The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (17 page)

Euphemia sat back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “’Tis terrible to do such things to a girl only trying to mend a feud men started centuries ago.”

“How can I marry Owen if it will mean his death?” Maggie asked bitterly. “He doesn’t believe that he’ll die; he thinks I’m only trying to deceive him. And maybe it
is
all a deception in my mind—I don’t even know the true ending of the dream. Can ye help me, Euphemia? I don’t want my actions to renew this terrible feud, but . . .”

“Aye, his lairdship cannot be allowed to die,” the old woman said. “He’s a good man, a good chief.”

“So ye think my dream means that he
will
die?” Maggie demanded.

“That I cannot know, lass.”

“Can
I
know? Can ye think of any way I could have the dream again? I’ve tried everything I know and
nothing works. I keep seeing him lying on the floor, pale and blood-spattered.” She shuddered.

Euphemia put her hands to her thighs and rose to her feet. “I ken of only one thing that might help. Come with me.”

The old woman took down a cloak from a peg near the door, and without asking questions, Maggie helped her don it. A walking stick came next, and then the two of them went outside.

Maggie froze upon seeing Martin Hepburn standing in the middle of the lane, surprise and guilt mingling on his face. She tried to step in front of Euphemia, in case he meant them harm, but using her walking stick, Euphemia pushed her aside.

“Martin, off with ye,” Euphemia ordered.

His face flushing, he turned in a dignified manner and walked back toward the center of the village.

“Why is he following me?” Maggie asked with frustration.

“Pay him no mind, lass.”

Maggie fell into step as the old woman took a dirt path that led past her house and began to slope upward. Maggie didn’t know how long she could ignore Martin and his unsettling behavior toward her. But for now, she would concentrate on Euphemia.

To her surprise, the old woman was as steady on the hillside as a goat. For half an hour they climbed a rocky path, passing the occasional curious cow that
lifted its head from chewing grass and blinked at them. The mist burned off. The glen fell away below them, and by glancing over her shoulder, she could see the towers of Castle Kinlochard looking more like a child’s toy. The wind picked up, and Maggie felt tendrils of hair escape her chignon. Euphemia moved slowly but steadily. Gradually the path curved along the mountain, and soon any sign of civilization disappeared.

The path flattened at last, where their small mountain crested. Beyond loomed more mountains, but on the windswept summit was a sight that took Maggie’s breath away. Rising up from the short scrub grass were standing stones, like jagged teeth against the cloudy sky. There were only three of them, and one was squat as if broken. They stood side by side, sentinels left by distant ancestors. With the mountains as a backdrop, they reminded her of the columns of a wild cathedral.

Maggie let out a soft “oh” of appreciation, yet barely spoke above a whisper. “Euphemia, how incredible.”

Narrow-eyed against the wind, the old woman said, “No one can say why they’re here, why they’re scattered throughout Scotland and beyond. Some say they were men turned by enchantment into stone. Others say they are but monuments to men killed in battle. Perchance they were used in rituals long since lost to time.”

“Ye don’t use them yourself?”

“I have found my gift inside me alone. Believe me,
I have tried to use them, but they are not for me. Yet they bring me solace when I need to think.”

“May I . . . walk among them?”

Euphemia said nothing for a long moment, just studying her with old, shrewd eyes. “Aye,” she said slowly. “And touch them. Perhaps they can give you the strength to find your answers.”

Gooseflesh swept across Maggie’s skin as she walked toward the stones. Two more were lying on the ground, half sunk like stones in mud. The tall grass clung to her skirt as if pulling on her. The stones were taller than she, and as she moved among them, whenever their shadows fell upon her, she shivered. At last she touched one, putting both palms on it and closing her eyes.

But nothing happened to her, no vision, no sudden realization. Not that she’d expected it, since she’d only experienced her gift in dreams. But still, she was disappointed. The stone was as cold as she imagined, rough where it had been chipped away, smooth in other places.

“The stones have not given ye inspiration,” Euphemia said, coming to stand beside one and placing her hand on it with deliberate intent.

Maggie shook her head. “I cannot expect something to magically happen. I spent many years denying my dreams, forcing them away. Perhaps I made enemies of whoever gave me such a gift.”

