About
the Book
Falling
in love means tempting fate in this passionate new novel in USA Today
bestselling author Gayle Callen’s Highland Wedding series.
Maggie McCallum’s dreams about her new fiancé aren’t the romantic sort. It’s not just that she was bartered to Owen Duff like a piece of property to end a clan feud. She’s also haunted by premonitions of his death on their upcoming wedding day. Yet the exasperating Highlander won’t let her call it off, even though his life and his clan are both in jeopardy.
Owen
has wanted Maggie in his bed since he first glimpsed her years ago.
If their union restores peace between their clans, so much the
better. But while lusting after another chief’s sister had its
risks, growing to trust Maggie is far more dangerous. Owen is falling
deeply in love with the one woman he cannot hope to claim…and
survive.
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Excerpt:
Scotland,
1717
Maggie
McCallum was only sixteen and Owen Duff eighteen the autumn their
families spent in Edinburgh. Her mother had said she was too young
for courtship, but Maggie secretly scoffed at that. Men looked at her
now, and she was finally allowing herself to give a flirtatious look
back.
And
then at a dancing assembly, she saw Owen, Viscount Duncraggan, heir
to the earldom of Aberfoyle. She’d met him only once before, at a
dinner with their parents. She’d been twelve, he fourteen, and he’d
ignored her. Now a friend giggled and pointed him out.
“He’s
from the Duff clan,” the girl said. “Even I ken that the
McCallums and the Duffs have always despised each other.”
Maggie
nodded without really listening. She was staring at Owen with wide,
curious eyes. He did not wear a belted plaid as so many of her family
did, but an expensive tailored coat and waistcoat over knee breeches,
and the polished sword at his hip sparkled in the candlelight when he
strode across the dance floor to bow to a blushing girl. He had a
thin face and bony shoulders that hinted at the broad strength of the
man he would become. His sandy hair was gathered in a haphazard queue
on his neck, loose strands brushing his cheeks as if he were too busy
to be bothered fastening it more securely.
“Isn’t
your brother to marry his sister? Ye’ll be practically family.”
Family
or not, Maggie knew better than to be the McCallum who approached a
Duff in public, right in front of her mother. She thought of her
brother’s misery at marrying a woman he didn’t know or love, the
way he’d done foolish, reckless things in anger when he’d first
discovered his fate at thirteen. Maggie had pitied him, and felt
guilty that she was secretly glad it wasn’t she forced to marry a
Duff.
Her
next meeting with Owen wasn’t auspicious—she merely passed him on
the stairs outside her flat on High Street, as dusk settled in dark
waves on Edinburgh. The tall building with a dozen floors housed all
manner of people, from the chimney sweep in the cellar to the dancing
master in the garret. The best floors were reserved for noblemen, and
though her father didn’t have a title, he was the chief of the Clan
McCallum. Her mother had leased the flat to be near the earl’s
family, since her son was marrying into them, but she did not want
her daughter involved beyond what civility expected.
Upon
seeing Maggie, Owen came to a stop on the stairs and grinned that
grin that lived in her dreams for many years to come. His warm brown
eyes made her think of the chocolate English ladies favored for their
morning drink, and as they took her in, skimming her form, she felt
as suitably overheated as that cup she’d only once clutched in her
hands on a cold winter morning in the Highlands.
She
wanted to scold him for his bold gaze but then she saw the round tube
he carried.
“Is
that a telescope?” she demanded.
Those
eyes now brightened with more than warmth. “Aye, I’m heading out
to gaze upon the stars. Have ye looked through one before?”
She
shook her head. She’d done nothing more intellectual than read
passages from the Bible—she hadn’t been allowed more, had no
access to other books. Knowing there was a whole world of knowledge
out there made her ache with regret and frustration.
He
held out a hand. “I’m Owen. Do ye want to come?”
