Page 12 of The Groom Wore Plaid
Brave? Maggie thought. Nay, it was with a desperation born of having no other choices. Owen seemed contemplative as he continued to eat. She knew he didn’t think she was brave—he thought she was being ridiculous holding on to her anger. If only he knew how brave she was trying to be right now, holding herself together when it looked as if her uncertain future was even more complicated than he knew.
Not that he’d think anything to do with her dreams was brave, only foolish or childish. With that attitude, how was she possibly going to make him believe her?
But Cat was still speaking. “What is hardest for me to understand about this whole”—she waved a handto encompass them both—“dilemma is that my own father tried to break the contract he’d agreed to. It was such a dishonorable thing to do. He—he didn’t care that Riona might be kidnapped, that our clans could end up at war again. I think . . . I think the strain of his actions led to his death.”
“You give him too much credit,” Owen scoffed. “He chose to behave dishonorably, and I’m not all that certain it weighed on his conscience.”
Cat looked past Maggie at her brother. “Owen, you didn’t have the kind of relationship where you saw a softer side to him. I, on the other hand—”
“—was his favorite.”
Though Owen seemed to speak without amusement, he must be teasing, for as Maggie looked from one to the other, Cat smiled. Then the woman’s eyes took on a sheen. However mixed Cat’s feelings were in regards to the earl, he’d still been her father, and he’d died of a fever less than a month before.
“So tell me about Hugh,” Cat said, obviously rallying herself to appear happy. “He’s married to my cousin now, so I want to know everything about him.”
“I don’t exactly know what to say. He’s my older brother, and has spent his life taking care of me. He’s a loyal man, even went off at eighteen to fight the British and the Scottish Hanoverians during the Fifteen.”
Cat suddenly shot a concerned gaze at her brother. Owen continued to eat at a measured pace, but Maggie sensed a new tension between them. Though shewasn’t going to ask, unwelcome curiosity kept her brain calculating. Owen had been only sixteen during the Jacobite uprising of 1715, hardly of age to fight. Maggie already knew the Duffs weren’t Royalists like the Campbells and other clans, so they must have sent men into battle on the same side as the McCallums. She imagined a sixteen-year-old boy would be upset to be left behind. Nay, she wasn’t going to ask.
For several minutes, they all ate in silence. Cat wanted to be her sister, and liking the woman only made Maggie’s muddled thoughts even more confused. How appalled would Cat be if Maggie didn’t prevent Owen’s death when she had the chance?
As if she’d ever been able to prevent any of her dreams from coming true, Maggie thought. But she reminded herself that this sort of dream was different, that she hadn’t married Owen yet—if only she could make him believe the truth.
Time to change the subject. How better than to address the countess head-on, force her to acknowledge Maggie and see what her husband’s manipulations had wrought? Maggie said, “Lady Aberfoyle, thank ye for assigning a maid to me. Kathleen is very cheerful and efficient.”
“Kathleen?” Lady Aberfoyle narrowed her eyes.
“You might not remember Kathleen Duff and her brother Gregor,” Owen said. “They’re distant cousins whose parents took them to live in the colonies over twenty years ago. Times were hard there for them, andthey’ve returned home to start over. Gregor is working in the smithy.”
“Kathleen and Gregor,” Lady Aberfoyle mused, as if concentrating on the names. “I do not remember their story. But then after all, seldom did members ofourclan have to escape poverty for a dangerous journey to the colonies.”
Maggie barely held on to a pleasant expression when the woman was proving that nobility did not mean civility or manners. Maggie could have said she’d never heard of any ofherclan departing for the colonies, but she’d only be rising to the countess’s bait. Owen gave his mother a warning frown on Maggie’s behalf.
He seemed protective of Maggie, but what did that matter? The proof would be how he handled her confession.
CHAPTER3
After dinner, Maggie slipped away from the great hall, and then the towerhouse. She just needed to clear her head and breathe fresh air and not have any expectations. She would wait until the evening to have a private conversation with Owen.
She wandered from workshops to stables to barracks, and everywhere she went, strangers stared at her. Everyone knew she was a McCallum, and certainly, they would be curious about her. Only a few crossed themselves if they thought she wasn’t looking, frightened by her eyes. Though she was here to stop a feud, two centuries’ worth of bitterness weren’t going to end immediately.
As she walked past the smithy, she could feel the heat of the fire the blacksmiths worked over all day long. She paused near the wide entrance and watched as a burly, aproned man, his face red and perspiring, used tongs to hold a glowing piece of metal in the fire.
“Eh, you, what are ye doin’?”
Startled, Maggie turned to find another man bearing down on her. He, too, wore an apron over his barrel chest, and his curly hair was almost as red as his perspiring face.
“I’m simply watching,” she said, taking a step away from the door.
“Ye could get hurt lingerin’ here,” he said. He came to a stop and eyed her suspiciously. “I’ve not seen ye before.”
“I’m Maggie McCallum,” she said, using her surname deliberately. She wasn’t going to hide who she was.
His brows lowered. “McCallum. Ye’re to marry Himself.”
He brazenly looked down her body with skepticism.
“Ye’re being very rude,” she said.
