Page 43 of The Groom Wore Plaid
Euphemia sat back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “’Tis terrible to do such things to a girl only trying to mend a feud men started centuries ago.”
“How can I marry Owen if it will mean his death?” Maggie asked bitterly. “He doesn’t believe that he’ll die; he thinks I’m only trying to deceive him. And maybe itisall a deception in my mind—I don’t even know the true ending of the dream. Can ye help me, Euphemia? I don’t want my actions to renew this terrible feud, but . . .”
“Aye, his lairdship cannot be allowed to die,” the old woman said. “He’s a good man, a good chief.”
“So ye think my dream means that hewilldie?” Maggie demanded.
“That I cannot know, lass.”
“CanIknow? Can ye think of any way I could have the dream again? I’ve tried everything I know andnothing works. I keep seeing him lying on the floor, pale and blood-spattered.” She shuddered.
Euphemia put her hands to her thighs and rose to her feet. “I ken of only one thing that might help. Come with me.”
The old woman took down a cloak from a peg near the door, and without asking questions, Maggie helped her don it. A walking stick came next, and then the two of them went outside.
Maggie froze upon seeing Martin Hepburn standing in the middle of the lane, surprise and guilt mingling on his face. She tried to step in front of Euphemia, in case he meant them harm, but using her walking stick, Euphemia pushed her aside.
“Martin, off with ye,” Euphemia ordered.
His face flushing, he turned in a dignified manner and walked back toward the center of the village.
“Why is he following me?” Maggie asked with frustration.
“Pay him no mind, lass.”
Maggie fell into step as the old woman took a dirt path that led past her house and began to slope upward. Maggie didn’t know how long she could ignore Martin and his unsettling behavior toward her. But for now, she would concentrate on Euphemia.
To her surprise, the old woman was as steady on the hillside as a goat. For half an hour they climbed a rocky path, passing the occasional curious cow thatlifted its head from chewing grass and blinked at them. The mist burned off. The glen fell away below them, and by glancing over her shoulder, she could see the towers of Castle Kinlochard looking more like a child’s toy. The wind picked up, and Maggie felt tendrils of hair escape her chignon. Euphemia moved slowly but steadily. Gradually the path curved along the mountain, and soon any sign of civilization disappeared.
The path flattened at last, where their small mountain crested. Beyond loomed more mountains, but on the windswept summit was a sight that took Maggie’s breath away. Rising up from the short scrub grass were standing stones, like jagged teeth against the cloudy sky. There were only three of them, and one was squat as if broken. They stood side by side, sentinels left by distant ancestors. With the mountains as a backdrop, they reminded her of the columns of a wild cathedral.
Maggie let out a soft “oh” of appreciation, yet barely spoke above a whisper. “Euphemia, how incredible.”
Narrow-eyed against the wind, the old woman said, “No one can say why they’re here, why they’re scattered throughout Scotland and beyond. Some say they were men turned by enchantment into stone. Others say they are but monuments to men killed in battle. Perchance they were used in rituals long since lost to time.”
“Ye don’t use them yourself?”
“I have found my gift inside me alone. Believe me,I have tried to use them, but they are not for me. Yet they bring me solace when I need to think.”
“May I . . . walk among them?”
Euphemia said nothing for a long moment, just studying her with old, shrewd eyes. “Aye,” she said slowly. “And touch them. Perhaps they can give you the strength to find your answers.”
Gooseflesh swept across Maggie’s skin as she walked toward the stones. Two more were lying on the ground, half sunk like stones in mud. The tall grass clung to her skirt as if pulling on her. The stones were taller than she, and as she moved among them, whenever their shadows fell upon her, she shivered. At last she touched one, putting both palms on it and closing her eyes.
But nothing happened to her, no vision, no sudden realization. Not that she’d expected it, since she’d only experienced her gift in dreams. But still, she was disappointed. The stone was as cold as she imagined, rough where it had been chipped away, smooth in other places.
“The stones have not given ye inspiration,” Euphemia said, coming to stand beside one and placing her hand on it with deliberate intent.
Maggie shook her head. “I cannot expect something to magically happen. I spent many years denying my dreams, forcing them away. Perhaps I made enemies of whoever gave me such a gift.”
“Why did ye deny yourself?”
“There was a woman I dreamed would drown. I did not stop it from happening, and the guilt is sometimes still a terrible burden—one I well deserve.”
“Och, ye don’t even ken if ye could have stopped it, lass,” she said kindly.
“Have ye ever changed a vision foretold to ye?”
