Page 55 of Wed to the Highlander
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, laird. I’m feeling better already. I think I just needed to come home.”
He held her close, but didn’t comment, aware of Andrew’s eyes on them both. The unspoken truth twisted in his chest. Hehad hoped the Highlands would become her home. Her refuge. Her future.
But he had failed her in that, too.
Chapter 17
Like London in the fullness of spring, Maggie bloomed.
The sickness that had plagued her for weeks had finally loosened its grip. Color returned to her cheeks, laughter to her lips, and her appetite revived—thank heavens.
Mayfair, too, had awakened. Lilacs perfumed the air, their clustered blooms softening the edges of the stone facades, and even the most reserved matrons dared to promenade in pastels.
Maggie took daily walks in the park accompanied by Duncan or another trusted staff member, hand-selected for their size and fierceness. Cici or the dowager often joined her, but Jeannie, her fiercely protective, self-appointed guard, was never far away, always vigilant and prepared.
He would catch himself watching his wife with Cici in the drawing room, or strolling in the walled garden out back. If he heard her laughter, he’d pause midstep just to listen. London was giving her what the Highlands could not: warmth, familiarity, light.
And he couldn’t ignore the truth. She was better here.
Two weeks after their return, Duncan sat at his desk in the lamplit study and wrote to Lachlan about his decision.
I hate to ask you to shoulder the burden, Brother. But with Maggie improving, it’s best if we remain in London until the bairn is born.
He blotted the ink, staring at the words. It read like duty but felt like desertion. A quiet forfeiture of a role he’d readied for and worn as a second skin since the cradle.
Folding the letter, he sealed it with wax and leaned back, eyes drifting to the street beyond the tall window.
The Highland clans had been battling for centuries. That would not change in less than a year’s time. For now, what Lachlan couldn’t handle would have to wait. His wife and child came first.
***
The corridor was quiet, save for the steady tick of the longcase clock. Fiona had been on her way to the kitchens when she noticed a thin strip of light spilling into the hall from the laird’s study.
She hesitated. Duncan had locked the room before leaving; it was rarely used in his absence.
Stepping closer, she found the door ajar. Lachlan sat at the great desk, a letter in his hand.
He looked up at her approach. “’Tis from Duncan,” he said, holding up the paper a moment before glancing down again. “The mistress is better. Much stronger.”
Relief loosened the tightness in Fiona’s chest. “Thank the saints. I’d begun tae think she’d never see the far side of the sickness.”
Lachlan’s response was a flat, “Aye.” His eyes scanned farther down the page. “He says they’re staying in London until the bairn is born.”
Fiona blinked. “He must still be concerned.”
“Or perhaps Lord Rothbury prefers it there. Either way”—Lachlan folded the letter with care—“it’s probably for the best. He needs to protect the heir and the inheritance. Besides, thingshave calmed since they left. No mysterious mishaps, and the Camerons are mindin’ themselves.”
She studied him, weighing his words. They were calculated more than caring, but then he’d spent little time with Lady Maggie. “You’ve done well keepin’ order.”
He gave a half smile, modest but satisfied. “Someone has tae lead while the laird’s away.”
Pride warmed her, though unease lingered. She loved her home, but calm was a rarity in the Highlands.
Fiona left him to his correspondence and continued toward the kitchens.
Halfway down the stairwell, a flash of green caught her eye. Isla was ascending from the servants’ level, a silk wrap thrown carelessly over her shoulders.
Fiona slowed. In all her years here, she could not recall Isla setting foot in the kitchens for any reason, much less in the middle of the afternoon. “What business have you below stairs?”