“Why did ye deny yourself?”

“There was a woman I dreamed would drown. I did not stop it from happening, and the guilt is sometimes still a terrible burden—one I well deserve.”

“Och, ye don’t even ken if ye could have stopped it, lass,” she said kindly.

“Have ye ever changed a vision foretold to ye?”

“Nay, and I stopped trying long ago.”

Maggie felt her shoulders slump with disappointment.

Euphemia continued, “I’ve accepted my glimpse through the curtains of time, and come to peace with it.”

Maggie thought about Owen—had he come to peace with the knowledge he’d had of his betrothed’s death? Or had he simply forgotten it all? “The dreams shaped me in a way I’ve not often acknowledged. I was afraid to become close to people outside my family, for fear I’d see something I could not change.”

“And Himself?”

“I keep my distance, aye,” she whispered, then leaned her forehead against a cold stone and sighed. The wind whirled around her.

“Ye cannot be second-guessing your life.”

“Can’t I? Do your visions make ye hold back? Ye don’t live in the center of the village, do ye?”

Euphemia’s smile was secretive. “Perhaps my customers prefer privacy; perhaps I prefer privacy. Or perhaps I’ve a lover no one needs to know about.”

Maggie’s head came around to gape at the old
woman—and then they both laughed. “Glad I am to hear that.”

They walked a while longer on the mountaintop, taking in the beautiful view of the glen so far below, the loch a narrow, glistening line through it like a finger.

“Do ye think I’ll be able to discover the end of the dream?” Maggie asked, just before they were going to leave.

“I think ye cannot count on that, mistress. Ye can only hope. Make plans accordingly.”

Maggie went first going back down the steep path, turning to offer her hand where Euphemia might need it.

“Have you given thought to being honest with everyone about your gift, mistress?” the old woman asked. “Perhaps ye’re a wise woman like me. The village could use another. I won’t live much longer.”

Maggie gasped. “Ye’ve seen your own death?”

Euphemia gave another raspy chuckle. “Nay, I just feel it in these old bones. I cannot live forever.”

Though Maggie hadn’t received the help she wished, she found herself smiling all the way back to Euphemia’s cottage.

O
WEN
felt that his frown was a like a thundercloud preceding him as he entered the village. Most were still back at the castle, enjoying the refreshments he’d
ordered, but a woman carrying a bucket scurried out of his way, eyes wide.

After the wrestling competition was over and he couldn’t find Maggie, he’d been angry that she’d left the safety of the castle, and that his men had been too distracted to pay attention to her departure. When Mrs. Robertson had admitted Maggie’s interest in Euphemia, it had given him a measure of relief. On the quick walk, his anger had mostly turned to exasperation. But now that he saw how empty the village was, how anything could have happened to Maggie with no one to see even a clue, his exasperation merged into worry. She made rash decisions without thinking through the consequences. He wanted her safe within the castle walls, not wandering alone, an easy target.

And now he couldn’t stop thinking of a person who’d set Duff property on fire, risking lives, or would frighten a young woman by leaving superstitious nonsense in her bed. It was a threat, even if Owen didn’t believe in the ancient ways it stood for. He’d dealt often with crime in the cities, but it didn’t seem right, here at home.

But Maggie was exactly where Mrs. Robertson had suggested, at Euphemia’s cottage. He saw the two of them sitting on a little bench, Euphemia drooping as if tired. She was so much tinier than he remembered. He’d been frightened of her as a little boy, because everyone seemed so in awe of her. When he was a little older, he and some other boys had dared each other to touch her front door, and she’d opened it wide even
as he’d been an inch from touching it. He’d run away, convinced she was giving him the evil eye. Now she watched him approach with lively interest, and then looked from Maggie to him with expectation.

He stopped before the bench and nodded his head. “Euphemia, it’s been many years since we’ve last spoken. You have not changed much in all that time.”

“Neither have ye, my lord, though ye’ve gotten tall and brawny.”

“Have you convinced my betrothed to marry me?” he asked.

Maggie’s eyes went wide.

“Surely you had to know everyone is compelled to tell their troubles to Euphemia,” he continued. “Of course, most wouldn’t have come here alone with the village practically deserted.”

