The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (26 page)

Lady Aberfoyle gave a deep sigh. “No, it wasn’t just needlework, son. I soon realized who better to understand the kind of marriage I had—”

“—than one who had suffered through the same,” Lady McCallum said kindly, putting her hand on Lady Aberfoyle’s.

Owen found himself glancing helplessly at Maggie. Her eyes had a sheen of tears. Cat bowed her head.

His mother turned to Maggie. “I found it difficult when you arrived here.”

Owen stiffened. “Mother—”

“Let Edith speak,” Lady McCallum interrupted.

“Please do,” Maggie added.

He clenched his jaw and remained silent. He didn’t want his mother hurting Maggie any more than she already had. How many people had to mistrust his betrothed before she fled from his household for good?

You
mistrust her.

This voice in his head was beginning to annoy him.

“Thank you for listening, Maggie,” Lady Aberfoyle said. “I always knew my son would marry, of course,
but I thought she would be an English bride, or at least a wealthy Lowland girl. He spent so much time in England, I just assumed . . .” She sighed. “And then he offered for you, and it was as if all of my recently dead husband’s sins were being flung at my feet.”

As his mother wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, all Owen could think was that she wanted pity.

“And to focus on myself was a mistake, of course,” Lady Aberfoyle continued, “but so often in my life, with a man such as the late earl, if I didn’t, no one else would take care of me. And no, Owen, you have always cared for me.”

She probably could read his anger and bewilderment from even an eye twitch. Deadly pale, Cat watched their mother soberly.

“But my husband was dead,” Lady Aberfoyle continued, “and I thought at last I would be free of the guilt of what I’d had to stand by and watch him do. But Maggie, you were a reminder I could not escape. I love you, Cat,” she said, turning to face her daughter, “and I showed it too much. I knew your cousin Riona’s parents were neglecting her, and I thought your compassion to her was sweet and inspiring. But your father—your father felt his brother was using his generosity. When it came time to live up to the contract your father had made with the late Laird McCallum, I watched, appalled, as he sent you away, Cat, and misled Riona into taking your place. Until that point, I had no idea he wished to change his mind. From your birth I’d
pleaded with him to find another way to peace, to not betroth two children together, leaving them to bear the burden of the clans’ expectations.” She took a deep shuddering breath. “But did I do anything to stop his manipulation at the end? I did not. I didn’t know how. And seeing you here, Maggie, betrothed to my son because he cared more for honor than his father did—it reminded me of all I’d done wrong. It was . . . so difficult to watch the man I’d freely married become more and more dishonorable with every year that passed. But that does not excuse my lack of welcome, as I tried to face everything that had happened. Can you forgive me, child?” she pleaded with Maggie.

No one said anything for a moment. Cat’s shoulders shook beneath her bowed head. Lady McCallum still clutched Lady Aberfoyle’s hand as if giving her support. Owen remembered that Lady McCallum had had to own up to standing by while her drunken husband abused innocents, committing even worse crimes.

Owen knew what he would have done in their place—but he was a man, used to the freedom of being in command and taking for granted the ability to make his own decisions. He wondered what would have happened if these two women had gone against their husbands in a world that permitted a husband to imprison his wife for no justifiable reason.

And then Maggie hugged his mother. “Of course, my lady. There is little enough for me to forgive.”

He was stunned at Maggie’s generosity to a woman
who’d treated her badly. Maggie seemed to believe that the past was the past, and that forgiveness enabled people to move on. He’d once asked for the same gift after leading her on when he’d been betrothed to another. But after her graciousness, he’d dismissed her dreams with scorn, and now he’d done it again. Even if he couldn’t understand her dreams, he was beginning to see that
she
believed in them, that she honestly was trying to save his life. Her brother seemed too happy and in love to be plotting with her against the Duffs—his own wife’s clan.

But that didn’t mean Owen could ever accept such visions as the truth, and he wouldn’t mislead her.

Lady Aberfoyle patted Maggie gratefully, wiped the tears from her eyes. “Thank you. Now I need to find my niece and apologize to her. This festival is a day of new beginnings, yes?”

Lady McCallum stood up as well, put an arm through her new friend’s, and walked slowly with her.

Owen met his sister’s wet-eyed gaze.