She
hesitated, realizing he didn’t recognize her. In that long moment
she thought of her grandparents already preparing for bed, the fact
that she’d just seen her mother into a sedan chair to meet with
friends, and that her brother lived in his own flat near the
university. She was alone.
Owen
stood a couple stairs below her, and that put them at just about the
same height. She stared into his eyes again, and the admiration and
curiosity made her unfurl like a blossom in springtime.
But
she had to be honest. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’m Maggie
McCallum. ’Tis my brother who’s to marry your sister.”
He
looked at her for a long moment, and the first feelings of regret and
resignation washed through her.
But
Owen didn’t rush away, only extended his hand closer to her. “Nice
to meet ye, Maggie. Do ye still want to come with a dreaded Duff?”
She
bit her lip to keep from giggling like a foolish girl. She was
sixteen, a woman now. He obviously didn’t remember her from four
years before. Maybe that was for the best. Putting her hand in his,
she let him lead her out into the twilight.
During
the next few weeks, Owen was the excitement in days that were once
dreary and repetitive. Sneaking away to ride down to the shore at the
Firth of Forth, boating, exploring the grounds of Edinburgh Castle,
or even meandering through shops seemed like wild adventures when she
was at Owen’s side.
Rather
than deter her, the very forbiddance of a friendship between them
caused her to be far too reckless. He was so very different from the
men she knew. He discussed physics and chemistry and astronomy as if
she was as smart as he. She saw his wonder in the world, but when she
asked if he would be a scientist, his expression turned hard as he
said his father had forbidden it. He was the heir to an earldom, and
would be educated as such. If he didn’t study the classics, his
father would refuse him attendance at university next year.
Maggie
sympathized, and distracted him from his sad and angry thoughts, but
she could not stop dwelling on her own confusion. Every moment she
spent in his company, Owen seemed more and more familiar to her, as
if they’d met much earlier in their childhood, though he swore they
had not. Sometimes it was as if a ghost of a dream teased her from
just beyond the shadows, and she shivered.
Her
dreams were nothing to make light of. More than once, she’d dreamed
something that eventually came true. The family of a little boy in
her clan had thought him drowned and were about to give up the
search, when a dream led her to the bedraggled boy huddled beneath a
cliff. Another dream foretold the suicide of a young woman whom
Maggie’s father had abused. Maggie hadn’t understood what she was
seeing until it had actually come true, which was often the case. And
then it had been too late to help the girl. Maggie’s mother had
taken her away from Larig Castle and back to Edinburgh, to keep her
safe from her father.
But
Owen? Could he have been part of a dream she couldn’t remember? The
puzzle of it flooded her mind when she was separated from him, but
the hours they were together were full of happy laughter, insightful
discussion, and endless moments where she stared into his face when
he wasn’t looking and imagined herself married to him. Maybe her
mind was simply trying to tell her that he was her destiny, that they
were meant to be together. She wanted him to kiss her, but he was
ever the gentleman—or maybe he assumed that the centuries-old feud
between their clans meant they could never share a more intimate
relationship. It seemed to be a forbidden topic between them.
But
he touched her, and each time she could have surely melted with
delight. He would take her hand running across a field, guide her by
grasping her elbow, put his hand gently on her waist when they stood
watching the sun set amid beautiful orange and pink clouds adorning
it like trailing scarves.
Two
weeks into their friendship, they were carrying a luncheon basket
along the river, Water of Leith, on a particularly sunny autumn day,
when Owen suggested they look for mussels and Scottish pearls. This
was no mere meandering in ankle-deep water, and soon they were both
dripping wet, pearl-less, shivering as they crawled back up the
grassy bank, laughing.
Owen
lay down in the sun, and feeling reckless, she did the same, eyeing
him boldly since his own eyes were closed. His queue had come undone,
and long strands of his hair, dark brown with water, covered his
cheeks. Without thinking, she came up on her elbow and used a
trembling finger to move the locks away from his face.
