Page 81 of The Groom Wore Plaid
Owen frowned as he studied the final letter.
“What is it?” Maggie asked.
“This last one was written by Kathleen, defending her brother.” Owen read silently a moment, then looked up at Maggie. “She’s insisting that their Scottish relatives not believe the worst of Gregor, that he had good reason to publicly accuse a local woman of being a witch.”
Maggie’s mouth sagged open, and suddenly she didn’t think she’d even be able to eat another bite. Her worst fear, that she’d be accused of witchcraft . . . and Gregor had done that to someone. Could he somehow know about her dreams, and that was why he was targeting her, why he might have put the talisman in her bed? Was it more than her just being a McCallum?
Owen reached across the blanket and briefly clasped her hand. “Stop. I can see every thought crossing your face. Gregor knows nothing about you.”
She nodded, knowing he was probably right, buther mouth was dry and it was proving difficult to swallow. He handed her a flask of cider and she took a deep swallow. “What else does it say?”
Owen read the words aloud, “‘Dear Gregor had good reason to believe this woman a witch. He’d courted her himself and had seen the signs.’”
“She’d probably rejected him, and this was how he repaid her,” Maggie said coldly.
Owen nodded. “A logical conclusion. ‘This evil woman rallied her family and neighbors against Owen, and his business suffered. I don’t know how much longer we can remain here.’” He looked up. “And that’s it. They must have made the decision to return to Scotland right after this letter.”
“How lucky for us,” she said sarcastically. Then she gave Owen a searching glance. “Is this enough to believe he’s the one out to frighten me away? It seems his goal is to end the peace between clans, not do me bodily injury.”
“It is enough to question him, perhaps even confine him, before bringing it up at the next assembly of gentlemen,” Owen said grimly.
Maggie sighed. “I don’t know how I’ll tell Kathleen. He’s the only brother she has left. How many siblings died?”
“Five others.”
She hugged herself. “Should I ask her about the witchcraft charge he made?”
“Why? I know it feels personal to you, but I doubteven more information on the subject will matter to us. It’s enough to know he behaved dishonorably to another woman, and came here in desperation. I imagine they thought the childhood they left behind was rosier than the reality.”
“I know she said Gregor wasn’t happy to be working for someone else.”
Owen shrugged. “If you cannot afford to buy a business, you have to save for it somehow.”
“I imagine that is the fault of the McCallums, too.”
They finished their meal mostly in awkward silence. At last Maggie wrapped the remains and stored them away while Owen tightened the saddle girths. When it came time to help her mount, he put his hands on her waist, she looked up into his eyes, and for just a moment, she wished so many things could be different, that they were just two people looking ahead to marriage, without the complications of clans and enemies both internal and external. Then she heard their two guards talking near the road, and she looked away from Owen and all of her sad what-ifs.
The journey back to the castle was uneventful, with little to discuss. Maggie mostly dwelled on sad thoughts until they were beginning the climb up the final hill before leveling into the meadow surrounding the castle. Suddenly a crack sounded, Maggie felt a whistle of air past her, and her horse reared. Controlling the animal took all her concentration, and by the time she looked up, Fergus and the other guard werealready halfway up the hill, their horses taking the incline easily. Owen was in front of her, standing in the stirrups, blocking her with his body as he tried to see into the distance. She saw no telltale sign of blood on his clothing, and tried to relax her galloping heart.
“What happened?” she cried, guiding her horse up beside him.
He pointed and ordered, “That way, hide in the copse of trees. Ride quickly. I’ll follow.”
She didn’t protest, just did as he ordered. Her back itched as if someone was aiming for it. She took a deep breath only when the shadows swallowed her up. She followed a deer path until several trees were between her and the road.
They’d been shot at. It could have been a British patrol or someone from a rival clan, but . . . she knew better. A sense of coldness moved through her, filling her, chilling her.
“Are ye all right?” Owen demanded.
She gave a start, not having even heard him approach. A villain could have come upon her and done anything. She was a fool.
“I’m fine,” she said grimly.
Owen leaned toward her and plucked at her sleeve. She stared down at the hole torn through—and the trickle of blood. Her mouth sagged a moment before she said, “I don’t even feel a sting.”
His warm hand gripped her arm, and he studied it closely. “Just grazed ye. Won’t even leave a scar.” Andthen he stared at her with eyes warm with concern and frustration.
“That person couldn’t have been aiming at me,” she said, her bravado growing fainter.