Euphemia gave a hoarse rasp that must have been a laugh. “She’s a stubborn girl who knows her own mind. There’s no hurrying her.”

Maggie made a point of looking behind him. “Where’s Fergus? Ye may not like me walking about alone, but he feels the same about ye.”

“I left him basking in the glory of second place.”

“Second to ye?” she inquired, tilting her head.

“Nay, second to Gregor.”

To his surprise, Maggie’s face paled.

She asked, “Did ye wrestle him yourself?”

He shook his head. “I lost just before the finals. Why do you look so relieved?”

“Gregor is an angry man.”

“And how do you know that?” he asked. “Has Kathleen been confiding in you?’

She smoothed her skirt over her knees, before taking a deep breath. “I heard him tell others I drove away your mother and sister.”

He stiffened. Euphemia’s wrinkled eyes narrowed even further.

“Say nothing to him,” Maggie continued. “’Twill crush Kathleen, who’s having a difficult enough time settling in here after what they’ve been through.”

“I’ll remain silent—for now,” he warned. “I know he’s angry at the failures of his life. Did you think he’d take that out on me in a wrestling competition?”

Owen couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice. He was also surprised that once again Maggie showed that she cared about him. He’d thought her dream of his death was just a way out of the marriage, whether instigated by herself or her brother. But here she was, worried about a clansman hurting him. It made him feel confused about her true motives.

Maggie looked away, chin raised mutinously. “Gregor makes me uneasy.”

“And you wandering about, without telling me, makes
me
uneasy.”

It was hard to imagine that the competent blacksmith would use a fear of witchcraft against a helpless woman.

Owen glanced speculatively at Euphemia, but spoke again to Maggie. “Why did you come here?”

Euphemia was the one who answered. “And could she not have been explorin’ the village and come upon me? Perhaps we agree that wrestling is a foolish pursuit for young men.”

“You don’t think that,” he said. “I remember you cheering along with the rest when I was younger.”

Euphemia actually giggled. “A man’s bare chest glistenin’ in the sun—nothing wrong with that.”

Maggie glanced at her friend, her unusual eyes full of amusement.

Euphemia let out a sigh. “Ah, weel, ’tis not easy for me to walk to the castle anymore.”

Maggie bit her lip and looked away, her disbelief obvious. Owen didn’t believe the old woman either. But at least she’d been there for Maggie. Could Maggie’s capitulation be aided by a wise woman’s counsel? No, he knew he would be the one to accomplish that. And he’d been looking forward to it more and more.

He looked past the cottage and up to the top of the nearest mountain. “Have you been to the standing stones?”

Maggie glanced at Euphemia, and he knew the truth before she spoke it. He could be his own seer where Maggie’s expressive face was concerned. So much for the old woman having trouble walking.

“Then come up with me,” he said. “I haven’t been there in years.”

He put out a hand, and though Maggie ignored it, she rose.

“Euphemia, are ye certain ye don’t need my help?” Maggie asked.

Euphemia practically giggled. “Young lovers need time alone. Go on with ye.” And without waiting for them to depart, she stood slowly and went back inside.

Owen gestured for Maggie to precede him past the trees and up the sloping path. He watched her hips under the ugly gown, thought of sliding his hands beneath and finding the tiny waist she was trying to disguise. She was becoming like the gift he longed to explore, a present far superior to the wrapping.

When they reached the summit, Maggie hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, before going to touch the stones without the fear some might have shown.

He could see a low line of clouds heading east, the ones that had left his clothing damp with light rain during the competition. The wind picked up, bringing with it the scent of vegetation and earth—his earth.

“Takes one’s breath away, does it not?” he asked. “The view reminds me of all I’m now responsible for.”

“It cannot be a surprise to ye,” she said dryly.

“It’s not. I’ve been raised to assume this position my entire life. But it’s different than I imagined.”

She glanced at him, those unusual eyes inquisitive.
“The knowledge that ye’re responsible for the welfare of hundreds of people is surely daunting.”

“If I make a poor decision, people will suffer. Were we not to marry, many others would suffer in both our clans.”