Page 89 of The Groom Wore Plaid
“I’m not leaving Owen,” she cried, ducking Fergus and stepping closer to the bed. “You can watch over me, Fergus, but I can’t leave him. I won’t leave him.” Her voice broke.
The physician eyed her briefly, then returned to his work with a needle, while Mrs. Robertson dabbed at the blood to keep the wound visible. Maggie hadn’t even seen the woman enter, but at least she gave Maggie a reassuring look, as if now that Maggie had won her good regard, she could not so easily lose it.
Maggie turned back to Harold. “Do ye not think it suspicious that all this time, someone seemed determined to hurt me, that they even shot at me—I didn’t shoot myself!—and now I’m suddenly a suspect in Owen’s attack?”
“Ye could have accomplices,” Harold said woodenly. “And perhaps your accomplice was trying toshoot Owen, not you. It will all be discussed when he awakens.”
“And he’ll confirm I’m telling the truth,” she insisted.
Fergus stood beside her, obviously hesitant to touch her.
Harold let out a breath. “Very well, remain here, and Fergus, make sure she stays in that chair.” He pointed to one beside the bed.
Maggie obediently sat down in it.
“I’m going to see to the McCallums,” Harold told Fergus.
“What do you mean?” Maggie started to rise, but Fergus put a hand on her shoulder and kept her there.
“I’m going to put your family under guard in their rooms—for their own protection,” Harold pointed out. “If people believe ye did this—”
“And they only will if ye insist on telling them such a ridiculous story,” Maggie said.
“Regardless, when people are angry and afraid, they turn on those they’ve long regarded as the enemy.”
“Are ye speaking of your own actions?” she asked coldly.
Harold eyed her, then spoke more evenly. “I’m following the clues, the McCallum dirk, the letter in your own hand—”
“It’s not my hand,” she insisted.
“People could well believe that now that ye have Owen’s trust and his money, you, a McCallum, wanthim dead. And before he lost consciousness, Owen said his assailant was a woman.”
“He did?” Maggie said in surprise. “Ye didn’t say that before.” A woman?
Then Owen groaned, and she couldn’t think about anything else. She leaned forward to take his hand, where it hung off the end of the bed. “Doctor?” she said tentatively.
The older man straightened from where he’d been washing his hands in a basin. He had kind eyes above a stern gray beard.
“I don’t believe the dirk penetrated any major organs,” the physician said, glancing from her to Harold. “If the wound doesn’t inflame, he should live.”
Maggie let out a shaky breath and said quietly to Owen, “Did ye hear that? Ye’re going to live. But ye’ve got to fight, Owen. Ye have to fight for our babe.”
She didn’t know if he heard her; he didn’t squeeze her hand, but she wanted to believe that his fingers moved just a little within hers. And with this small bit of hope, she began to think about who could have done this.
OWENslowly opened his eyes, the throbbing of his head inducing nausea. He closed his eyes to control himself, then tried again. The first face he saw was Maggie’s, relaxed in sleep but for the frown line between her eyes. She slumped on a chair, her hand resting on the bed next to him. Maggie. His wife.
He was awake, he was alive, and lying on his stomach. He mentally moved through the aches in his body, knowing his head hurt, and then lower, where pain stabbed him in the back when he tried to turn.
And then he remembered actually being stabbed.
“Owen, lad?”
At his uncle’s voice, Maggie jerked upright, her gaze going right to Owen. He watched hope suffuse her expression, saw tears of gladness shine in her eyes.
“Owen, oh, Owen,” she whispered, reaching to touch his forehead.
To Owen’s surprise, Fergus grabbed her arm and pulled it away. He frowned up at his bodyguard. “What is going on?” he demanded, his voice a croak. He cleared his throat. “Fergus, release your countess.”