His
eyes snapped open, and she expected him to laugh up at her, but he
seemed to concentrate intently on her face just above his. Everything
external seemed to go silent as they shared a hot, meaningful gaze.
She was focused on the rough sound of her breathing, the moisture
beaded on his skin, the way she could feel his heart pounding in his
chest when she rested her trembling hand there.
And
then he cupped her head and brought her down for a kiss. His lips
were cool from the water, yet softer than she imagined a man’s
would be. Such boldness made her dizzy—or was it simply nearness to
Owen? Her hand still on his chest, she lifted her head and stared
down at him uncertainly, but he only brought their mouths together
again. He parted his lips, and the shock of his tongue sliding
between hers made her start with surprise and wonder. Her cool, wet
skin seemed to heat, the warmth spreading out from her mouth and down
her chest. Her trembling was no longer from the cold, but she didn’t
know why her limbs seemed so restless. She wanted to be
touched—needed it with a desperation new to her. But she was afraid
to do more than brace herself against his chest as he explored her
mouth and taught her to explore his.
The
world shifted as he rolled her onto her back. It was his turn to rise
above her, his intense face framed by blue sky and towering
autumn-hued trees. She had no time to think as he kissed her again
and began to touch her. His hand on her body was a hot, welcome
presence, and with each touch she felt more and more as if she
couldn’t lie still. His caresses journeyed across her wet clothes
from her hip and upward. And when at last he touched her breast,
pushed upward by her stays, she moaned against his lips and shuddered
with each delicate strum across her nipple, as if he made her an
instrument of desire.
Their
shared world of passion was suddenly overwhelming, and she pushed
against him before it was too late to stop. Owen lifted his head and
stared down at her, his breathing as erratic as hers.
“We
cannot do this,” she said with a trembling voice. Not that she
regretted any of it, she realized, staring at his mouth and wishing
to feel again the pleasure he’d given her.
Owen
was looking at her mouth, too, and he practically growled, “I knew
ye’d find out. Forgive me. I didn’t ken how to tell ye.”
“Find
out what?” she demanded.
He
grimaced.
“Owen
Duff, ye have to tell me now.”
“My
father betrothed me some years ago to the daughter of a Lowland clan.
Even now, they journey here for us to meet.”
The
last warmth from their kiss deserted Maggie. Shivering, she sat up
and scooted away from him, covering her chest as if it was bared to
him.
“Why
did ye never tell me this?” she demanded. She’d let herself get
lost in the fairy tale of their friendship, and the romance she’d
thought had been blossoming. Now she knew she was simply a fool.
Owen
tucked his hair back into the queue, as if he needed something to do
with his hands. He didn’t look at her, and his face was as red as
hers felt, but she didn’t feel any sympathy for him.
His
words came out slowly at first, before tumbling over each other as
fast as the rippling water behind him. “At first, I thought we were
simply friends, and to know ye were a McCallum made it daring. But
the need to kiss ye has been dominating my thoughts more and more.”
He
met her gaze at last, and she felt like she’d never forget the heat
she saw there, the passion he was showing just for her. But he was
betrothed, and a lump rose high up into her throat, shutting off any
words. She scrambled to her feet and backed away from him before she
would embarrass herself more by crying. “I—I have to go.”
“Let
me walk ye back,” Owen said.
He
didn’t try to change her mind, or promise to end the betrothal. The
first tear fell down her cheek and she angrily wiped it away.
She
held up a hand. “Nay, I—I don’t want to see ye again, Owen.”
His
expression twisted with pain, and she knew she’d hurt him. She
didn’t trust easily, not with a drunkard for a father, and she felt
the worst kind of fool for trusting a stranger—a Duff. They’d
exchanged so much about their lives these last few weeks, but not the
most important detail of all, at least in a woman’s eyes.
