Page 88 of The Groom Wore Plaid
As Harold did as she commanded, she rocked Owen as his head bobbed lifelessly on her shoulder, his arms trailing like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
“Don’t die,” she whispered into his hair, pressing kisses there, too. “Don’t die, please don’t die.”
And then people rushed into the room and pulled Owen away from her. She screamed at the loss, needing to be with him if it was his final moment. But Harold had her again, holding her by the arm so tightly she felt bruised.
“The physician will see to him,” he said sternly.
Maggie blinked up at him. “Physician—? There isn’t one in the castle. Euphemia—”
“Owen sent for him from Edinburgh, wanted him here for the ceremony, though I didn’t know why.” Gruffly, he added, “Thank God.”
Maggie stared at Owen lying unconscious on his stomach, Fergus helping the physician cut the garments from Owen’s back. Owen had sent for the physician because of her dream, as if he honestly believedher. She didn’t realize she was crying until Harold pressed a handkerchief into her hand.
“Ye shouldn’t be here, lass,” he said.
“I won’t leave him.”
He couldn’t die—God wouldn’t allow him to die, not when Owen had just proven that he trusted her.
She and Harold stood arm-in-arm for a moment, watching, and Harold spoke thickly, “I couldn’t find the words to tell him how impressed I was about his studies, how seriously he took them, how he wanted to help his clan.”
“Ye can tell him when he wakes up,” Maggie insisted.
Fergus was lighting candles and lanterns all about the room. Harold suddenly left her and bent to something on the floor. Maggie couldn’t look, worried the pool of darkening blood would make her even more nauseous than she’d been these last few mornings with their babe.
Their babe.
Harold rose slowly to his feet, then turned a ferocious look on Maggie, holding out items in his hand. “This is a McCallum dirk. I recognize the pattern on the hilt.”
She stared at it, blinking. “I—I—” Why would a member of her clan want her husband dead? It didn’t make sense.
“And this letter. ’Tis from your own hand,” Harold accused.
His expression grew so ugly she recoiled. “My hand? Let me see it.”
He wouldn’t let her hold it, as if she might rip it to pieces. She felt cold and prickly inside, like something terrible was beginning to happen. But she forced herself to study the letter, then raised her head and said with conviction. “I didn’t write that.”
Harold scoffed without words at her protest, their shared worry for Owen gone as he looked at her with disdain.
Someone had forged her writing before, to scare her. This time it implicated her. But Gregor was still confined—her brother had checked just before the wedding. Had Gregor been innocent all along, with the true villain waiting for them to relax their guard? Or was there a second conspirator?
“Why would I lure Owen here to hurt him?” she demanded, knowing her future depended on convincing the Duff war chief of her innocence. “I love him, I married him.”
“Ye’re a McCallumforcedto marry him,” Harold responded coldly. “Owen told me about your reluctance—he even laughed about it, as if he thought your protests amusing.”
She flinched, but knew Owen might have displayed such pride when she first refused to marry him.
“And what is this?” Harold demanded.
Without releasing her arm, he bent and picked up something that had been next to the puddle of blood.He held it up, and Maggie could see a broken hair comb. Recognizing it, she felt for the one in her hair, but it was gone.
“Is it yours?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. If it is, I was here with Owen—it could have fallen off as I lifted him so you could see to his back.”
Harold seemed to grind his teeth together, but he said nothing more. She met his gaze defiantly, with conviction.
He pushed her toward Fergus. “Take her to her chamber and keep her there.”
