Page 49 of The Groom Wore Plaid
“Kathleen will be along soon,” he said, gently placing her in a comfortable chair near the hearth.
And then he pushed her skirts up to her knees and lifted her foot in his hands. “Hold all your skirts back.”
“Owen! ’Tis indecent! I will not be touched so familiarly by a man—ever.”
He eyed her with hidden amusement. That was a claim he could quickly prove false, but it dawned on him how . . . amusing he found her. He actually admired the way she held to her plan to prove herself the most improper wife, against whatever he tried. It was sure to be a losing effort, of course, but she wasn’t ready to concede.
“You’re being very brave,” he said, giving her his most sincere and understanding tone. “What a perfect quality in a wife.”
She started to push the skirts down, and he counteracted her by placing his other hand on her knee.
“Maggie, stop.”
She did, but her tension vibrated down her leg. She wanted to win, just like he did.
He could feel the slight swelling of her ankle, and that reminded him of how he’d felt when he’d seen her disappear down the mountainside: the shock, the urgency, the fear. It had been surprisingly potent, had driven away his self-possession, his belief that he wasalways successful holding himself to proper dispassion. He would not care for her like that, as if she was more important than anything else. She would play a part in his life, his lady wife, but only one part.
Was that, too, because she was a McCallum? But she’d lied to him when they’d first been together, and she was lying again.
But he’d lied to her about Emily, hadn’t he? He certainly wasn’t perfect.
He didn’t like questioning himself. When he came to a conclusion, it was because he’d given it great thought and made a rational decision he never regretted. But Maggie was making him rethink all his assumptions about her—his assumptions about himself.
The tension between them rose swiftly, with his hands on both her ankle and knee. Whatever he thought of her character, it didn’t alter his desire for her. Her flesh was warm through her stockings, and he felt a keen desire to slide his hands higher, until he reached bare skin above her garters.
“Unless you’d like me to draw little circles on your skin with my fingers,” he said in a husky voice, “I suggest you remove your garter and stocking from your injured foot.”
Her eyes went wide, and he was treated to the sight of their unusual hues, one blue, one green. He’d seen more than one old woman make the sign against the evil eye when Maggie passed, and he hoped she did not notice such things. Or had it always been that wayfor her? Again, a softening toward her moved through him, and he reminded himself of their relationship by unbuckling her leather shoe, removing it, and letting his palm gently cup her foot before moving slowly, lingeringly up to her ankle. He trailed his fingers up her calf and gently caressed behind her knee. The hoop bulged her skirt too high. All he had to do was spread her knees to see—
“That’s enough!” she cried in a breathy voice. “Please turn your back while I remove the garters.”
He didn’t want to turn his back; he wanted to watch her reach beneath her skirt and touch her own thigh. But she was cooperating, so without rising, he faced the other way, resting his folded arms on one bent knee and struggling to master his control.
“My ankle is barely swelling,” Maggie pronounced.
He turned around to see her smoothing down her skirts.
He arched a brow. “Do you want me to force the issue?”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, she lifted until her skirts just reached mid-calf. Allowing her to win the moment, Owen took her bare foot into his hands and felt her tremble.
Swelling had distorted her ankle, but not by much, and some bruising shadowed her skin. He moved her foot gently about, his fingers tracing the delicate bones within.
“I do not feel a break,” he said at last.
“I told ye that, Owen. Didn’t I walk all the way back on it?”
“When I saw your expression downstairs, I knew I’d made a mistake allowing it. Your pride overrules your good sense.”
“Pride?” she echoed defensively. “’Tis simply common sense. I felt no stabbing pain. Everyone has twisted an ankle a time or two. This supposed concern of yours is simply an excuse for touching me.”
He gave her his best roguish smile. “Touching ye? Aye, that is a secondary benefit I appreciate.”
“Aha, did ye hear your voice? There’s a trace of the burr there, just like when ye followed me down the mountain. Why do ye hide it?”
“I do not hide it. I spent much of my life in England, and my speech evolved.”
“Evolved, did it?” she scoffed. “Your parents made ye hide it like they were ashamed. I’ve heard your cousin Riona, remember. She, too, has lost the musical sound of Scotland.”
