Page 11 of Wed to the Highlander
Still, she didn’t understand—not truly—why he’d really married her.
It hadn’t been for the fortune. Or the estate. Or even to meet the damned stipulations that hung over his thirtieth birthday like a noose.
A burst of laughter erupted from the far end of the tavern, followed by the scrape of a chair and the unmistakable stagger of boots on uneven floorboards. Duncan didn’t look up until a man lurched past his table, swaying with the weight of drink and cheer. His coat was damp, his cheeks ruddy, and his smile loose with ale.
He caught Duncan’s eye and raised his tankard in a sloppy salute. “To wives, eh?” he slurred. “May they be warm, willing, and no’ too quick to scold.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened. He gave a curt nod, saying nothing.
The man chuckled and moved on, weaving toward the bar with all the grace of a ship in a storm.
He stared into his empty glass, the echo of the toast ringing hollow.
Warm. Willing. Silent.
That wasn’t Maggie. And thank God for it.
She was fire and flint, pride and poetry. She’d never be easy. Never be simple.
But she was his. If only she believed it.
He leaned back in his chair, the tavern’s warmth suddenly stifling. The laughter, the clatter, the smell of ale—it all felt distant. He wasn’t meant to be here, drinking alone while his new bride lay upstairs, wondering if she was wanted.
She was so very wrong. He couldn’t imagine not wanting her.
He closed his eyes, a memory returning.
Her come-out ball.
She was nineteen, a year delayed by mourning her father. The loss had left its mark in the subtle grace of her bearing, in the way she held her chin a little higher than the rest, as if daring the world to knock her down again. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was radiant, grown. A woman who’d faced grief and kept her fire.
She’d worn pale blue—a shade that brought out the clarity in her eyes and turned every head in the room. The diamonds in her dark hair sparkled like stars. And when she stepped onto the floor for the first time, admiring murmurs had rippled through the ballroom.
He’d claimed the first waltz, entering his name on her dance card before any other man could. She’d accused Andrew of putting him up to it, which he’d adamantly denied. But when he took her in his arms, she’d beamed up at him, curtsying afterward with that same wicked glint she’d given him since she was five.
He could have danced every set with her, but that would have been taken as a declaration. And it hadn’t been time.
Not yet.
So he’d stepped back, jaw clenched, watching one puffed-up peacock after another line up to take their turn. He let her smile, laugh, and flirt, wondering if any of them truly saw her—as he did. As more than Sommerville’s sister. If any of them knew she was bold beneath her polish, fierce behind her silken armor. That first night, none would know she had a mind as quick as her tongue and a will of iron when she set her course. And that sometimes, the way she looked at him—seeing everything—robbed him of breath.
He’d known it then. With aching certainty.
But he’d waited.
Until waiting threatened to cost too much—and the choice had finally, blessedly, become his.
Now she wore his ring, bore his name, and lay in his bed, yet still didn’t believe she was truly wanted.
And that wound cut deep.
Duncan scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t told her—not truly. Hadn’t made her see that this wasn’t convenience or duty or desperation.
It was love. He’d always loved her.
And, if he wasn’t careful, he might lose her—before he ever had her at all.
Chapter 3
