Page 2 of The Groom Wore Plaid
And then he cupped her head and brought her down for a kiss. His lips were cool from the water, yet softer than she imagined a man’s would be. Such boldness made her dizzy—or was it simply nearness to Owen? Her hand still on his chest, she lifted her head and stared down at him uncertainly, but he only brought their mouths together again. He parted his lips, and the shock of his tongue sliding between hers made her start with surprise and wonder. Her cool, wet skin seemed to heat, the warmth spreading out from her mouth and down her chest. Her trembling was no longer from the cold, but she didn’t know why her limbs seemed so restless. She wanted to be touched—needed it with a desperation new to her. But she was afraid to do more than brace herself againsthis chest as he explored her mouth and taught her to explore his.
The world shifted as he rolled her onto her back. It was his turn to rise above her, his intense face framed by blue sky and towering autumn-hued trees. She had no time to think as he kissed her again and began to touch her. His hand on her body was a hot, welcome presence, and with each touch she felt more and more as if she couldn’t lie still. His caresses journeyed across her wet clothes from her hip and upward. And when at last he touched her breast, pushed upward by her stays, she moaned against his lips and shuddered with each delicate strum across her nipple, as if he made her an instrument of desire.
Their shared world of passion was suddenly overwhelming, and she pushed against him before it was too late to stop. Owen lifted his head and stared down at her, his breathing as erratic as hers.
“We cannot do this,” she said with a trembling voice. Not that she regretted any of it, she realized, staring at his mouth and wishing to feel again the pleasure he’d given her.
Owen was looking at her mouth, too, and he practically growled, “I knew ye’d find out. Forgive me. I didn’t ken how to tell ye.”
“Find out what?” she demanded.
He grimaced.
“Owen Duff, ye have to tell me now.”
“My father betrothed me some years ago to the daughter of a Lowland clan. Even now, they journey here for us to meet.”
The last warmth from their kiss deserted Maggie. Shivering, she sat up and scooted away from him, covering her chest as if it was bared to him.
“Why did ye never tell me this?” she demanded. She’d let herself get lost in the fairy tale of their friendship, and the romance she’d thought had been blossoming. Now she knew she was simply a fool.
Owen tucked his hair back into the queue, as if he needed something to do with his hands. He didn’t look at her, and his face was as red as hers felt, but she didn’t feel any sympathy for him.
His words came out slowly at first, before tumbling over each other as fast as the rippling water behind him. “At first, I thought we were simply friends, and to know ye were a McCallum made it daring. But the need to kiss ye has been dominating my thoughts more and more.”
He met her gaze at last, and she felt like she’d never forget the heat she saw there, the passion he was showing just for her. But he was betrothed, and a lump rose high up into her throat, shutting off any words.
She scrambled to her feet and backed away from him before she would embarrass herself more by crying. “I—I have to go.”
“Let me walk ye back,” Owen said.
He didn’t try to change her mind, or promise to end the betrothal. The first tear fell down her cheek and she angrily wiped it away.
She held up a hand. “Nay, I—I don’t want to see ye again, Owen.”
His expression twisted with pain, and she knew she’d hurt him. She didn’t trust easily, not with a drunkard for a father, and she felt the worst kind of fool for trusting a stranger—a Duff. They’d exchanged so much about their lives these last few weeks, but not the most important detail of all, at least in a woman’s eyes.
She barely remembered the journey home, for she ran part of it, and even tripped on her skirts and bruised and bloodied her palms. She avoided supper with her mother by claiming a headache, then curled up in her bed and cried like she hadn’t allowed herself to all day. Her last conscious thought was how foolish she’d been. She wasn’t sure if she was crying over the loss of the friendship more than a romance, because she knew she couldn’t trust him again.
As if the floodgate of her emotions had opened up a deeper place inside her, she dreamed that night, one of the vivid dreams that felt so real to her. She saw Owen, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, there was another girl at his side, red-haired and freckled and lovely. They were being presented to each other. Light reflected strangely off a ring, and it seemed to pierce Maggie’s eyes as she looked at it.
Then the scene disappeared and Maggie saw theredhead again, staring at her with intent. But the girl’s face was waxen, her clothing soaked, and water puddled around her.
Maggie awoke with a start, gasping for breath. Her whole body shuddered with chills, as if she, too, were soaked and freezing. She knew what the dream predicted—Owen’s betrothed would drown. Covering her face, Maggie rocked in the bed, telling herself she was being ridiculous—but this was not the first time she’d dreamed of a death before it happened. The first time, she’d been uncertain and afraid, and had watched in horror as it had all come true. This time, this time she wouldn’t bury the blatant warning.
After a restless night, she slipped out of their flat at dawn and went outside. She couldn’t knock on Owen’s door, but she could wait for him, and by mid-morning, he appeared, thankfully alone. She caught up with him by the end of the block.
“Owen!”
He turned around with a start and simply stared at her, his expression impassive, not glad, yet not uncomfortable either. She was so confused that she didn’t know what she wanted him to feel. Maybe sorrow, because that was what she felt.
She twisted her hands together as she faced him, not having realized how difficult it would be to reveal her secret, to risk his derision, or even his pity. She almost turned away—until she remembered the dream girl’s waxen face and aggrieved eyes.
“I—I didn’t want to approach you,” she said, “after—after everything that happened yesterday.”
He gave her a formal nod as if they were strangers. “I don’t blame ye. I didn’t think to tell ye a truth that still doesn’t seem real to me.”
“What is her name?”
