The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings (15 page)

Shaking her head, Maggie said, “They’ll all be drinking their whisky in celebration tonight.”

The housekeeper gave her a disapproving stare. “They’ll be hungry. I’ll see to their feast.”

“Thank ye, Mrs. Robertson,” Maggie said, striving to sound polite when she was irritated. Maggie was a competent woman—she hated appearing negligent to anyone, as if she didn’t know that exhausted men needed to eat. But it was necessary to keep up the appearance of making Owen a terrible wife.

The old woman nodded and went back inside. Maggie looked at the open doors for a long minute as other servants, talking by twos and threes, meandered inside.

“I think she’ll like ye eventually,” Kathleen said with encouragement.

Maggie’s stomach was tight with the knowledge that it would be better if Mrs. Robertson never liked her. Perhaps the shirts Maggie had made for Owen would help ensure that.

C
HAPTER
9

O
wen stood in the center of his clan, his gentlemen, and felt tired but satisfied. Men who’d seemed leery of him a sennight ago now stood around him dissecting the matches that had been held, analyzing the techniques and who could improve. Though he’d lost, Owen felt the results well worth losing to a man twenty years his elder. His uncle’s skill and knowledge had been legendary, and it was good to see he still deserved the title of war chief.

Much as he told himself he’d been competing with his men to better reacquaint himself to them, it had the further bonus of invigorating him in a way he hadn’t imagined. He’d thought of himself as a man of science, elegant and urbane. But displaying his physical prowess had made him feel like a warrior, like a man who could defend his own—defend his woman.

And to improve his mood even more, he’d received word from the man he’d sent to investigate the McCallum
finances. They were not a wealthy clan, but they were not in debt either. Though the late chief might have been a drunkard, he had had competent lawyers and factors representing him. Merchants and bankers alike respected the clan and did business with them. Hugh did not need to conspire against Owen for financial reasons, it seemed. But Hugh’s behavior as the new chief was still relatively untested. What if their finances were good because they’d found other uses for Maggie’s dowry, and she and her brother were too proud to admit it?

He glanced up at the entry to the great hall, at the landing at the top of the stairs. Maggie still stood there, and for a moment, it was as if they were but steps apart, so much did he feel compelled by her gaze. But was he simply showing off for her? Could a display of muscle truly win over a woman who invented stories when things didn’t go her way?

But he couldn’t keep being angry with her, not and see her wedded and bedded. She’d gone beyond being just his duty to being a challenge. Perhaps his physicality could be used as a potent weapon against her. He wanted to touch her all the time—why hold back? Surely it would be a better weapon in his battle to save their clans by marrying.

So that evening at supper, he kept his chair close to hers, let his knee rest against hers, brushed her hand when they reached for their silverware. Maggie gave him irritated glances, but she was a little too flushed
and bright-eyed to make him believe she was unresponsive. She leaned farther and farther over that ridiculous law book she was reading, as if she could bury herself in the words. He kept this up throughout the meal, until she tried her own distraction.

“Remember that I have the shirts I sewed for ye.”

“Then I’ll come to your bedroom right now and try them on.”

“What?”

Her eyes widened with panic, and it was a fine sight.

“But I didn’t finish my supper,” she insisted.

He pushed back his chair, and took her hand.

“But—”

He didn’t let her take up the law book she made a lunge for, only pulled her from the room, leaving behind the amused chuckles of his clan.

In her room, she faced him with her hands on her hips. “That was uncomfortable for me. Your people are probably appalled at your behavior.”

“They think I’m smitten.”

“A lie if I ever heard one,” she scoffed.

“Is it?” He took a step toward her and she didn’t back down, only lifted her chin as if to dare him.

And he was tempted. But he wanted her off balance, kept wondering about his methods.

“Did you enjoy the sword fighting?” he asked.

She blinked in confusion, but rallied.

“You gave a tolerable response to your uncle’s obvious superiority.”

He felt the rare urge to laugh, but didn’t give in to it.

