Page 52 of Wed to the Highlander
Agnes joined her in the hall, unsmiling. “Another spell is coming,” her mother-in-law murmured, her gaze on Isla.
If Fiona were any judge, it was already here.
As Isla’s laughter echoed off the stone, unease tightened in her chest. This was no harmless eccentricity. She bore watching. If Maggie was right in her suspicions, Isla was not just a nuisance. She was more capable in her madness than anyone thought.
And that made her dangerous.
Chapter 15
The train chugged steadily south, the wild grandeur of the Highlands giving way to the gentler sweep of English countryside, where flowering trees stirred to life. Inside the first-class compartment, Maggie slept against Duncan’s shoulder, her breath feather-light against his collar. He hadn’t reserved a private car this time. Funds were tight; between a poor harvest, a fire in the storehouse, tainted grain in a silo, and a string of other costly incidents, he couldn’t justify the expense. She hadn’t minded, slipping into sleep not long after they’d boarded.
Sleep, at least, meant her stomach had settled.
Sleep meant peace.
And peace, lately, had been rare.
As rain spattered against the window, Duncan adjusted the blanket over Maggie’s lap. Her braid had loosened during the ride, dark strands curling against her cheek. In the pale afternoon light, her skin looked almost translucent, the shadows beneath her eyes stark against the delicate bones of her face. The bodice of her gown hung looser now—another reminder of the weight she’d lost.
At rest, he couldn’t tell, but her spirit had dulled.
The Highlands hadn’t done this. He had.
He’d brought her there with promises—of beauty, of belonging, of a life they would forge together. Instead, she’d found a crumbling castle, biting winds, suspicious glances, andsomething darker. Real or imagined didn’t matter because she believed.
He hadn’t asked what haunted her. Part of him feared the answer—that similar to Isla, and Lady Anne MacPherson long before her, she was troubled. The other part feared she didn’t trust him with it.
Maggie stirred, shifting closer in sleep, her fingers resting lightly over the buttons of his waistcoat. Duncan pressed his lips to the crown of her head in a whisper of a kiss.
She didn’t wake, which was a blessing since she was exhausted.
She’d eaten a few bites at lunch and kept them down. A small victory. Then she’d curled up beside him and drifted off again. The rhythm of the rails lulling her.
But it didn’t soothe him, and the lack of conversation gave him time to think. Too much time—and it led him back to the moment before he signed their marriage contract.
Andrew poured him a whiskey in his study. His expression inscrutable, ever the Duke of Sommerville.
“She’s been yours since she was trailing after us when she was five,” he said. “But she’s scared.”
“She needn’t be.”
“I know that. You’ll have to convince her.” Andrew’s jaw tightened. “She doesn’t scare easily. Mind that.”
Duncan had met his oldest friend’s gaze. “I’ll take care of her. Always.”
“You had better,” Andrew warned. “She’s the light of my family. You’re not just marrying my sister—you’re claiming someone I’d bleed for. So, if I ever hear she’s become a shadow of herself in that godforsaken castle, if I see her flame dim, friendship notwithstanding—I will come for you.”
His words were quiet but struck like a blade, and not for a second did Duncan doubt him.
“I’d never let that happen.”
“Then prove it,” Andrew dared before clasping his shoulder. “May the laird of Clan MacPherson and the Highlands deserve her.”
Duncan had to wonder what his friend knew that he hadn’t. Did he have powers of foresight? Because, as the rail car rocked, and Maggie’s small hand rested against him, soft and trusting in sleep, guilt lanced through him.
He’d failed her.
Consumed by mending clan ties and stretching dwindling funds, he’d missed her quiet deterioration. She’d told him of her concerns—noises, whispers, sudden chills—but he’d brushed them off as castle living. He’d seen the way her eyes flicked toward the shadowed corners of the hallways, how often she startled at small things, only to brush it off with a laugh too brittle to believe. He’d offered vague reassurances then went haring off to contend with another crisis.
