Page 69 of The Groom Wore Plaid
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.
CHAPTER15
The 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 matteredwas 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.
