Page 43 of Wed to the Highlander
“That’s a long tale, and it deserves more time than I have this morning.” He bent and took her lips this time—long, lingering, wonderful. “Rest. Take care of our future. I’ll see you tonight.”
Her fingers caught his hand. “I hate that you have to go.”
Duncan turned back. “You said you were fine.”
She hesitated.
“What’s plaguing you, lass?”
She couldn’t just blurt out that his home might be haunted, so she tempered her response. “I don’t feel at ease unless you are here. There are peculiarities and rooms that feel…wrong.”
His eyes narrowed. “Wrong how?”
“They’re cold when they shouldn’t be. Sometimes I feel someone with me when I’m alone—but when I turn, no one’s there. There are shadows, and I hear things. Whispers sometimes.”
He sat beside her again, speaking gently. “The castle is centuries old, Maggie. Stone settles, wind slips through cracks. You wouldn’t be the first tae experience something strange. And the folk here, they love to tell their stories. They cling to this place like ivy.”
“I’m not imagining this.”
He took her hands, brushing her knuckles with quiet care. “I’m not saying you are. Only that sometimes, what feels unearthly is rooted in the ordinary.”
She bit her lip. Could it really be wind and stone and superstition? She didn’t think so. But Duncan had lived here all his life, and he wasn’t mocking her—just trying to make sense of it.
“Maybe you need something to keep your mind busy. Fiona would welcome your company. With the bairn to consider, I’m sure she’d find gentler tasks that suit you.”
“I think I’ve already tried and failed at most of those.”
“Talk to her anyway. She’s imaginative. Lachlan was lucky to find her.” He smiled, warm and teasing. “And if nothing else, let her show you the library. Just steer clear of the gothic novels.” He added with a wink, “And the brandy and cigars.”
“I’ll never live that down.”
“It’s doubtful, but neither will the duchess,” he said with a grin. “I should be home for supper.”
She nodded, hopingshouldwould become reality. The noises muted when he was beside her.
Duncan kissed her again before he left, the rhythm of his boots on the stone floor that of a man used to leading men, not chasing shadows.
She listened to the fading echo, wishing she could believe in stone and wind alone.
***
True to his word, Duncan was home before dark. That night, Maggie slept soundly in his arms—no whispers, no dreams. He escorted her down to breakfast the next morning but didn’t linger—wedging meat between two thick slices of freshly baked bread.
“I’m sorry, I canna stay, lass. I’m meeting with MacLeish to discuss the spring planting and tenant accounts.”
She would miss his company, but as it turned out, she wasn’t lonely. News of her condition had traveled faster than a Highland gale. Everyone came up to congratulate her, and the women seemed determined to anticipate her every need—whether she wanted them to or not.
“I’ll be bringin’ ye warm milk with honey,” the kitchen maid announced, setting down a platter holding a mountain of bannocks. “’Tis good for the growin’ bairn’s bones.”
“None of that blue-veined cheese,” Mrs. Craig, the chief cook, declared, whisking the offending block away before Maggie could blink. “Mold can’t be wholesome fer anyone.”
When she passed old Ian, the gardener, in the hall, he pressed a pair of scratchy woolen socks into her palm.
“There be a chill in the breeze today. Ye’ll be takin’ an extra layer for ye’re boots if ye step outside,” he insisted. “We can’t have the savior of High Glen catchin’ her death.”
The Savior of High Glen.The phrase clung to her, heavier than the socks. It wasn’t just flattery—it was expectation, legacy, pressure.
Itreminded her why she was here. What she’d almost forgotten. The babe was why they were all being so solicitous. She wasn’t just the laird’s wife now. She was the vessel of something larger than herself. Something they all had a stake in.
