Page 87 of The Groom Wore Plaid
If Owen recognized the green silk gown she’d worn the night he first officially welcomed her to the castle, he hadn’t said a thing when she reached his side in the family chapel. Maggie was still shaken that he was alive and smiling at her, but she could not get over the feeling that her dream could unfold any moment. She barelynoticed the fresh flowers in vases, or the way the rare sun shone through the windows with beams of light. Owen’s gentlemen and their wives faded into the background. His sister Cat and uncle Harold were simply backdrops near the altar, waiting to stand at their sides.
Maggie could only look at Owen, at the pride that lingered in his faint smile as he took her hand from Hugh. They were in the chapel, which hadn’t been in her dream. They were honestly getting married. She even managed to relax a bit, and her voice didn’t shake too much when she repeated her vows.
And then it was done, and Owen was kissing her, and people were cheering. Maggie tried to remember that she was doing this for peace and to save lives and to give her baby a name. And she was doing it for love, even if he couldn’t reciprocate. Could her love be enough for the both of them?
The wedding feast was full of food and gaiety, poetry and songs. The more hours passed, the better Maggie felt. Her mother broke the traditional oatcake over her head for good luck. And Owen kept touching Maggie, whether it be her hand or her arm, or her thigh beneath the table. They’d barely kissed these last few days, and even she was growing more excited about the wedding night than worried. The day was almost over. Had she truly succeeded in keeping Owen safe?
Kathleen came to her at the dais. Though subdued and thinner since her brother’s confinement, she’d lost her pallor and had seemed to put on an optimistic attitude. Maggie hoped for the girl’s sake that Gregor’s punishment wouldn’t be too severe.
Now Kathleen leaned over and spoke into Maggie’s ear to be heard over the pipes. “Lady Aberfoyle—”
Though Maggie had heard the honorific through the day, it still sounded strange. At least she was Maggie McCallum, and had no need to take Owen’s clan name for her own. She would consider it, of course, if it helped keep the peace.
“There seems to be a disturbance among the weavers in the woman room,” Kathleen finished, then added apologetically, “Ye said as the new mistress of the castle, ye wished to be told such things.”
“Of course, Kathleen, thank ye. A disturbance?”
“I do believe an argument is growin’ worse.”
“Very well, I’ll go settle things right now.”
Women were weaving during her wedding banquet? It seemed very strange. Maggie didn’t bother to tell Owen she was leaving for something so small. In fact, she didn’t even see him in the crowd. But she headed up the spiral staircase to the next floor, rushing past both her and Owen’s rooms, even as she hoped she would find the argument already amicably settled. It was her wedding day, after all!
OWENnoticed Maggie had left the hall, but it wasn’t until he received the note from Kathleen that he thought anything about it. Maggie wrote that she wanted to meet him in his room in private. Did she wish to avoidthe traditional friendly escort to their bedroom? He liked his wife’s daring. And he was a little drunk, too.
His wife.Those two words had taken on a new meaning. Fergus tried to follow him upstairs, and Owen stretched two arms across the width of the corridor to stop him.
“It’s my wedding night, Fergus,” Owen patiently explained.
Even the tips of Fergus’s ears reddened. “Aye, my lord, but—”
“But nothing. My wife awaits. Stay here and enjoy yourself.”
Owen was practically whistling as he took the stairs two at a time. The corridor had grown darker, but torches were lit at intervals. He opened up his door, anticipating seeing Maggie naked in his bed, the candlelight illuminating her like a painting come to life.
But there was no light on at all, which was strange. And then something hard hit him in the head. He stumbled forward to his knees, dazed with the pain, then felt a sharp stab in his back. With instinct, he arched backward and grabbed, catching his fingers in hair as he fell. On the floor, he twisted and grabbed the assailant’s thin ankle, but a kick caught him across the jaw and he lost his hold.
As he began to lose consciousness, he swore he could smell Maggie’s perfume. The door slammed shut and he was alone—too alone. He tried to get up on his hands and knees but reeled with dizziness and the throb ofpain in his back. He didn’t know how badly he was bleeding, but he couldn’t risk simply hoping for help. He crawled the rest of the way to the door, and though it felt a mile above him, he reached the handle and managed to open it. He collapsed near the threshold, the torches weaving as he stared at them from between half-closed eyes. He wasn’t certain how long he lay there.
“Owen!”
His uncle’s rumbling voice had an urgency Owen had never heard before.
“Who did this to ye, lad?” Harold demanded.
“A . . . woman.” Owen lifted his trembling hand, and he thought he saw strands of hair caught between his fingers.
As if he was falling farther and farther away, he could hear a woman scream.
MAGGIEcouldn’t seem to stop screaming as she stood in the doorway and saw Owen lying in his own blood. She felt frozen and brittle, as if she could be broken in half. She had done everything to avoid this wedding, had thought Gregor’s capture would save Owen, and it all had led to him bleeding just as she’d foreseen. Fate had cruelly taunted her, but hadn’t allowed her to change a thing.
Someone had her by the arms and was shaking her, but she stared past at Owen on the floor, face white as death, eyelids fluttering.
“Fergus, send for the physician!” Harold shouted past her.
He let her alone then, and she staggered forward and dropped to her knees beside Owen. She pulled him across her lap, straining, and then Harold was helping her.
“Put your hands on the wound,” she cried. “Stop the bleeding!”