“Well,” Cat said breathlessly, “that was something I never expected.” She smiled at Maggie. “And we have your mother to thank, it seems.”

“That’s still a surprise, even to me,” Maggie admitted, accepting the handkerchief Owen offered her.

“You don’t have one for your sister, eh?” Cat teased.

“Yes, I do,” he said, pulling another out of the sporran at his waist. “I was concerned I might be coming down with a cold.”

Maggie and Cat chuckled, and Maggie looked upon him with a tenderness that he should welcome. He’d been countering her every attempt to prove herself a poor bride, with his own proof that she’d be anything but. His strategy was working.

Then why was he so uneasy? Women gave in to their emotions—it didn’t mean that a man had to. Emotions just made one vulnerable, when as chief, as earl, he had to be in control of himself at all times.

He needed to eat and leave the hall, be on the back of a horse where no thoughts were involved, just instinct and skill and the bracing need to compete.

C
HAPTER
15

T
he sun was still lingering above the mountains when the competitors on horseback came thundering down the road toward the castle. Maggie stood just before the stone bridge over the moat, near the finish line in the meadow beyond. Her brother Brendan sat on the half wall, and she kept an arm around his waist. The horses’ pounding hooves vibrated right through her, increasing the thrill. For a rare hour, she allowed herself to just enjoy the moment. Lady Aberfoyle’s apology had both surprised and pleased her—mostly for Owen’s sake. When Maggie had to leave him, she would like to think he and his family understood each other better.

“Hugh’s in the lead!” Riona cried, practically jumping up and down.

“Nay, ’tis Owen,” Maggie corrected mischievously.

“Hugh,” Brendan said as if Maggie were blind.

But in truth, Maggie didn’t know who was in the lead, and it really didn’t matter to her. What mattered
was the excitement of the men controlling their massive mounts. Especially Owen, she thought, feeling a little breathless. He leaned forward over the neck of his gelding; his bare legs beneath his plaid expertly guided the horse to do his bidding. Dozens of men trailed behind him, and more than just Hugh challenged him for the win. As the horses streamed across the final line, Maggie wasn’t certain who had won.

But she decided the women had won, for soon the men were stripping off their plaids and following each other into the spring-fed moat, wearing just their shirts. They drenched the sweat from their bodies, and their shirts were clinging in a much-appreciated, if unseemly fashion.

“Oh, my,” Cat said, a bit breathlessly, from where they all crowded to gape over the side of the bridge. To Maggie, she added, “We unmarried women can be quite overcome by such displays.”

Brendan covered his ears.

Maggie could only grin at her, feeling a bit breathless herself. “Let’s wave!” she urged Dorothy and Helen, hoping Owen would look up and notice them.

The two sisters waved, but Owen only captured Maggie’s gaze with his own, and any remaining air in her lungs simply vanished. He’d been grinning, a rare sight on his face, but now that grin faded to a look of such intensity, she felt scorched. She had some sort of plan to dissuade this, she knew, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember it.

And then Hugh pushed Owen face-first into the water, breaking the spell.

Two Duff clansmen grabbed hold of Hugh by both arms and yanked him back. Riona cried out, then covered her mouth. Brendan stiffened and leaned forward as if he meant to jump into the water to defend his brother. Maggie tightened her grip around his waist to keep him from interfering. Hugh just kept laughing.

Owen got to his feet, sputtering, and called, “Surely ye cannot fault a man for wishing he’d defeated me?”

And there was that brogue again, Maggie thought with an inner thrill. Did he even realize he’d let down his guard again, been a Scottish chief rather than a British earl?

Hugh was released—at least the men had the decency to look abashed—and Owen clapped him on the back as they sloshed through water and then the reeds growing wild along the embankment. They all found their plaids where they’d left them, swinging them over their shoulders as they began an impressive group march toward the bridge. Fluttering with excitement, the castle women led the big procession into the courtyard.

In the great hall of the main towerhouse, servants headed to the kitchen to prepare for another feast, and all the men dispersed to their rooms to change. Maggie didn’t know if Owen wished a hot bath, so she followed him up the stairs and caught him just as he opened the door to his room.

“Owen?” she called. “Should I send some serving boys with the bathing tub?”