“I train often, even in London,” he told her. He moved smoothly by her and went to the dressing table, where her brush and hand mirror awaited. There were tiny bottles of women’s things, and he touched them one at a time, noticing over his shoulder that she’d fisted her hands. “There are many men who’ll train in the sport, even if they have to fight a Scot. I see that the Sassenach weren’t as good for my training as facing a Highlander would have been.”

He lowered his voice and faced her again. “Nights sleeping in the heather and among rocks were a reminder of a more primitive part of myself: being with the men of the clan, putting meat on the table for my people, defending a man against a wild stag. At heart I am such a man, Maggie, and such a man thinks about bedding his wife and making her revel in the glory of physical sensation. I thought constantly about what you look like beneath those garments.”

Maggie felt heat flush beneath her bodice, up her neck and across her face. She was far too aware that they were alone in her room, with no one nearby to serve as a distraction. It was just the two of them, and he wielded his wicked flattery like a sword against her. And she was far too susceptible. He was touching her things, intruding on her life—and bringing about his own ruin, she reminded herself, taking a deep, calming breath.

He came another step closer. “I never would have imagined being so distracted by a woman.”

Something in her traitorously wanted to believe him, wanted to be distracting to a man, had never imagined what a heady, powerful feeling it might be.

But it wasn’t true. It was all a ruse to assure her cooperation.

She licked her lips and tried to summon a cool tone. “I think ye’re talking yourself into an obsession for something ye can’t have.”

He passed by her, circling her. She held her breath, then gasped when he kissed her neck, his warm, damp lips making her shudder. Why could she not remain cold to him, when she wished for it so desperately?

“Such an innocent reaction,” he murmured, then blew across her damp skin.

“Then ye misunderstand my reluctance to be touched by ye.”

He chuckled.

Where was his anger? It was easier to do battle with an angry man. Humor was a new tactic that reminded her too much of those autumn weeks they’d spent together.

And then she remembered her plan for tonight. “I ken ye’re waiting anxiously to see the shirts I sewed for ye. Let me get them.”

Heading for a chest against the wall was a face-saving retreat, she thought wryly. She held out both hands, offering the shirts, perfectly pressed and folded.

He barely gave them a glance, was watching her
as if he meant to pounce. She dropped the pile on her bed, then shook out the first one. Her stitches at the neckline were even—deceptive, she knew. She peeked over the top of the shirt to find him frowning at it.

He immediately wiped the frown away and said, “Thank you for taking the time to perform such a wifely deed.”

She gritted her teeth, then spoke with dismay. “Oh, dear.”

“What is it?”

He couldn’t hide the wariness, which delighted her.

“I do believe I made a mistake. I am so thoughtless! My mother always told me to pay more attention to my sewing, but nay, I only wished to be outside, looking for frogs.” She winced. The little boy he’d been had loved frogs, too.

“I don’t see a mistake,” he said pleasantly.

She shook the shirt out even farther, and a third sleeve materialized on the right side. “I’ll never be able to look Mrs. Robertson in the face again! Already she thinks I’m hopeless in the womanly arts.”

“Nonsense,” he said smoothly. “When I wear it, I’ll have an extra handy cloth with which to clean off my sword.”

She gaped at him. Why wasn’t he irritated? Why wasn’t he growing tired of her? It was so frustrating. Then he put his hand into his coat and removed an unfamiliar object, a several-inch long piece of triangular glass.

“Your mention of frogs reminded me that I had thought to continue your lessons this night with a prism. But the experiment won’t work here, since the setting sun is in the wrong window.”

And then he took her hand and led her toward the door. She couldn’t pull from his strong grip, and damn him, she was intrigued by what kind of experiment could be done with a strangely shaped piece of glass.

But she made certain to grab the shirts on her way out.

At the end of the hall, when he pushed open a set of double doors, she saw a massive, curtained four-poster bed, with a satin burgundy counterpane.

“This is your bedroom,” she said warily, and let go of his hand to remain near the door.

“So it is.” He arched a devilish brow.

