Page 7 of The Groom Wore Plaid
Owen frowned. “You’re shaking with the cold. There has to be another blanket here somewhere.” He bent over one of the chests that lined the wall.
“Nay, ’tis all right—”
But he ignored her, spreading a wool blanket acrossthe counterpane. He was leaning over her, and when he met her gaze, it was as if he touched her.
“Better?” he asked, his voice suddenly gone husky.
“Aye,” she answered quickly, wishing he’d move away.
She did feel warmer. Perhaps it was a blush, or another memory of his kiss and his hands bringing her body to life before she’d made him stop that day in the grass. Since then there were lonely nights when her guard was down and she wished she’d have dared to go farther with him, just to know what it felt like to be with a man. Her body aching with memories, it had been difficult to remember that he’d derided her for telling him the truth about her dreams, told her she acted out of jealousy. He hadn’t trusted her; she couldn’t let an inconvenient attraction make her forget what he really thought of her.
And now she was betrothed to him to end the feud that had cost so many lives—and he might meet his death if they went through with the wedding.
“This is the first time we’ve been alone since the betrothal,” Owen said.
The calmness in his voice suddenly seemed for show, as if there were deep things beneath the surface. She stopped breathing, caught in the smoldering intensity of his brown eyes. She’d forgotten their power over her—perhaps deliberately forgotten in her anger—but now those eyes forced her to remember the newness of passion, the excitement of sharing it.But they’d been little more than children, with no understanding of the world and the responsibilities they owed their clans.
Huskily, Owen said, “There is much we should discuss.”
She gathered her wits and spoke coolly. “Ye didn’t discuss it with me when it mattered. Ye didn’t ask for my hand. Ye said ye’d have me to satisfy the contract, an easy replacement, like a spare wheel to fit on a cart. Not very flattering. Ye’ve become a practical man, I can see.”
“Did you expect to be wooed in such a tense moment?” he asked with faint sarcasm.
“Ye mean since you and my brother were about to fight to the death without having a rational discussion. Ye conveniently left that out with your uncle.”
Owen moved as if to sit upon the bed.
“Nay, I’ll not be having that,” she said sharply. “If someone else heard my scream and comes in to find ye so close . . .”
“They could thinkIwas the reason you screamed, and then force me to marry you,” he said dryly.
“Very funny,” she said with her own sarcasm, then frowned. “Just go, Owen. I’m exhausted, and surely ye must be, too.”
He leaned over her, and she stiffened when he touched the side of her face. His hand was warm, when she felt so very cold.
“We could have a decent marriage, Maggie. I’ll make you glad you’re mine.”
Her mouth dropped open at his arrogance, but he didn’t wait around for her response. After he closed the door behind him, she jumped out of the bed and ran to press her ear against it. She heard his footsteps receding down the hall.
Blankly, she stared about at the wainscoted walls with the beautiful landscapes, which the McCallums had seldom been able to afford. Everywhere in this manor was proof that the Duffs were wealthy, from the elegant, upholstered furniture to the silver candlesticks on the mantel. Owen was an earl, with a title and estates, even several in England. And now she was betrothed to him.
At the thought of marriage, she began to relive the dream and then stopped herself. She indulged in a moment of self-pity, wondering why she’d been cursed with something some might call a gift, when she knew it to be anything but. Once upon a time, she’d thought it made her different, special—but Owen had showed her otherwise.
She’d never felt so completely alone, though a castle full of people surrounded her. But they were Duffs, and her father’s drunken railing against his enemy clan echoed through her memory. She remembered stories of warfare across centuries, castle raids, cattle thieving, fires set in stables and cottages alike. Over a hundred years before, the McCallum and his wife were killed when accepting the hospitality of the Duff. But since she hadn’t been able to trust her father, somepart of her had always put these stories aside and been intrigued by the hated enemies of her clan—which explained her forbidden fascination with Owen ten years before.
She might be alone, but she could not be a coward. At last, she had to let the dream take hold of her mind again, and she watched in growing horror as the brief scene unfolded. All she could see was herself rushing to Owen’s side, his face pale, blood pooling beneath him, her own gown stained as she grabbed and held him, screaming. What was terrible and frustrating was that she had no idea what had led to such a tragedy. Try as she might, nothing else came to her, no glimpse of a clue she’d missed. It was just her and Owen in a dark room, and his imminent death.
She paced for long hours, too wide awake to sleep. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do with the information fate had granted her. Her family, her entire clan, was dependent on her to make this marriage work, or they would lose the land they cherished, and be unable to produce the whisky that helped them survive the lean years. Not to mention the resumption of a feud that had caused too many deaths over the centuries.
But how could she marry Owen if it would cost him his life? Yet she wasn’t even certain hewoulddie, and confusion and fear chased each other around in her mind.
She was simply going to have to tell him the truth.
She started second-guessing herself almost immediately, because she well remembered his mocking disbelief the last time she’d told him about her dream. But she couldn’t tell him that she wouldn’t marry without offering a plausible reason. She would be honest and convince him that there had to be another way to satisfy the contract, because she wasn’t going to marry him and be responsible for his death.
At last she crawled back into bed and huddled there. Her eyes wouldn’t close, and at dawn she gave up and went to sit in the window seat, watching the courtyard as it came to life.
Feeling like she needed to be close to those she loved, she sat down at the delicate writing desk and began to compose a letter to her family. She wrote it to Hugh, knowing he’d share it with the others. She told superficial stories of her first view of the castle, of how polite and considerate Owen had been, and how the castle residents seemed friendly. Silently, she wondered how friendly they’d be if they knew she dreamed things that came true.
