lord,” Martin said. “I never believed what the old chief tried to do—peace! With the McCallums!”

The entire hall had gone silent now as the old man’s ringing voice echoed up to the cavernous beamed ceiling.

Martin raised a fist. “None of ’em are worth lowerin’ ourselves. I bided me time, but I always thought ye’d see the truth and refuse this foolhardy plan. But here she is, a McCallum, and ye cannot take yer eyes from her, when there are plenty of good lasses from yer clan, like me own daughter.”