Page 42 of The Groom Wore Plaid
Everyone would be distracted by the spectacle. She should be able to slip away to the village and speak to Euphemia about her dreams. Perhaps the woman could help her relive it again, or maybe Euphemia even had success trying to change what her visions had shown her.
CHAPTER10
Maggie had never imagined that the entire village might crowd into the castle courtyard to see a wrestling event. Sword fighting always seemed so much more dashing and dangerous to her. Or perhaps it was simply the spectacle of seeing who could defeat their new chief. Maggie didn’t stand above the crowd on the first floor balcony as before, but mingled among them, looking for Euphemia, but she never saw the elderly woman. The clan was growing used to her now; some gave deferential nods, but others didn’t meet her gaze, and some turned away altogether. She told herself all this would help prove to Owen that she wasn’t fit to be his bride, but she still felt terrible—and so very lonely.
Scottish backhold wrestling was always a feat of brute strength. The men paired up, and she easily found Owen, who leaned forward to “hug” his opponent, hands clasped together at his back, right arm beneath the man’s left, Owen’s left arm over the man’sshoulder. Maggie had watched many times in her youth, and knew the loser was the man who touched the ground with anything other than his feet. It was simply two men, using every muscle in their bodies to remain standing, while knocking over the challenger.
Owen easily slid his foot behind his opponent’s, then pushed him over it, forcing the man to the ground. It was best two out of three, but Owen won the second match as well, and would face another challenger. There were plenty of brawny bare legs and flying kilts as the men upended each other, making the women squeal with delight. Maggie unabashedly enjoyed the sight.
Watching Owen move, the display of his muscles, gave her an unwelcome shiver of awareness. He’d been far too solicitous with his caresses, his touches, many of them seemingly innocent—though she had her doubts. No one needed to touch someone as much as Owen touched her. She was beginning to anticipate it each time he was so close, to gird herself to resist any enjoyment. She constantly flinched and frowned at him, trying to prove herself irritated. She wasn’t certain it was working, for he looked too satisfied with himself.
But she couldn’t think about that now. She had plans for the day.
It was easy enough to slip into the dark tunnel beneath the gatehouse and then across the moat bridge. The village was just down the lane, and she’d had thecottages and their owners pointed out on her last visit. It was strange how deserted the place seemed. An occasional chicken pecked at the grain near a cottage door, but no people weeded their small gardens or remained on watch over cattle on a nearby hill. The sky had been threatening rain all day, and a wet mist settled over everything. Maggie shivered and moved through the center of the village and beyond, to the last solitary cottage, alone before a thick copse of trees. There was a well nearby, and a little bench as if its owner liked the peaceful view. She turned and took a deep breath, never tiring of the beautiful mountains surrounding the loch that threaded its way through the glen.
Maggie knocked. It was a long time before the door opened, but she was patient, knowing Euphemia’s age. The door slowly creaked open, and two bright eyes peered out at her from the gloom.
Then those eyes went wide. “Mistress Maggie?”
Euphemia drew the door all the way open, and Maggie saw the little wizened woman with her hunched back, white wispy hair gathered into a long braid, and her face as crinkled as a dried apple.
“Good day, Mistress Euphemia,” Maggie said. “I wasn’t certain ye’d know me.”
“Of course I know ye, lass,” Euphemia said, her voice high-pitched and rough with long use. “Everyone does. Ye’re to marry our chief. And ye wear those silly gowns.”
Well, at least some people were noticing, shethought, since Owen was ignoring her lack of style completely.
Euphemia narrowed her eyes and stared hard at Maggie, who wondered what gifts the old woman truly had.
“Come in, my wee bairn, I was just having a cup of buttermilk. Would ye like some?”
Maggie followed the elderly lady inside, and had to duck beneath all the herbs hanging to dry from the ceiling beams. It was a single room, with a peat fire on the floor in the center, smoke escaping through a hole in the roof directly above. Euphemia gestured to a wooden table with two chairs, and Maggie took a seat. The cup of buttermilk was warm and nourishing, and reminded her of the summers of her youth in Edinburgh, when she’d looked forward to going back to the Highlands for the treat.
Euphemia sat down very, very slowly, and Maggie could hear the creaking of her joints.
“Ahhh,” Euphemia said after her first sip. “Now tell me why I’ve been lucky enough to be visited by the chief’s future wife.”
Maggie hesitated, staring into old, old eyes that had seen the joys and sorrows of everyone in this village. They were intelligent eyes, a deep, deep blue, full of sympathy as well as curiosity.
“May I trust that what I share with ye will go no further?” Maggie asked quietly.
Euphemia crossed her arms over her chest, andchewed her bare gums together briefly before saying, “A woman like me knows how to keep secrets, mistress.”
Maggie took a deep breath—and told her everything, about the dreams of her youth, the dream that ended any chance of a marriage with Owen, her attempts to discover what happened next. Through it all, Euphemia remained silent.
Suddenly thirsty, Maggie took a deep draught of buttermilk, sat back, and gave a long, weary sigh. For a small moment, it had felt good to share the worst with someone else. But then . . . the fear suddenly overwhelmed her. What had she done? Why had she trusted a stranger with something that could ruin her life should it be discovered?
“Och, my wee bairn,” Euphemia said gently, “ye need have no fear of me. I have met others like ye, and they yet lead uncomplicated lives.”
Her expression was sly and merry, and Maggie gave a shaky smile. “Are . . .youlike me?” she asked.
Euphemia’s smile faded a bit, but not her humor. “Nay, I do not have dreams in the night, but visions, mostly at dusk. I hear things, too, but perhaps someone already told ye that, for ye to seek me out.” She chuckled, a dry old rasp. “Ye do not need to tell me who, lass. I don’t hide my true nature.”
“How do you bear it?” Maggie asked. “I’ve seen how people with our gifts are treated. I’ve been able to keep the truth to my family and a few others, buthere . . .” She looked out the window and swallowed against the lump that arose in her throat. “I’m a McCallum, Euphemia, the enemy.”
“Ye don’t seem so threatening to me.”
The gentle kindness of her voice was almost Maggie’s undoing, but she willed the stinging in her eyes to recede. “Perhaps not to ye, but I’ve heard cruel whispers. A byre and a cottage were set to burning; I’ve been followed about. And recently, someone left a talisman of witchcraft in my bed, a stick with letters carved backwards.”
