Page 36 of The Groom Wore Plaid
She went back to her bannock.
Curiosity got the better of him. “You’re going to leave it like that,” he said dryly.
“Very well. We were young when our parents forced us together for a meal. Ye were fourteen to my twelve. Ye didn’t even look me in the face, so angry at being kept from whatever ye’d meant to be doing that night.” She lifted her chin. “I thought ye a spoiled child.”
“I do not remember that dinner, but if you were twelve”—he glanced down at her chest—“you might have changed a bit since then.”
She gave him a faintly sarcastic glance. “So have you.”
“For the better.” He leaned toward her, inhaling the lavender scent that was a part of her.
“Aye, ye continue to delude yourself that way.” Shaking her head, she turned back to help herself from the serving bowl full of boiled broccoli and onions. He allowed her her silence as she ate, but eventually he engaged her once again, remembering her evasiveness when he’d first arrived at the castle.
“What did you do to occupy your time while I was gone?” he asked.
“I did not pine away for ye, if that’s what’s got in your head.”
“You can be a cold woman, Maggie McCallum.”
“Ye don’t need me to make ye think good of yourself. Ye’ve always had that in hand.”
Owen heard a chuckle behind him, and turned to see Harold, whose eyes still twinkled, though his lips barely curved upward. Fergus stared straight over their heads at the other dinner guests, but his mouth twitched.
“I’ll repeat my query so that we can have a civilized conversation,” Owen said. “What did you do to occupy your time?”
Maggie sighed. “I spent most of it in the library, if ye must know. Your books are varied and fascinating. I tried to find the most basic and easiest to read. I feel . . . quite ignorant.”
“When I read a new book, sometimes it takes medays or even weeks to understand the complexities of the theory proposed.”
Though she nodded, her frown didn’t recede. She only wanted what he wanted, he told himself, knowledge of the world. It was rare to find that in anyone. Most were simply concerned with their own lives and struggles and never thought beyond their own villages.
“You’ll be happy to know,” Maggie added, “that I also spent much time sewing, a very proper womanly occupation.”
He couldn’t help looking down warily at her ridiculous gown.
She just blinked her big, innocent eyes at him before saying, “Mrs. Robertson told me that you were very particular about your shirts, and I insisted that I could handle the directions well.”
“You made me shirts?” he said, barely withholding a grimace. He had them sewn professionally in London and Edinburgh.
“I did. I’ll show you this evening so that ye can wear one in the morning. I felt so very much like a wife,” she said sweetly.
That didn’t bode well . . .
LATEthat afternoon, Maggie stood at the balustrade outside the open doors of the great hall. Below her, the men prepared to compete with their swords, partof Owen’s attempt to acquaint himself with his men. They were as jolly as if on an outing in the countryside, rather than about to risk serious harm or even death by simply practicing. She’d been around the bravado of men her entire life, but sometimes it still surprised her.
She found herself watching Owen wherever he went. He wore an air of confidence, of command, that came from a lifetime of knowing he was heir to a chiefdom and an earldom. Men watched him or made way for him, showing respect for the position, and perhaps beginning to show the same to the man himself.
While the two dozen men discussed the rules of their competition, Maggie thought about the meal she’d shared with Owen. She regretted becoming so defensive that she’d confided such a personal story about her past. She’d never told anyone other than her family, had spent weeks and months, even years, wishing she’d done more to stop the soldier before men died. Such regrets seemed to be a refrain in her life, she thought bitterly.
Owen had simply listened, hadn’t passed judgment, hadn’t downplayed the event. She didn’t want to know about a thoughtful side to him, one that made him even more attractive to her.
She’d almost told him about the evil talisman, but hadn’t wanted to discuss it in such a public place. Whoever had done such a thing wanted her to be frightened, wanted to see her reaction, and she wasn’t going to give that person the satisfaction.
While Owen was hunting, Maggie had overheard Mrs. Robertson mentioning a healing woman in the village, and Maggie had made it a point to try the occasional subtle query to discover just how far this woman’s gifts extended. Kathleen, practically as newly arrived to the castle as she was, didn’t have any knowledge herself, but she’d proven useful in finding others who did. Maggie had become quite heartened to realize people associated the mystical with this woman, as well. Perhaps the healer would be the perfect person to help her experience the dream—if Maggie could find a way to discuss it without revealing too much.
Maggie had walked into the village, an ever-present gentleman following behind. In an unsettling turn of events, the old man, Martin Hepburn, had taken to following her about when he saw her. He never approached her or said anything, but wherever she went, on the green, or down a wynd between cottages, she could look behind and see him spying on her. Could he have been the one to place the talisman in her bed? He didn’t live in the castle—wouldn’t he have seemed out of place wandering the corridor of the family bedrooms? Or he could have had someone do it for him.
And then Maggie was distracted from her reverie when Owen swung a sword at his first opponent, the blade reflecting the sunlight like lightning. With powerful strokes, he drove the man backward again and again, parrying ripostes with the targe on his left arm. He lured his opponent into a deep lunge, and in theblink of an eye, disarmed him by catching hold of his wrist.
