Page 45 of Wed to the Highlander
Then came an entry that chilled her to the bone.
First, Cairn took my warmth, then my sleep, and my name. I was no longer Anne, but “woman” or “wife.” And this spirit cares for neither. Then, it took my child.
A shudder raced through Maggie so violently, she dropped the book. She turned to flee, forgetting to duck—and smacked her head against the low ceiling.
“Blood and thunder,” she muttered, using one of her brother’s favorite curses, and wincing when she touched the tender spot on her forehead.
As the pain ebbed, something else surged: bravery and determination. And a need to know more. Who was Cairn? What had happened to the child?
Another icy draft curled around her ankles and blasted up her skirt.
Why was she standing in a hidden room freezing, but more so tempting fate and whatever spirits might linger?
She should run. Leaving the disturbing and eerie secrets of the crumbling castle far behind. But she couldn’t—not without Duncan, especially while carrying his child.
With more care this time, she bent and picked up the journal. Clutching it in one hand and the lamp in the other, she exited the dank, dusty, confining room, shutting the door and pushing the heavy desk back into place.
She threw two more logs on the fire and pulled a chair close.
Maybe if she read on, the whispers and shadows would make sense.
Her short laugh echoed in the quiet. “Or maybe the blow to your head scrambled your brains.”
Hours passed as Maggie read by firelight—gleaning insight into the fragile mind of a woman slipping into despair. Unseenpresences. Wilted flowers left on her pillow. Whispers that grew louder with each passing day. There were mentions of thistle charms, cursed brooches, and isolation. As the entries grew more erratic, the handwriting became nearly indecipherable. The final entry came nine months after the first—almost to the day.
Maggie closed the journal and tried to make sense of it. The woman had grieved the loss of a child. Whether taken from her due to madness or lost to death, Maggie couldn’t tell. She had an all-encompassing fear of whoever Cairn was. A spirit? A husband? She had also become obsessed with the north tower.
The late afternoon shadows had grown long, and her stomach rumbled. Sliding the diary beneath the mattress, she rose to go to supper. But at the door, she stopped then rushed to the trinket box on the table by the bed and tucked the white heather charm she’d gotten the first night into her pocket.
What could it hurt? Besides, she needed good luck for two now.
She arrived at the bottom of the stairs just as Duncan returned. His hair was plastered to his head, and raindrops beaded on his shoulder. He looked tired, but he smiled as their eyes met.
“Have you eaten?”
“I was just on my way.”
“I’ll join you after I wash up. You can tell me about your day.”
She blanched. What was there to say? That she’d spent the afternoon reading a long-dead woman’s most intimate thoughts? That she’d found a hidden room behind the writing desk and nearly knocked herself senseless when she tried to flee from it in terror? And for a moment, she’d considered not stopping until she reached safe, unmysterious, normal Mayfair.
“Is something wrong?”
She didn’t want to lie. “Why do you ask?”
“You look unsettled.” His hand brushed her cheek. “And your skin is cold.”
First, it took my warmth…
“The castle always has a chill.”
“I’ll bring a plaid for your shoulders,mo bhean.” He kissed her forehead then took the steps two at a time.
She watched him go, her heart thudding—not with affection but with unease.
And my name.
He called her my wife, woman, when he was incensed with her, or lass, or by some other Gaelic word. Less and less Maggie. The castle folk called her mistress or my lady—never Lady Maggie.
