Page 60 of The Groom Wore Plaid
And then he stopped pacing as an idea began to form.
OWENwas eminently satisfied with the meal that evening, the choicest chicken, partridge, and heathcocks, mixed with salmon and haddock, courses that went on for hours. Through it all, his clan musicians played, harpist and piper, and the bard recited deeds from Duff history.
In the spirit of the evening, he’d seated Dorothy and Helen on either side of him on the dais, moving Maggie down a seat. She seemed delighted with the seating arrangement, engrossed in conversations with her brother to her right.
And Owen was stuck with her two cousins. They weren’t unappealing, just very . . . young, newly intheir twenties. They hadn’t seen anything of the world beyond their village, had experienced little except the farming seasons. Dorothy was bold with her questions, and often encouraged her shy sister to tell of her feminine pursuits, but beyond polite conversation, Owen experienced no pull of interest, nothing compared to what he felt every time he saw Maggie laughing at something her brother said.
And it made him realize he hadn’t seen her laugh at all in these last few weeks, not once, though she’d been a laughing girl when first they met. Those different-colored eyes sparkled with mirth, and there was a relaxation about her that made her seem even warmer and more appealing. With her family she seemed genuine and open, which she’d never granted him.
Because she didn’t want to marry him.
He felt a stab of loss that surprised and unsettled him.
After the feast, the tables were cleared from the floor so that the dancing could commence. Owen took the opportunity Maggie wanted him to have, dancing with each of her cousins first, a country dance, and then a minuet. But he kept an eye on Maggie as he did so. She began with sedate clapping, keeping time easily to the music. He hadn’t failed to notice that before her family had arrived, she hadn’t enthusiastically joined in whenever there were guests being entertained. He’d assumed that she felt herself a McCallum amid Duffs, or that she wouldn’t let herself be his hostess. But theselast few days, he’d begun to accept that she’d told him the truth, that she couldn’t relax among people, that she never let herself have close friends because of the dreams she kept secret.
That wasn’t true with her brother, of course. But when Hugh tried to pull her into a dance, she’d demurred and he’d acquiesced as if he was used to it.
And then Owen stepped on Dorothy’s foot. She was polite about it, but he realized he was more interested in watching Maggie than in dancing.
Yet he kept dancing, switching to partner Helen. Every time he smiled down upon the girl, he thought he glimpsed Maggie’s own smile briefly dim. And for the first time, he considered that if not for her dream, maybe Maggie would have eventually welcomed the marriage. He imagined her excited for wedding plans, open to long discussions, eager for his kisses, looking forward to the wedding night as much as he did. What would it have been like not to feel that he was forcing her against her will, like a tyrant.
He should be angry that a vague dream was more important than the reality of their marriage. But anger had gotten him nowhere. He was far too enthralled with his betrothed, feeling like a boy at his first dancing assembly trying to secure the attention of the loveliest girl there.
And Maggie was very lovely, he thought, as he brought Helen back to where the McCallums gathered. Then he noticed how isolated the McCallums were, thatnone of his clan was making any attempt to make them feel comfortable by mingling with them. He couldn’t force such a thing, he knew, but perhaps his dancing with the McCallum girls would do more than just make Maggie jealous, but encourage his own people.
Standing near Maggie, his arms crossed over his chest, he regarded the merriment in his hall, the abundance of food he’d been able to offer his guests, and felt satisfied. Not that it was a competition with Hugh, he reminded himself.
He noticed Gregor and his sister Kathleen standing against the wall right behind the McCallums, Gregor’s dark eyes hot with anger. For a man who’d spent most of his life in the colonies, Gregor burned with a hatred that seemed irrational. Kathleen was beseeching him about something, her expression one of worry and even fear.
Fear?
Owen thought again of the fires which he’d never been able to solve. When nothing else had happened, he’d let it go, believing it was a prank that the culprit regretted. Then Maggie’s bed had been violated with a symbol of witchcraft, but connecting that to anyone had proved elusive, since Owen couldn’t actually tell anyone about the talisman. But watching Gregor, knowing how the man felt about the McCallums . . . Owen decided to remind his men to be aware of what was going on around them, rather than imbibing too freely.
He bowed in front of Maggie and offered her hishand. He saw her hesitation, the way she glanced at her brother as if he could save her. Owen ground his teeth together.
Then she slid her cool hand into his and followed him into the center of the dancers. The dancing took all their fortitude, all their breath, and he saw that though she might stand apart from a crowd, she’d found time to absorb the basics of dance. But she was making a concerted effort to be a step behind him.
“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I’m a poor dancer.”
Another exaggeration, he knew.
“Perhaps my cousins—”
“No. I’m dancing withyou, Maggie McCallum, my betrothed.”
He overpowered her, guided her into the steps as if she truly didn’t know them. She kept up with him because she had to, and soon her natural grace surfaced. He enjoyed swinging her about, feeling her hand in his, moving between couples only to meet up with each other again. Her waist was lean and lithely muscled beneath that extra padding, and he had to think about account books to keep from becoming obviously aroused.
As they circled each other, Owen was able to pitch his voice so that only she could hear.
“I wondered if you were going to insult me by refusing to dance.”
She tipped her fine nose in the air. “I almost did. I’mnot fond of dancing. But ye’re our host and ’twas my duty to—”
He stopped her with a laugh, and she eyed him, affronted.
“You did not dance with me out of duty,” he said into her ear. The lavender scent of her hair was exotic and overwhelming. “You remember what I did to you with just my hands.”
Biting her lip, she spun away from him, but the dance brought them back together.