He began to open the chests that lined one wall and searched through. Curious in spite of herself, she studied the paneled walls with their intricate carved decoration, the bare wig stand that had probably been his father’s, for Owen showed no inclination to wear a wig as so many men did. The furniture was heavy and masculine, finely made for an earl.

“I can’t find any sheets,” he muttered.

“Sheets?” She glanced wide-eyed at the bed.

As if he read her mind, he began to toss bed pillows to the floor and pulled down the counterpane.

“Owen, I absolutely will not—”

He yanked a white sheet right off the bed, then
grinned at her aghast expression, as her insides quaked.

He draped the sheet over a chair and placed it across from the window. As he pulled shut the curtains on the setting sun, moving from one window to the next, he said, “The light is almost gone. We must hurry.”

The room was suddenly full of shadows, his body almost a blur of movement, as lacking in shape as a ghost. She had a pang of foreboding about her dream, but let it go.

He gathered a section of the curtain up, then glanced around with a frown. “Need something to—ah.”

To her surprise, he unpinned the brooch from his shoulder, and the loose ends of his plaid fell to dangle along the outside of his belt. Next he flung off his coat and waistcoat until he was only wearing his shirt and plaid, tucking the excess plaid into the belt at his waist. In his shirtsleeves, the width of his shoulders made her catch her breath. Oh, she shouldn’t be here.

Using his brooch, Owen pinned up a section of the curtain until it let in a narrow beam of light, then lined up the sheet-covered chair across the room.

He motioned Maggie forward. “Come closer and watch. This is how Newton proved that white light is a mix of colors.”

She hesitantly approached, not wanting to be too near the bed. It wasn’t just that she didn’t trust him—she didn’t trust herself around him.

Owen put the triangular piece of glass into the
light—and she gasped as the light appeared a rainbow of colors on the white sheet.

“You’ve seen something like this before, with rainbows or puddles of water,” he said. “Scientists used to think that a prism or other things somehow dyed the sunbeam into different colors. But Newton took another prism and held it into the multicolored light, and it reformed back into a white light, proving that white light contains all the colors mixed together. Fascinating how it all works, isn’t it?”

She stared at him. His enthusiasm and wonder matched her own, and she felt rather overwhelmed. The world was a strange and miraculous place, and knowing men in some far-off city had explained parts of it didn’t make it any less magical. But men hadn’t explained dreams, didn’t deem them worthy to be studied, to be believed.

He lowered the prism, and the rainbow disappeared. His smile faded, his brown eyes became almost black as he regarded her with that awareness to which she was so susceptible. They were alone, the setting sun almost gone. The air fairly shimmered with the tension between them, almost as much as the white of his shirt against his dark, sun-touched skin. She was closer to the bed than she’d meant to stand, and suddenly, it loomed like something alluring and exotic and foreign, no longer a simple bed for rest.

“Maggie.”

He said her name in a deep, rough voice that set
her to trembling. She should leave. But he crossed the fading beam of light and took her into his arms. His kiss was as deep and rough as his voice, taking from her, drinking from her, making her think of the darkness of passion as an ocean current at night, sweeping her away. She forgot all about resisting him or playing ignorant about how to kiss.

His big hands on her back slid lower, cupping her backside and pulling her against him. Through her skirts she could feel the hard length of him. Knowing he wanted her was thrilling and intoxicating, making her forget the danger of desire between them. The future was suddenly something she couldn’t control, shouldn’t know.

And then he was kissing her brow and her cheek, and down her neck. He slid his hand up her body and cupped her breast above the stays. She moaned. She felt trapped within her garments, wanting to shed them and any resistance she thought she could sustain against him.

She suddenly realized that the padding she’d donned at her waist interfered with his touch, and snapped her back to the reality of her plight.

She couldn’t lose herself. She’d been granted a gift she couldn’t ignore.

She turned her head aside, and he straightened.

“Maggie, your knowledge of kissing has come a long way.”

She ignored his teasing. “Don’t ye see, Owen? Dreams can be just as baffling as science before it’s explained,” she cried. “Ye’ve no problem accepting the word of a scientist ye’ve never met, but ye cannot believe in me.”