Read Online The Groom Wore Plaid: Highland Weddings by Gayle Callen - Free Book Online
Authors: Gayle Callen
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especially to a man who knew he would be married to her.
But not if she had her way.
He gave a frustrated sigh. What the hell was she thinking? He knew as well as she did that their sort of marriage was not one of love. He’d once thought her a practical girl and had hoped she didn’t expect unreasonable and blind devotion from a husband. When he’d offered for her, he’d been remembering the laughing girl who’d explored Edinburgh at his side, who could carry on an intelligent conversation, who’d lain with him in the grass and kissed him with an innocentpassion. Even her recent guardedness and suspicion were understandable. He knew women wanted romance and undying love, something seldom found when marrying to beget heirs for titles or unite warring clans.
But her reaction was beyond the pale. Refusing to marry him? Pretending some sort of nightmare was a portent of the future? Had she not matured in ten years? It didn’t bode well for the peacefulness of their marriage.
Or was it as he’d accused her, part of a plot concocted with her brother to get Owen to break the contract, so they’d have their whisky land back? Once he wouldn’t have believed it of her, but their friendship had been too brief for him to assume he knew her.
But if she was the sort to punish him for forcing her into marriage, she could have told his sister the details of how he’d let himself kiss her when he’d been betrothed, honor-bound, to another woman. But Maggie hadn’t. She’d kept their arguments between them. He could respect her for that, at least.
He’d keep this argument between them as well, while he figured out what she was up to. Because although he could believe her fickle, or afraid, or part of a conspiracy, he could not believe her daft.
Behind him, Fergus, his bodyguard, cleared his throat, and Owen realized he was standing stock-still in the courtyard, watching the door through which Maggie had already disappeared. Owen started walking.
Fergus importantly swept past him, eyeing everyone with narrowed eyes and a lowered brow, as if he’d never seen the members of his own clan before. Owen had seen more than one man snicker behind Fergus’s overly serious back. Owen could only hope that Fergus struck fear into other clans, because he struck no fear in his own, at least with his behavior. He’d been assigned his duties by the war chief—Owen’s father’s war chief. Owen wasn’t ready to start countermanding orders just because he’d recently inherited the chiefdom.
Fergus followed him up through the castle to the chief’s solar, where his father had kept to himself often. Fergus took up his station outside the door, his back to the ancient stone walls, and faced the wall opposite as if he could stare there all day.
Standing in the doorway, Owen eyed Fergus. “You know you don’t have to spend your afternoon here.”
“’Tis my place, my lord, and proud I am to be manning it.”
“And grateful am I, of course, but when you need to rest, you have my permission to leave.”
Fergus just stood at attention, hand on his pistol just in case he had to draw it quickly and use it on whoever came up the circular stairs.
Shaking his head, Owen entered the solar. Fergus pulled the door shut for him, regardless of what Owen wanted. But he was beginning to understand the need to have a place to be alone. He’d spent part of each year in London, while his father served in the Houseof Lords. He’d found being a bachelor viscount in the city satisfying enough. He could attend the occasional dinner or musicale when he wished the companionship of young ladies, but during the day, he was more often than not to be found at the Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge—a long-winded title for scientific fellows who gave lectures or witnessed experiments. He liked his time to think, or to write his thoughts about the topics explored. Constant closeness with all his clansmen always took some time to
But not if she had her way.
He gave a frustrated sigh. What the hell was she thinking? He knew as well as she did that their sort of marriage was not one of love. He’d once thought her a practical girl and had hoped she didn’t expect unreasonable and blind devotion from a husband. When he’d offered for her, he’d been remembering the laughing girl who’d explored Edinburgh at his side, who could carry on an intelligent conversation, who’d lain with him in the grass and kissed him with an innocentpassion. Even her recent guardedness and suspicion were understandable. He knew women wanted romance and undying love, something seldom found when marrying to beget heirs for titles or unite warring clans.
But her reaction was beyond the pale. Refusing to marry him? Pretending some sort of nightmare was a portent of the future? Had she not matured in ten years? It didn’t bode well for the peacefulness of their marriage.
Or was it as he’d accused her, part of a plot concocted with her brother to get Owen to break the contract, so they’d have their whisky land back? Once he wouldn’t have believed it of her, but their friendship had been too brief for him to assume he knew her.
But if she was the sort to punish him for forcing her into marriage, she could have told his sister the details of how he’d let himself kiss her when he’d been betrothed, honor-bound, to another woman. But Maggie hadn’t. She’d kept their arguments between them. He could respect her for that, at least.
He’d keep this argument between them as well, while he figured out what she was up to. Because although he could believe her fickle, or afraid, or part of a conspiracy, he could not believe her daft.
Behind him, Fergus, his bodyguard, cleared his throat, and Owen realized he was standing stock-still in the courtyard, watching the door through which Maggie had already disappeared. Owen started walking.
Fergus importantly swept past him, eyeing everyone with narrowed eyes and a lowered brow, as if he’d never seen the members of his own clan before. Owen had seen more than one man snicker behind Fergus’s overly serious back. Owen could only hope that Fergus struck fear into other clans, because he struck no fear in his own, at least with his behavior. He’d been assigned his duties by the war chief—Owen’s father’s war chief. Owen wasn’t ready to start countermanding orders just because he’d recently inherited the chiefdom.
Fergus followed him up through the castle to the chief’s solar, where his father had kept to himself often. Fergus took up his station outside the door, his back to the ancient stone walls, and faced the wall opposite as if he could stare there all day.
Standing in the doorway, Owen eyed Fergus. “You know you don’t have to spend your afternoon here.”
“’Tis my place, my lord, and proud I am to be manning it.”
“And grateful am I, of course, but when you need to rest, you have my permission to leave.”
Fergus just stood at attention, hand on his pistol just in case he had to draw it quickly and use it on whoever came up the circular stairs.
Shaking his head, Owen entered the solar. Fergus pulled the door shut for him, regardless of what Owen wanted. But he was beginning to understand the need to have a place to be alone. He’d spent part of each year in London, while his father served in the Houseof Lords. He’d found being a bachelor viscount in the city satisfying enough. He could attend the occasional dinner or musicale when he wished the companionship of young ladies, but during the day, he was more often than not to be found at the Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge—a long-winded title for scientific fellows who gave lectures or witnessed experiments. He liked his time to think, or to write his thoughts about the topics explored. Constant closeness with all his clansmen always took some time to
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