Page 6 of The Groom Wore Plaid
Owen exhaled swiftly. “Before I find my bed, tell me what has happened since I’ve been gone.”
They spoke for another hour before Owen said good night and departed, after insisting Fergus find his own bed. Another level up in the towerhouse, Owen strode down the hall, passing the chamber Maggie had been assigned without slowing down—until he heard a high, frightened, piercing cry from within.
MAGGIEstruggled to return to consciousness, the weight of hands holding her down. She felt mindless with fear at the vividness of the dream, for it had been years since one stole so completely into her mind and soul. She was locked in the terror and reality of Owen lying bloody and near death on their wedding day.
“Maggie! Maggie, lass, wake up.”
She thrashed to escape, to stay in the dream and find out the truth of what might happen to him, to know ifbeing married to her meant his death, but the insistent voice kept calling to her, and large hands seemed to drag her from the depths of a deep pool.
She opened her eyes wide and saw Owen, and the night shadows cast by the moon looked like blood upon his face.
She screamed again, then grabbed ahold of his coat and pulled him even closer. “Are you well? There’s so much blood!” She spread his coat, then felt frantically across his chest, looking for the hot, sticky wetness. Nothing except the strong beat of his heart. She touched his stubbled face, and the back of her hand became a part of the mottled shadows, not blood.
He took both her hands in his and spoke firmly. “Maggie, it was a nightmare. You’re awake now.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. He was too close, hovering over her, powerful and intimidating. She yanked away from him and sat up, leaning back into the headboard of the four-poster and pulling the counterpane to her chin as if for protection from the evil she’d just witnessed. She couldn’t forget the image of his bloody face, and she covered her eyes and moaned.
“Are you well?” he asked. “Should I fetch a doctor?”
She shuddered. His cultured voice had lost the Gaelic rhythm and accent of their people, making him seem even more a stranger.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Is there water in the pitcher? I’m parched.”
He went to pour her a glass, and it was a relief to have him not staring at her. She had to get herself under control, to push the dream away—for now. Because certainly, she would have no choice but to dissect it when she was alone.
Owen brought her the water, and to her dismay, she was shaking, and had to hold the glass with both hands. She took a long drink, then let it rest in her lap while she willed herself to cease trembling.
His brows were lowered in a frown of concern. “Are you truly well?”
“’Twas just a nightmare,” she said, boldly meeting his eyes and daring him to disagree.
She hadn’t had a vivid dream portending the future in ten long years. After the shock of Emily’s death and Owen’s derisive disbelief, she hadn’t ever wanted to experience such a dream again. The few times she’d felt one become too real, she’d learned to wake up until, gradually she’d molded herself into a normal woman who faced each day hopeful for the future, unaware of how things would truly turn out. She no longer had fears that people would find out and call her a witch or keep their children away from her. Yet . . . she never felt whole, but as if a part of her was missing.
But tonight a dream had swept over her like an ocean wave, more powerful for the long restraint, battering her emotions against the crumbling rocks of stability she’d erected to protect herself. Seeing Owen near death . . . would he really die?
His derision and Emily’s death had forced her to change everything about herself. The happy girl who’d known there were exciting mysteries in the world had been replaced by a woman who wanted to forget such things existed.
But a dream had happened again, and she was back to being the outsider. She had no one to confide in, because she’d insisted Hugh and Riona needed to celebrate their marriage, not accompany her to the Duff stronghold like she was a child. Maggie had probably hurt her mother by making her stay behind, too.
“Are you feeling better?” Owen asked, his voice low and cool.
Maggie jerked and looked up at him. Her anger toward him had never dissipated after how he’d caused her to hate a part of herself and then forgot she existed. But she nodded her answer to his question.
“You don’t look better.”
He went to the hearth and, using a taper, lit several candles about the room, including the one at her bedside. The shadows receded, making her feel a little calmer, and giving her a clearer view of him. It had still been a shock to see how much Owen had changed in ten years—and yet how little, as well. Had she expected him to grow ugly and deformed? She’d been almost angry enough to wish for it. His face was still lean and handsome, with prominent cheekbones, and a bold square jaw. His light brown hair was drawn back into a queue rather than hidden beneath a wig.There was a maturity to him now, a heaviness to his shoulders and upper body that said he had not been simply dancing and paying court to ladies so far away in London all these years. But it wasn’t just his physical appearance that still consumed her—it was his very presence, an attraction that she hadn’t imagined could still exist after everything he’d done—yet it seemed to have grown stronger through the passage of time.
So when he’d offered to wed her only moments after seeing each other again . . . she’d been so stunned and affronted and full of a dawning futility that she couldn’t decide which one she was supposed to feel.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked. “Was my scream so very loud?”
“Yes, it was.” He rocked back on his heels and considered her. “I was passing by on my way to bed when I heard you. I thought you were being attacked.”
“So you rushed in to save me,” she said coolly.
With a shrug, he leaned against the bedpost, arms folded across his chest in a way that seemed so masculine, so aware of himself and her as a couple who were supposed to marry.
She shuddered at the sudden memory of herself in her bridal gown with his blood spattered across it.
