Free The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings by Gayle Callen

to a ball in Edinburgh, but she wasn’t certain it was proper for a supper in the Highlands.
    And then Owen appeared at her door, and by the admiring look on his face, it would seem Kathleen had chosen well. The maid slipped out behind the frozen Owen, her eyes dancing as she gave Maggie a little wave and disappeared.
    Maggie felt exasperated and defensive. She hadn’t chosen this gown to entice him, but he appeared enticed, even after their argument. Men and their base ways. But an embarrassing blush spread down her neck to her cleavage, the top of which was too on display.
    “You look lovely,” Owen said, then stepped all the way inside and closed the door.
    Maggie barely resisted rolling her eyes. Flattery meant nothing when it was contrived. She took a deep fortifying breath—and saw where his gaze settled. “I reject you, and the first thing ye do is stare at my softer bits?”
    “The softer bits make your tart tongue easier to accept.”
    “Ye don’t have to worry about my tart tongue. I don’t plan to offer it to ye in any permanent fashion.”
    He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Not this again.”
    “Ye thought my refusal to marry ye a temporary protest? Oh, that’s right, ye don’t ken me well at all.”
    “But I’ll learn, though it takes me a lifetime. Now come to supper—or are you trying to avoid that, too?”
    She stared at him, hiding her dismay. She’d known he wouldn’t suddenly change his mind about everything she’d confided in him, but it was now clear that the truth alone wasn’t going deter his intention to marry her. While she tried to figure out the end of the dream, maybe she would have to give him reasons to end the betrothal himself.
    In the hall, the same young man bristling with weapons fell into place right behind them.
    “Maggie, this is Fergus,” he said.
    Fergus bowed his head. “My lady.”
    “I’m not your lady yet, Fergus. Just call me Maggie.”
    Owen eyed Fergus over his shoulder, but said nothing. Owen obviously meant to tolerate this particular clan tradition of protection. It was expected by the people, who wanted their chief to be a powerful man so important that he needed to be guarded. It was a mark of pride.
    They arrived in the great hall, where every torch was lit, illuminating even the most shadowy of corners. Light from the setting sun still shone through the tall windows and onto the beautiful tapestries, reflecting off displays of targes and swords.
    “My lord?”
    The intimidating Harold Duff stood against the wall as if he’d been waiting for them.
    “A word in private, my lord?”
    Owen made an exasperated sound. “Uncle, call me Owen. You’ve known me since I was a lad.”
    “And how am I supposed to know what to call ye when your father preferred me to call him that?”
    “I’m not my father, and I don’t intend to be. Now what can I help you with, Uncle?”
    Harold hesitated, glancing at Maggie.
    “You may speak in front of my betrothed,” Owen said.
    She could start her campaign against the marriage right now, telling his uncle she’d refused the “honor.” But making Owen out to be a fool before his clan would not get her what she wanted.
    Harold narrowed his eyes. “Aye. I’ve received word of a cow byre gone up in flames this afternoon.”
    Owen dropped her arm to face his uncle. “Was anyone injured?”
    “Nay. And the cows were grazing in their shieling up on the mountain,” he added.
    He spoke directly at Maggie as if she didn’t know where cows grazed in the summer. She gave him her sweetest smile. He blinked beneath his bushy gray brows and turned back to his nephew.
    “Was it an accident?” Owen asked.
    “We cannot know that. A man was seen running away, but no one recognized him or caught him.”
    “Could he have been going for help?” Maggie asked.
    “Help was sought from our nearest village, and did not come from the direction he ran,” Harold said.“There is concern that another clan could be testing ye, as