The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings Read Free Page A

He dutifully took her slender arm, felt her stiffen, but she didn’t fight him, not openly. She’d agreed to the marriage, after all, though making no secret of her reluctance. It was ironic, considering how many women over the years, both Scottish and English, had flattered and flirted for the chance to be his bride. And he’d thought he’d have his choice of them, had been taking his time. It was all for naught.
    It was long past supper, and a handful of servants were clearing the tables and talking among themselves. His sister, Catriona, trailed behind him, tired,but still able to give him a warning look when they both saw their uncle, Harold Duff, standing beside the giant hearth beneath a display of claymores and targes that practically announced his status as war chief. Yawning, Cat waved in sympathy and headed up to bed.
    Seeing Owen’s party, Harold slowly lowered the tankard he’d been about to drink.
    No time like the present, Owen thought. As he brought his future bride forward, the formality of the gesture was not lost on the servants, who all grew quiet and wide-eyed, awaiting what Owen would say. Harold, a broad-shouldered man with a heavy beard, eyed Owen expectantly.
    “Uncle, may I introduce my betrothed, Mistress Margaret McCallum.”
    A gasp and murmurs rippled away from them throughout the great hall as the servants reacted to her surname. The Duffs and the McCallums were ancient enemies.
    Owen said, “Maggie, this is my uncle, Harold Duff, war chief for the Clan Duff.”
    Owen watched Harold and Maggie eye each other and, as usual, Maggie didn’t appear bashful or intimidated. That hadn’t changed in these ten years. Owen had thought of her occasionally, the laughing girl who’d once listened raptly as he rambled on about his obsession with science. That autumn, he’d willfully ignored his future, the one with duties and responsibilities, as if wishing that a different life was within his grasp.
    It had been easy to enjoy Maggie, innocent and bold, eager to discuss and debate and learn. Her eyes were still arresting, one blue, one green, and used to study him so solemnly, so eagerly, making him feel important, even if only just to her. Maturity had added dignity and wisdom to the beauty of her face. Her dark hair was drawn to the back of her head, emphasizing her heart-shaped face, her lips full and kissable, as he well remembered.
    Harold cleared his throat and bowed his head. “Mistress McCallum.”
    “Ye may call me Maggie, sir,” she said.
    She spoke with her typical cool politeness. She’d been showing little reaction at all, these last few days since their betrothal. His sister, Cat, had nervously, brightly monopolized Maggie, as if sensing that things might not go smoothly.
    Harold’s shrewd gaze shifted back to Owen. “And how did such a betrothal come about?”
    Maggie studied Owen, too, her eyes alight with mischief, as if she was curious to hear what he’d say.
    “It’s a long story,” Owen said. “Perhaps, Maggie, you’d rather wash before supper?”
    She looked about. “We’ve missed supper, and if I delay, we might miss any meal altogether. Nay, the servants can bring me a basin to wash. I’m far too hungry to wait more than that.”
    “As you wish.”
    Owen gestured to the housekeeper, Mrs. Robertson, who was waiting for his signal. Soon he and Maggie were side by side on the dais. His bodyguard, Fergus Balliol, stood just behind, one hand resting on his sword and the other on his pistol, as if the empty hall posed a threat.
    Maggie broke into a freshly baked bannock, closed her eyes, and inhaled with satisfaction. To Owen’s surprise, such an intense look brought a tightening of anticipation inside him, but he forced it back. It was good to be attracted to the woman one had to marry, after all. Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling himself. He’d fought a hard battle against his father to win the right to choose his own bride—only to lose that right