She
barely remembered the journey home, for she ran part of it, and even
tripped on her skirts and bruised and bloodied her palms. She avoided
supper with her mother by claiming a headache, then curled up in her
bed and cried like she hadn’t allowed herself to all day. Her last
conscious thought was how foolish she’d been. She wasn’t sure if
she was crying over the loss of the friendship more than a romance,
because she knew she couldn’t trust him again.
As
if the floodgate of her emotions had opened up a deeper place inside
her, she dreamed that night, one of the vivid dreams that felt so
real to her. She saw Owen, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead,
there was another girl at his side, red-haired and freckled and
lovely. They were being presented to each other. Light reflected
strangely off a ring, and it seemed to pierce Maggie’s eyes as she
looked at it.
Then
the scene disappeared and Maggie saw the redhead again, staring at
her with intent. But the girl’s face was waxen, her clothing
soaked, and water puddled around her.
Maggie
awoke with a start, gasping for breath. Her whole body shuddered with
chills, as if she, too, were soaked and freezing. She knew what the
dream predicted—Owen’s betrothed would drown. Covering her face,
Maggie rocked in the bed, telling herself she was being
ridiculous—but this was not the first time she’d dreamed of a
death before it happened. The first time, she’d been uncertain and
afraid, and had watched in horror as it had all come true. This time,
this time she wouldn’t bury the blatant warning.
After
a restless night, she slipped out of their flat at dawn and went
outside. She couldn’t knock on Owen’s door, but she could wait
for him, and by mid-morning, he appeared, thankfully alone. She
caught up with him by the end of the block.
“Owen!”
He
turned around with a start and simply stared at her, his expression
impassive, not glad, yet not uncomfortable either. She was so
confused that she didn’t know what she wanted him to feel. Maybe
sorrow, because that was what she felt.
She
twisted her hands together as she faced him, not having realized how
difficult it would be to reveal her secret, to risk his derision, or
even his pity. She almost turned away—until she remembered the
dream girl’s waxen face and aggrieved eyes.
“I—I
didn’t want to approach you,” she said, “after— after
everything that happened yesterday.”
He
gave her a formal nod as if they were strangers. “I don’t blame
ye. I didn’t think to tell ye a truth that still doesn’t seem
real to me.”
“What
is her name?”
He
frowned.
“The
girl ye’re to marry. What is her name?”
“I
don’t see why it should matter, but she’s Emily.”
Maggie
nodded, because hearing the name made Emily seem more real. “Can I
speak with ye in private about her?”
Owen
hesitated, and now he finally did look uncomfortable. “Maggie, what
is there to say? I should have told, ye, aye, but—”
She
waved away his words. “It’s not that. It’s—” She looked
around, feeling as if everyone stared at them. “I cannot say it
here, not like this.” She pointed down the wynd, the narrow lane
that led between the town houses. “Come with me, away from prying
eyes. Please, Owen.”
To
her relief, he didn’t protest again. They walked silently until
they’d left behind the fenced close at the rear of the town house,
and out into a lane that led into the countryside.
At
last she stopped beneath a tall larch tree. She was nervous now, and
his air of impatience wasn’t helping. She’d been angry he hadn’t
told her about his betrothal, but then again, she hadn’t told him
about her dreams. But how did one confide such a thing and not be
thought crazy? Scotland had always had its seers, but she did not
wish anyone to believe she was such an outcast. And the whispers of
“witch” could be a woman’s end.
Could
she trust her secret to a man who’d already been proven
untrustworthy? But she didn’t have a choice.
Maggie
stared into his chest, at the embroidered waistcoat of a viscount. It
reminded her that they were very different. “I—it’s hard for me
to say this. I don’t tell many people, but . . .” She trailed
off, her throat closing up as she realized she was risking her
future.
“Maggie,
just say it,” he said with exasperation.
As
if he was already done with her and wished to be gone.
She
took a shuddering breath. “I . . . dream things, and when they’re
vivid and real to me, they . . . come true.”
She
met his gaze at last, and he eyed her with growing amusement.