He looked into his room, then gestured for her to come closer. Curious, she approached, only to have him take her arm and pull her inside.

“Owen!”

He took both her arms in his big hands and practically lifted her onto her toes. “Maggie, stop putting those poor cousins of yours in my way. I won’t be waving to them, leading them on.”

Her mouth opened and closed; she knew she should respond, but his sandy hair was dark with water as it brushed his shoulders. Even his eyelashes were spiky with moisture. One long drop slid slowly down his nose, mesmerizing her. His face looked shadowed from the whiskers that had grown during the day.

He gave her a little shake. “Do ye understand me, lass?”

The deep musical Scottish sound of his voice made her give a little internal moan. She didn’t even realize she’d made a sound out loud, until he drew her right up against his wet body.

“I—I understand,” she managed in a husky voice.

“I think ye need convincing.”

And then he was kissing her, putting her back up against the door and pressing his hard, wet body along hers. She moaned and slid her arms around his neck, holding on as if she never wanted him to let go.

This was wicked, leading him on when she wouldn’t marry him.

This was dangerous to her own well-being and self-respect.

And she didn’t care. She wanted this—she wanted him. She felt herself tumbling into the rising passion as if falling into a deep pond and sinking down, down . . . She lost her breath, and it was glorious. His tongue mated with hers, and she explored his mouth with equal vigor.

He left her mouth to kiss his way down her neck and she tilted her head to give him even greater access. His hands continued to move on her body, from her waist and up her torso to skim the delicate flesh above her cleavage. Every touch made her shiver; the moistness of his tongue tracing along the lace of her décolletage made her moan.

“Your stays are not so tightly laced,” he murmured against the top curve of her breast, his hands feeling her waist.

“I kept them loosened . . . in case we ate out in the grass.”

“Perfect.”

He gave a little tug down and she felt the constriction across her breasts ease. And then his hands were freeing her, her breasts indecently bare above the neckline of her gown. For a moment he lifted his head and kissed her again, while his hands cupped her breasts.
He was chilled from the water, and her skin was so very hot that it made her gasp and jump.

“Forgive me,” he said, smiling against her mouth. “Let me try something warmer.”

He bent his head and took her hard nipple into his mouth. She bit back a startled cry, shocked and aroused, helpless to look away as he licked and suckled. She felt it outward into every limb of her body, and then inward, deep in her most private places.

She wanted more, and she held his head to her, burying her fingers in the silky thickness of his hair.

When his hands reached beneath her skirt, she knew she’d been waiting for this, to feel so alive and wondrous again.

But it was wrong—she knew it was wrong. She wanted completion for herself, but couldn’t offer it to him, not without ruining herself and perhaps getting with child.

“Stop, oh, Owen, we must stop,” she pleaded. “I will not be your mistress and I cannot be your wife.”

He lifted his head slowly and eyed her. Flustered and terribly sad, she didn’t know what emotion he was trying to hide, anger or disgust or sadness. Her skirts fell from his hands, and she reached to cover her aching breasts.

Recklessly, she stumbled on. “I—I’ve thought of another way to satisfy the contract.”

He took a step back from her. “I cannot believe
ye’re bringing this up now,” he said between clenched teeth.

“But I have to! If ye won’t have one of my cousins, then I could marry one of yours.”

His brows lowered so ominously she expected storm clouds to gather above the castle and rumble with thunder.

She rushed on. “After all, maybe they won’t mind a wife who has difficulty staying thin. Surely ye’ve noticed, and ye must be so disappointed. It runs in my family, ye know.”

She ran out of words and waited for him to berate her over her cousins or her girth, but instead, he suddenly wiped both hands down his face, then showed her an impassive expression with a touch of curiosity. As if he wasn’t angry at all.

She thought of the tenderness he’d showed her, the one he so quickly masked, just like he masked most of his deeper emotions. If she married him, it would kill her to know he would have to hide disbelief, disdain, or maybe even pity over her dreams, as if he’d assumed she would have grown out of such childhood fancy. She’d spent her whole life hiding her true self from everyone but her brother and mother, and now she’d offered her secrets, her vulnerability, to him. She didn’t want to be different, hadn’t wanted to tell him he would die—she didn’t
want
him to die. Two tears slipped down her cheeks.