Page 30 of The Groom Wore Plaid
Too often she felt like a coward for not sacrificing her future and her freedom for her clan, as her brother had tried to do. Hugh would have died for their clan, but she couldn’t be the one to condemn Owen to death.
There was the dream, always there was the dream, the one that was still so vivid she could hear the slowing of Owen’s heart beneath her ear after she’d thrown herself on his chest. She shuddered and hugged herself, trying to focus on the blooming loveliness of a rose climbing a trellis, but that was as red as Owen’s dream blood.
What was she supposed to choose? Honor for her clan by trying to marry a man who would die if she did so?
She wasn’t giving up her fight against Owen’s fate. If she couldn’t have the dream by thinking about it, there had to be another way to trigger it. She’d once heard of a woman who’d lived in Inverness a hundred years before who saw visions through a hole in a special rock. Could Maggie find some sort of talisman to bring on her dreams?
Feeling foolish, she examined the ground in the tiny garden, but it was well maintained, with no stray rocks. She hurried to the bridge that crossed the moat, and found narrow stone stairs that led down to the inner shore of the moat itself. Bent over, she searched for rocks, knowing how odd it would be to find one with a hole in it. There were mossy and wet, and the smell of swampy vegetation wrinkled her nose. She passed beneath the stone arch of the bridge, where shade blocked out the cloudy sky. When she spotted a rock with a hole in it, she felt utterly foolish as she held it up to her eye for a long moment. Of course nothing happened. She didn’t see visions when she was awake.
Overhead she could hear the faint rumble of footsteps, but she ignored it, still squinting through the rock, until she heard a voice.
“She came this way,” said a man gruffly.
Maggie straightened and lowered the rock as she recognized the voice. It was Kathleen’s brother, Gregor. She stood still as more than one voice floated down from above.
But it was Gregor who spoke the loudest. “Don’t ye see? The McCallum wench has driven away Lady Aberfoyle.”
Driven away? Maggie thought with indignation. Who would believe that?
But she couldn’t hear a response, only the murmur of voices. Was no one standing up for her, standing up for peace? Did they want an endless war where their children might die?
“Surely ye see the way she has Himself all twisted up,” Gregor scoffed. “How is that good for anybody?”
She wanted to remind everyone that Gregor’s family had fled rather than stay and support the clan. But that would only make Gregor hate her more.
And if he somehow found out about her ability to see the future . . .
Worried she wouldn’t be able to control her temper, she remained beneath the bridge until she heard them all leave. She wouldn’t run to Owen like a child complaining about bullies. But Gregor made her feel . . . nervous, ill-at-ease, and she wasn’t used to it. She’d taken for granted being the daughter of a chief. Though her father hadn’t shown any sort of love, at least she’d been accepted by everyone else in the clan, even whenher mother had kept her away and safe in Edinburgh much of the time.
Now she was alone, looked upon with suspicion—by everyone including Owen, who refused to trust her.
OWENstood beside his uncle near the charred shell of the abandoned cottage. It rose alone on a bleak hillside, surrounded by pastures for cattle. Once it would have been a welcoming sign of light and warmth for a clansman, but now its roof had caved, the stone was stained with soot, and black smoke continued to rise desultorily into the sky. In the distance, his gentlemen were walking the hills and woodlands, searching for anything that would give them clues as to what had happened.
Harold stood with his hands behind his broad back, his expression impassive.
“And no one saw anything,” Owen said grimly.
Harold arched a brow. “I said that, aye.”
“I know, but I’m frustrated. At least last time someone saw a man running from the burning byre. But I guess this remote cottage had been abandoned for a reason, being so far away from the village.”
“No real reason. Old Abercromby and his missus never had bairns. The missus only died a few months ago, years after her husband, and it’s been waiting ever since.”
Owen snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. Itwas on the list of cottages to be refurbished before a new couple moved in.”
Harold nodded. “It’ll take even more work now.”
They were silent a long moment. Owen kept hoping one of his men would give a shout of discovery, but it didn’t happen.
“I thought the first fire was a prank that got out of hand,” Owen said.
Harold shrugged.
“But twice? This has to be deliberate. It’s not as if a lightning storm had happened in the night. Could this brigand be angry that I’m the chief?”
“’Tis not as if ye were elected from a group of eligible men. The clan has always known ye’d inherit the title and the chiefdom.”
“He could have been waiting until I inherited to vent his anger, but it seems unlikely. If it’s because of the peace with the McCallums, that’s been an ongoing process for over twenty years. Surely there would have been an outcry before now.”
