Page 22 of The Groom Wore Plaid
“Destiny?” she shot back. “Ye believe in something as untenable as fate, but ye won’t believe when I speak the truth.”
Her fiery refusal to acquiesce both infuriated and drew him. She was upsetting all his plans, but she also presented a challenge. She was no meek maiden to do her duty blindly. Admiring her for it was ridiculous on his part. She was trying to have her own way, risking the peace that had only just begun to take hold over these last years since the original marriage contract.
But then, with his face just above her hair, he could smell the faint hint of perfume or soap—lavender, floral and mysterious. An awareness of her now unfurled inside him, blotting out everything but the alluring warmth of her, the lavender scent of her, the knowledge that he would make her his forever. It was primal, this drive to take her, to bend her to his will, to force her to surrender.
He touched her chin, lifted her face to his. Insidehim passion heated and bubbled like within a cauldron, and it took infinite control not to crush her to him, but he still took her mouth hungrily. Whether she was surprised or overpowered, she let him part her lips with his tongue, but did nothing to either meet him or to push him away. She tasted of wine and warmth, but her unresponsive mouth finally bothered him. He lifted his head and frowned down at her, remembering the girl who’d once shared innocent kisses eagerly.
“Forgive me, I’ve been told I’m not very good at that,” she said.
“And how many men have you kissed?”
“Several.” But she didn’t quite meet his eyes.
“You’ve kissedme, and I remember things differently.”
“You have a poor memory,” she said, sounding cool and remote.
“With so little practice, you’ve proven yourself a highly desirable, innocent bride, one I can mold to my own preferences.”
“As if I’m a piece of clay?” she scoffed. “Your kisses won’t persuade me to marry ye; I’ve been shown a sign that it’s not meant to be.”
“Your stubbornness isn’t helping.”
“Neither is yours,” she countered. “But ye seem to think your kisses will. I’m not the same young girl ye fooled with false sincerity. Ye dallied with me, lied to me, then abandoned me.”
“Abandoned—I was betrothed. Aye, I shouldn’thave let things go so far, but I’d never met Emily. She didn’t seem real to me.”
“She was so unreal she wasn’t worth saving,” Maggie said bitterly.
“Stop this attempt to make me think you were some kind of seer,” he shot back. “You were a girl I hurt, who lashed out and thought she was devising a way to hurt me back.”
“Because everything revolves around ye,” she scoffed. “This contract between our clans is worth saving, aye, and to swell your head, I agree that even your life is worth saving. And I’ll find a way to do all of it, with or without ye.”
Then she turned and marched back the way they’d come.
MAGGIE’Semotions, held with such difficulty, now burst forth and she found herself shaking, both with anger at his refusal to believe in her, and at the way he thought he could use her foolish attraction to his benefit. She was so busy fuming that she briefly got lost on the way back. Every torchlit stone corridor looked the same. She silently cursed herself for not paying attention when Owen had guided her to the battlements. When at last she found her room, she closed the door hard behind her and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
Kathleen arose from the window seat with a start. “Mistress McCallum, ye look flushed. I do hope that’sa good sign,” she added, smiling as if they shared a secret.
Maggie gave her a lame smile in return.
“Himself must have enjoyed looking at ye in that gown all night,” Kathleen continued, coming to help her unfasten it.
He enjoyed it too much, Maggie thought.
Kathleen seemed to study her closely. “I’ve . . . I’ve prepared ye a bath.”
Maggie gave a pleased sigh as she glanced toward the hearth, where the bathing tub was resting on a towel. “Ye read my mind, Kathleen. Thank ye so much.”
After Kathleen had helped her disrobe down to her chemise, Maggie said, “Go find your bed now. I’m used to helping myself. The tub can be removed in the morning—unless someone else needs it.”
Kathleen shook her head. “Nay, mistress, enjoy it. A good night to ye.”
Maggie followed the girl’s progress until she left the room, then sighed, relieved to be alone, without the need to put up a false face. She had work to do this night and should be using her bath to relax and ease her way into her dreams. But all she could think about was that damned kiss and how difficult it had been not to respond. From the moment she’d met Owen, he’d been able to appeal to her on a physical level, and even his lies and betrayal hadn’t changed her basic flaw: that he could manipulate her emotions and responses,that every touch, every kiss, threatened to sweep away her determination and indignation. Though it had been a struggle, she’d held her response back. Pretending not to respond to his kisses—or maybe to be a poor kisser—was a way to prove to him she’d make a terrible wife.
But tonight she had to put aside those plans and focus on her dream. After the bath, she donned her nightshift, blew out the candles, and climbed into bed. Lying back, she could see nothing but varying shades of black as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A warm glow of embers from the smoldering peat seemed to pulse. With a sigh, Maggie closed her eyes and thought back to the dream of Owen lying near death. Though it disturbed her, made her nervous and uneasy, soon she was asleep, the bath having worked its magic.
Dreams came eventually, but nothing with that vivid quality. They never took her back to the one she needed to see. She surfaced to consciousness more than once, trying to force herself back into that blood-spattered gown, but all she ended up doing was tossing and turning. She saw Owen in her dreams, but he was Owen the suitor, not Owen the bridegroom. He was kissing her, and she gave herself up to the pleasure, losing herself in him the way she refused to do when she was awake.
