Page 37 of The Groom Wore Plaid
Maggie’s mouth went dry at the display of power and technique. Other combatants were still battling each other, but those around Owen cheered, and the defeated man hung his head good-naturedly. Had her relationship with Owen been different, she would have cheered, too, enjoying the muscles of his bare legs as his plaid swayed about his thighs. After disarming his second opponent by using the man’s lunge to throw him to the ground, Owen paused to discuss a technique with his foe, demonstrating for the man’s benefit. More than one man listened intently. He was tutoring his gentlemen with patience, enthusiasm, and obvious knowledge of his subject. It wouldn’t be long before every man here followed him without even a hesitation.
In the final battle to decide the winner of the entire challenge, Owen faced his uncle Harold. Every combatant watched, as well as the servants from the household and even some of the villagers who had come in from their fields. So many people gathered around the training yard that if Maggie had gone down the steps to be with them, she wouldn’t have been able to see the fight. On one side of her was Kathleen, eyes glistening with eager excitement, and on the other, Mrs. Robertson, who was waving and cheering for Harold Duff.
Just before commencing, Owen looked up at Maggie and saluted with his sword. Heads lifted to glance upat her, some even with interest, but fires had been set, witchcraft threatened, and more than one man had protested her marriage to Owen. Would one of his own clansmen try to kill him on his wedding day if he married her?
Then Owen and Harold started to battle, and the crowd had to surge back to avoid the combatants, who ran at each other, slashing swords, thrusting, parrying with their targes. First Harold was the aggressor, then Owen, and it went back and forth for some time. The cheering was so loud Maggie felt like her head was ringing. Kathleen jumped up and down; Mrs. Robertson whistled with a piercingly loud trill.
After a particularly athletic encounter, Owen and Harold circled each other. Both of their swords hung from tired arms, but their footsteps were alert. Owen was wearing a grin, and Harold’s eyes shone even as his face streamed with sweat.
And then suddenly Owen launched an attack, his sword weaving with an intricate maneuver—only to be captured beneath Harold’s strong arm, while the war chief’s own sword stopped a foot from Owen’s chest. A wild cheer surged upward and the two men fell back. Owen breathed as heavily as his uncle, both smiling at each other.
Shaking her head, Maggie said, “They’ll all be drinking their whisky in celebration tonight.”
The housekeeper gave her a disapproving stare. “They’ll be hungry. I’ll see to their feast.”
“Thank ye, Mrs. Robertson,” Maggie said, striving to sound polite when she was irritated. Maggie was a competent woman—she hated appearing negligent to anyone, as if she didn’t know that exhausted men needed to eat. But it was necessary to keep up the appearance of making Owen a terrible wife.
The old woman nodded and went back inside. Maggie looked at the open doors for a long minute as other servants, talking by twos and threes, meandered inside.
“I think she’ll like ye eventually,” Kathleen said with encouragement.
Maggie’s stomach was tight with the knowledge that it would be better if Mrs. Robertson never liked her. Perhaps the shirts Maggie had made for Owen would help ensure that.
CHAPTER9
Owen stood in the center of his clan, his gentlemen, and felt tired but satisfied. Men who’d seemed leery of him a sennight ago now stood around him dissecting the matches that had been held, analyzing the techniques and who could improve. Though he’d lost, Owen felt the results well worth losing to a man twenty years his elder. His uncle’s skill and knowledge had been legendary, and it was good to see he still deserved the title of war chief.
Much as he told himself he’d been competing with his men to better reacquaint himself to them, it had the further bonus of invigorating him in a way he hadn’t imagined. He’d thought of himself as a man of science, elegant and urbane. But displaying his physical prowess had made him feel like a warrior, like a man who could defend his own—defend his woman.
And to improve his mood even more, he’d received word from the man he’d sent to investigate the McCallumfinances. They were not a wealthy clan, but they were not in debt either. Though the late chief might have been a drunkard, he had had competent lawyers and factors representing him. Merchants and bankers alike respected the clan and did business with them. Hugh did not need to conspire against Owen for financial reasons, it seemed. But Hugh’s behavior as the new chief was still relatively untested. What if their finances were good because they’d found other uses for Maggie’s dowry, and she and her brother were too proud to admit it?
He glanced up at the entry to the great hall, at the landing at the top of the stairs. Maggie still stood there, and for a moment, it was as if they were but steps apart, so much did he feel compelled by her gaze. But was he simply showing off for her? Could a display of muscle truly win over a woman who invented stories when things didn’t go her way?
But he couldn’t keep being angry with her, not and see her wedded and bedded. She’d gone beyond being just his duty to being a challenge. Perhaps his physicality could be used as a potent weapon against her. He wanted to touch her all the time—why hold back? Surely it would be a better weapon in his battle to save their clans by marrying.
So that evening at supper, he kept his chair close to hers, let his knee rest against hers, brushed her hand when they reached for their silverware. Maggie gave him irritated glances, but she was a little too flushedand bright-eyed to make him believe she was unresponsive. She leaned farther and farther over that ridiculous law book she was reading, as if she could bury herself in the words. He kept this up throughout the meal, until she tried her own distraction.
“Remember that I have the shirts I sewed for ye.”
“Then I’ll come to your bedroom right now and try them on.”
“What?”
Her eyes widened with panic, and it was a fine sight.
“But I didn’t finish my supper,” she insisted.
He pushed back his chair, and took her hand.
“But—”
He didn’t let her take up the law book she made a lunge for, only pulled her from the room, leaving behind the amused chuckles of his clan.
In her room, she faced him with her hands on her hips. “That was uncomfortable for me. Your people are probably appalled at your behavior.”
“They think I’m smitten.”
“A lie if I ever heard one,” she scoffed.