“Och,
Maggie, ye had me going with nerves there,” he said, shaking his
head. “I spent all night wondering how to apologize to ye.”
“Owen,
this has nothing to do with apologies!” she cried. “I’m not
telling tales. I had a terrible dream last night, and your Emily was
in it.”
His
brown eyes narrowed. “Ye can’t have seen her. They haven’t
arrived yet.”
With
a groan, she flung her arms wide. “I haven’t seen her, Owen, not
in truth. But in my dreams I saw her presented to ye. I saw a ring.”
“There’s
always a ring—why are ye doing this to us, Maggie? Hurting us both
for no reason.”
“I
don’t want anyone to be hurt and that’s the point. I didn’t
just see her with ye, Owen, but I saw her wet, puddles of water
around her, her face cast white as death. And she was staring at me,
as if she needed me to do . . . something about it.”
He
crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye’re making no sense.”
She
winced, feeling his disbelief like the cold chill of a late summer
evening, the breath of approaching winter. Her voice grew rough.
“When I see a person wet, Owen, it means they’re going to die by
drowning.”
He
said nothing at first. She could hear chickens in the distance, the
low of a cow, but no human voices. No one was overhearing them to
understand her secret—only Owen. And he looked at her now with
pity, and even a little disgust. She closed her eyes so she didn’t
have to see it.
“This
isn’t worthy of ye, Maggie,” he said. “I didn’t think ye’d
let jealousy make ye tell lies.”
“This
isn’t jealousy! Owen, please, ye must believe me, for Emily’s
sake.” Her voice faded into a whisper, because she knew it was too
late. He didn’t believe her; he thought her a pathetic liar and a
fool.
“Good-bye,
Maggie.” He turned and walked back down the wynd toward High
Street.
“Owen,
warn her, please,” she cried, taking several steps as if to follow
him before halting, unable to embarrass herself further.
He
didn’t look back at her; he didn’t stop. She hugged herself,
feeling more alone than she ever had in her life.
Two
weeks passed, and Maggie never saw Owen on the stairs again. He lived
in the same building, but he might has well have been in London. At
another assembly, she saw him dancing, but not with the redhead from
her dreams. Maggie prayed that she’d been mistaken, that no one
would die.
He
never looked her way. And the anger she’d kept buried finally rose
up, and it took everything in her to remain calm. She hadn’t
deserved any of his treatment of her.
And
then she heard the gossip at the dressmaker’s shop before any
announcement made the newspaper. Lady Emily Douglas had been boating
with her family and drowned in the firth.
Review:
This book was a DNF for me. I tried hard to get into the story, I even went as far as putting the book down and coming back a week later to try again. Mainly, I didn't like the flow of the story, I felt that the transition from the past to the present was too abrupt. I know that I should have read the first book in the series The Wrong Bride, but because I didn't, the story seemed to be skipping around the years between Maggie and Owen's initial meeting and I felt like I was missing something. The final thing that made me close the book and walk away was when Maggie started to think back about her premonitions and came to the realization that the little boy in past dreams that comforted her was Owen, it just hit the "oh you've got to be kidding" button in my brain.
About the Author
After
a detour through fitness instructing and computer programming, GAYLE
CALLEN found the life she’d always dreamed of as a romance writer.
This USA Today bestselling author has written more than twenty
historical romances for Avon Books, and her novels have won the Holt
Medallion, the Laurel Wreath Award, the Booksellers’ Best Award,
and been translated into eleven different languages. The mother of
three grown children, an avid crafter, singer, and outdoor
enthusiast, Gayle lives in Central New York with her dog Uma and her
husband, Jim the Romance Hero. She also writes contemporary romances
as Emma Cane.
Connect
with Gayle Callen
Website
- www.gaylecallen.com
Twitter
– https://twitter.com/GayleCallen
Facebook
– https://www.facebook.com/GayleCallen
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